BARBARA'S GIFTS, 43 RUE ST. SULPICE, MONTREAL

by Apache

Content:
Het
Vachon/Tracy
No Sexual Situations
No Violence

~ ~ ~

Apologies to my fellow demon lovers; this one was written by my non-evil twin, Arapahoe. 

She'd been dry for a decade, and so what?

Well, it was something.  And if the anesthetic was gone, well, so was the source of the old pain.

There were new pains -- well, just the one huge throbbing unhealed new pain, really -- but it was no threat to hard-won sobriety, because there was no drink in the world strong enough to keep her from feeling  it. As she had proven to herself, spending six years in what could be called a really thorough field test of the possibility. 

Thousands of bottles of vodka later, it was still pain.  Loss. Ache.

//What if I'd left earlier?  Would she have lived?  If she was less angry, would she have been more careful?  If she was less hurt...  Or if I had never left, just sucked it up forever and not complicated her attempt to separate her identity from ours? //

The thoughts were part of Barbara's daily ritual, as much as totaling out the cash register, turning off the lights, and locking the front door.  Every night when she locked her store, the thoughts visited her again.

The woman sighed.  //If I'd turned right instead of left that time I walked home in 1977...?// She knew it wasn't her fault, and that this kind of magical thinking was common among alcoholics, a fantasy of perfect control.

But she only knew those things with her head, not her heart.

As always, walking away on Rue St. Paul, she turned to look back at her shopfront.  "Barbara's Gifts."  She'd named her little store that in a more innocent time, during those few precious months when she'd just been a separated wife, a woman who'd finally run away from home at age fifty.

After the accident, as everyone called it, Richard, as grief-stunned in his own blank way as she had been in her weepy one, hadn't fought her over every nickel like he would have done before.  When her divorce settlement came through she'd bought a loft in one of  the Old Port's beautiful stone buildings a few blocks over, a huge space above a theatrical costumes store on Rue St. Francis Xavier.

Given the way she felt then, a world of masks and costumes was the best one for her to live in.  Reality was too hard.  It became a kind of a game as her mundane life established itself, to go downstairs in the morning and see what the world was made of today: capes, cloaks, wigs, monster suits, Noh masks, canes, fake diamond tiaras -- whatever the owners might have felt like putting in the window that morning.  She liked the idea of herself living in a pretend world, was a subscriber at the Centaur Theatre in the Old Stock Exchange building up the street, enjoyed the stage with its elaborate illusions.

Her feet turned by habit downhill, carrying her to her favorite cafe for an evening pastry and coffee.  The owners, Nico and Elena, were young marrieds from Sicily, and somehow they managed to bring some of  that sunny island's warmth with them into their place.  Even in the pale, cold light of Montreal's winter, ivy flourished and leafed wildly all over their walls, as if a warm Mediterranean sun were somehow shining inside.

//It's a plant light, dummy,// Barbara laughed at herself.  But she hurried a little to get there just the same.

Going into the cafe, she heard Elena singing the notes, more or less, of an aria.

"Opera last night?" she teased. It was Nico and Elena's one great splurge, good seats at the opera.  "Which one?"

Elena beamed.  "It was _Aida_.  It's so romantic."

Barbara smiled back.  "It passed muster, eh?"

Elena lifted her hands to the heavens.  "At the end, where they are sealed in the tomb by the cruel priestess, and they sing and sing, how they die singing in the absolute darkness... it is so beautiful."

//How they die singing...//

"It's better just not to die," Barbara said wearily.  Elena looked at her disbelievingly, eyes full of poetry and splendor and beautiful tragedy.  Barbara shook her head.  "Never mind me -- when you're sixty, you'll understand."

Elena smiled as if being sixty was beyond imagining.  Barbara took the cup of tea and a piece of hazelnut cake, and went to sit at her regular table by the wall, looking out through the plate glass windows at the view across the Seaway to the Buckminster Fuller Dome, the Habitat for Humanity...

She and Richard had come to the Expo. They hadn't been married long, then. She and Richard had walked hand in hand down the beautiful cobbled walkway on Rue Delacommune, bought trinkets just uphill on Rue St. Paul, toured the huge basilica that dominated St. Sulpice, where she herself was now a shopkeeper catering to the tourist trade.  Tracy...  Tracy had still been years in the future, waiting to be born at the brink of the new decade.

She sighed and poured more milk in her tea.  How many times had she had exactly these same thoughts over more or less the same tea and cake?  She didn't want to count.

Someone went by outside, then paused and came back to look through the window.

His eyes met hers momentarily as he glanced around the café, taking in the tables, the abundant ivy on the walls.  A young man in a short jacket; how could he stand the cold?  In winter, the sun went down around four, and by quitting time the city was an iceberg.  Barbara never went outside in winter without a long, heavy coat, and even then she felt the cold biting through.

Evidently the boy did too, because he came into the cafe and went to the counter, staring through the glass case at the pastries, only a few feet from Barbara's table.  Nico gave him a quick glance, then left him to decide.  Students, having only a few dollars to spend, took their expenditures seriously.

The thought jogged Barbara's memory -- this was the boy who'd come into the store that afternoon and browsed.  More than browsed, really --explored.  She'd kept an eye on him -- not that she had anything worth stealing, but he certainly looked like a potential shoplifter -- scruffy, skinny, wearing beat up jeans and a beat up jacket.

But suspicion had become curiosity as she watched the gentle way he checked out her store.  The scruffy kid had looked at every single thing she had, picking up the tiny silver boxes suitable for engraving, turning them over to see what was on the bottom, opening the stationery, touching the dried flowers, even sniffing at the sachets. She'd paid kids to help her with year-end inventories without ever seeing one of  them devote that kind of attention to her wares.

In the end, he'd only bought one dried rose and a few postcards.

She tensed a little when he came to the till, but it wasn't a stickup, and why would it have been?  Why was there something ominous about him?  He just paid, digging out a couple twonies.  From the looks of him, they probably didn't have much company in his pockets.

Close up, his skin seemed even whiter than winter-pale.  His face was unlined and closed in the almost sullen way of youth, his big dark eyes unrevealing, his full mouth slightly pursed.  And the overall impression was dominated by his thick mop of hair, shoulder length, uncut and uncombed, as black as hers was white.

She took his money, gave him his bit of change, and watched him out the door, wondering slightly what his story was.  //Owes his girlfriend an apology, I bet.//

Now, as he looked at the pastries in the case, the young man unzipped his leather jacket. As the sides fell open, Barbara saw the dried rose tucked into an inside pocket and remembered her guess.

"So, is that for your girlfriend?"

The boy turned to look at her, and his thick black eyebrows went up in a question.

"The rose," said Barbara.  Now the young man frowned, as if he were trying to place her. "The store," she said.  "I sold it to you.  So, is it for your girlfriend?"

The frown eased off his face.  "Sort of," he said.  "I miss her."

"Well, that oughta help."  The eyebrows went back up.  "I mean, whatever it was, she ought to forgive you.  It's a sweet little flower."

The young man nodded and took a step toward her.  "You think so?"

"Certainly,"  Barbara said.  "And you're a nice looking boy -- or would be, if you'd tidy up a bit."

This made him smile slightly, instead of taking offense.  "Boy?"

Barbara shrugged her thin shoulders.  "From where I stand, everyone under forty looks like a mere stripling.  And you -- I don't care if you're pushing thirty, you're practically a baby."

A real grin flashed across his face, a dark sexy lightning bolt of amusement.  Barbara began to see what a girl might see in this boy.

"I'm not," he said.  "Trust me."  A sense of fun shone out of his eyes, giving a humorous twist to what might otherwise be an unbearably smug smile.

This made her laugh.  "You're full of it, aren't you?"  Now it was her turn to frown, because the smile vanished from his face, wiped off by shock.  But then the good humor was back again, returning so quickly that she questioned what she'd seen.  Deep, deep surprise, and a kind of hurt, flaring out of those dark eyes -- where had that come from?

The young man came the rest of the way to her table and sat down opposite her without even the smallest show of asking permission.

"Join me, won't you?" she said ironically, but then stuck out her hand.  "I'm Barbara."

"Jean-Denis... J.D."  He shook the hand briefly.  "So tell me what... I should say to her."  He shrugged a little.  "If it were you, what you'd want to hear."

Barbara laughed again.  "That's easy -- *I'm sorry* -- no matter what the problem is, those two little words go a long way."

"They'll have to."  It was a joke, but his face made the words serious. "I'm pretty sure I won't get to see her again."  His eyes shifted away from her, and one of his hands began to play with the silverware in front of him, restlessly rearranging knife, fork and spoon.  He snorted. "Actually, it would take a miracle."

"There's always another chance," Barbara said staunchly.  "You have to believe that -- where there's life, there's hope."

Her next thought must have showed in her face.

"What's the matter?"  It was a strange question from someone so young, and the changed, soft tone of his voice was strange, too. Compassion was not something you expected from kids in black leather jackets.

"Oh, I was thinking of my daughter."

"What about her?"  The boy's voice continued to be gentle.

Barbara took a deep breath.  "Oh, just her way of saying she'd get married if only she could find a man with half the character of your average golden retriever."

He blinked.  "What is she, a veterinarian?"

"No, a cop."  Barbara noticed she was speaking in the present tense.  She did that sometimes, when it wouldn't count, spun stories for taxi drivers just to hear herself saying them.  //Oh, she lives in Vancouver now, married a banker... Lives in Toronto;  her husband's a pathologist at Sick Kids... Has three kids, I can hardly believe it, the eldest is already in high school.//

"Here in Montreal?"  He looked confused.  "So she's married now? She found her golden retriever?"

She couldn't keep it up.  "No, it was in Toronto.  A long time ago, and she never got married.  SHe died on the job, killed in line of duty."

The confusion disappeared, replaced by a strange kind of disappointment.  Studying his face, Barbara thought, //yeah, well, I don't like how the story came out, either.//

"I'm sorry," he said.

"No, you couldn't know -- I started it."  She gave him one her patented 'it's tough, but I'm making it,' smiles.  The one she showed to old friends and relatives she saw occasionally on trips back to Toronto.

"They say that's the worst thing there is, for a parent to lose a child."  He wasn't meeting her eyes, had now picked up the knife and was using it to make the fork go up and down like a teeter-totter.

"You're supposed to go in *order*," Barbara said suddenly. "Parents, then kids.  You know, your parents go, but then you get to see your grandchildren before it's your turn.  That's supposed to be -- the law."  She laughed, but it was a harsh noise.  "That's how my husband put it -- my ex -- he can tell you *all* about the law.  Well, the law got broken and he couldn't do a thing about it."

She drew in, then blew out, a long breath.  "Wow.  Sorry if I sound bitter."

"It's okay."  The young man pursed his lips, clearly feeling awkward, reaching for words.  "It sounds like you have reason."

"It's a waste of time to feel bitter," Barbara said with renewed intensity.  "It's a waste of *life*.  It's more important to... love people while you have them."

He nodded gravely, eyes deep and sympathetic.

"When Tracy ...my daughter, died -- we weren't," she sighed, "on very good terms.  I'd left her father and we were fighting about the divorce, and she was trying to stay out of the middle..."

He nodded again.

"And I was drinking."

There, she'd said it.  For once, instead of telling a stranger some happy lie, the whole mixed truth was spilling out of her.

"That made it even harder for her, and I wasn't very... available to do any of that good Mom stuff, right when she really needed it..."

He was sitting sideways in his chair with the ordinary insolence of youth, one forearm laid on the table and his fingers pushing idly at the silverware setting, yet he seemed to be listening carefully.  And watching carefully, the large dark eyes resting on her with barely even a blink to break his concentration.

"You know, as time goes by, you make peace with a lot of it.  The pain starts to fade, and that makes you angry, you want it to stay sharp and fresh because it's so important.  But then... the days pile up.  Even if you don't want to, you go on."  Her tone was almost pleading.  "But I wish so much that she could have had it-- love, a home, a family.  Just even *some* of it.

"The last time I saw her, she slapped me."  Her voice broke. "And I deserved it.  She came home and I was drunk.  I told her..." her eyes filled and she sniffled.  "God forgive me, I told her she'd die alone. That she was going to live alone and no one would ever love her.... "  Her fingers curled tight and she hid her face as the tears began to run down her cheeks.

"I loved her."

Barbara looked up.  It had been almost a whisper, the words so quiet they almost weren't said.

"What did you say?"

The young man was looking at her almost expressionlessly.  There was a kind of calmness in his face that looked out of place with the leather jacket, the thick long hair.

"That I loved her."

The tears stopped, surprise and indignation taking over.  "What are you talking about?  She died sixteen years ago.  You were just a little boy then."

The young man's eyes never left hers, and he shook his head side to side very slowly.  "I'm... older than I look."

Barbara frowned.  "What kind of sick joke is this?"  She rubbed at her tears with the heel of her hand almost angrily.

The man leaned forward, his head coming closer to hers across the small cafe table.  "No joke."  His eyes wandered momentarily, looking over at the pastries in the glass case, the big cappuccino machine, then came back to meet hers.  He swallowed, and drew a long breath.

"Your daughter... was Tracy Vetter.  She was a detective in the Ninety Sixth precinct of MetroToronto police.  Her father was the Commissioner.  Her partner was Nick Knight."  His eyes rolled upward for a second, looking inward, bringing more memories forward.

"She lived in an apartment off Bloor Street, and she kept the stuff in her refrigerator organized almost alphabetically.  The stuff in her bathroom cabinet was lined up by height.  Her favorite blouse was this blue silk thing, but she went through a phase of wearing vests and ties."

He leaned back in his chair, his head tilted to one side.  "She wasn't very interested in movies that weren't in color, but she got to like Bogart." He paused, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. "And she *definitely* got to like the young Lauren Bacall."

"Did you ever hear her do that line, 'You know how to whistle, don't you? You just put your lips together and blow?'"  His voice cracked a little with amusement, and a smile had come over his face. "Worst Bacall impression I ever heard."

He wasn't talking to Barbara anymore.  Wasn't really even in the same room.  "I was... out of town when it happened.  I didn't find out for a long time.  I'm sorry."  His eyes flickered to her face.

"You-- uh, Trace looked just like you..." his voice trailed off.

"Who the hell are you?"  The words came out of Barbara's mouth on a hushed breath.  Just for this moment, it didn't seem like a trick.  The way he talked-- it was too real, too right.

The boy snapped back to reality and he leaned in close again, his eyes fixing on her.  "I can't tell you.  You can't ask.  Don't try to find out.  It's dangerous."  He blinked.  "For both of us.  Look, Mrs. Vetter... I don't want to take this away, but you have to just... accept it for what it is.  And then leave it alone."

He was looking at her hard, his head lowered, eyes staring out at her from under the heavy eyebrows.  "Please," he added softly.

Her voice became a little shrill.  "What the hell are you talking about?  Leave what alone?  Did you have something to do with what happened?  Did you?  Who the hell are you?"

His head dropped low, and the long black hair swept forward like a curtain.  Still, she heard it when he muttered, "this was a mistake."

She threw her crumpled napkin on the table and started to get up. "Mistake?  Is this some kind of trick?  Who *are* you?"  She noticed Nico looking over his shoulder at her, beginning to check if the old lady was okay -- she was a regular, after all....

">>>>Shhhhhh.... sit down.<<<<"  Jean-Denis was half standing too, a hand raised placatingly.  There was something heavy about his voice, as if she were hearing it in a very small space, echo-y or syrupy, or .... something.  She sat down, noticing that Nico was turning back to the cash register -- nothing to worry about after all.

">>It's okay,<<<" he was saying in that soft, insistent voice.">>>You just kind of drifted off in a daydream.<<<"

Barbara felt herself just waiting; she knew he was going to say more, he needed to tell her something and she needed to hear....  he kept his eyes on her all the time, but his mouth was working, he'd sucked in his lips with frustration or regret or restraint, but he'd explain it, he was going to say more...  his eyes glanced up to the ceiling, so briefly, then came back to her, and sure enough, he was speaking again, slowly and carefully, that was nice, so she would understand him clearly at last, which was a good thing because he was speaking so softly she could barely hear him....

">>>Tracy... had a boyfriend.  You saw him somewhere once, you can't quite think where.<<<"

She nodded. ">>>You, uh, didn't think there was much future in it. He was just this guy, didn't have any money, didn't have a job...<<<"  She nodded again.

">>>I look like him,<<<" he finished, and he nodded slightly.  She nodded back, deeply -- you do, you really do.

The boy's eyes dropped to the table, looking at his fingers as they ran down the blade of the blunt knife, up the curve of the fork tines, into the bowl of the spoon.  He picked up the spoon, rubbing his thumb on its curved surfaces, and looked up at Barbara with a small, encouraging smile.

"Then what?" he said, prompting her gently.

"What?"  Barbara shook her head.  "I'm sorry, I just drifted right away, didn't I?  Onset of old age.  I do beg your pardon."  She smiled charmingly; in her Mrs. Police Commissioner days, that smile had saved her from a lot of drunk driving citations, but now it was perfectly sincere.  "Where was I?"

"Last time you saw your daughter... Tracy?"

"Tracy," she nodded.  Her face clouded a little, but the tears didn't return.  "I went round to her station house and apologized the next day.  Thank God we made up.  As horrible as it's been these past sixteen years, it could have been even worse."  She swirled the last few ounces of tea in her cup.

The boy just sat there opposite her.  His lids had drawn down so far over his eyes that they were nearly closed and the thick black eyelashes concealed any expression they might have held.  He was very still now; his fingers had even stopped their restless toying with the table silver. 

Barbara couldn't help but smile, seeing how uncomfortable with all this soul-unburdening the poor kid was.  When you're just past twenty and about to go beg your girlfriend to forgive you -- and incidentally, can I stay over tonight?-- you don't want to hear about tragedy.

"Well," she said firmly, "that's enough of an old lady's woes. That's all long in the past, and I shouldn't burden you with it.  It's just that you look a little bit like her last boyfriend, and--"  she gestured at the flower, still visible inside his jacket.  "It's not easy for me some times."

That's funny, he really did look like that guy.  That kid she'd seen Tracy with that time, the one with the long hair, what was *his* story?  And what on earth possessed Tracy to go out with him?  Oh well, it seemed to make her happy and she was young, there was time... there was all the time in the world for Tracy to come to her senses.  Or so she'd thought.

He shook his head.  "You're not... I don't mind."  He frowned. "No, I don't mean that."

Barbara chuckled, amused, and he scrambled to fix it: "I mean, it's not just not bothering me, I like it."

She smiled again, and reached over and patted his hand. "It's sweet of you to say so.  But what about you-- what about this girlfriend of yours?"

The boy shifted in his chair, embarrassed, and stared at her hand resting on his.

"Uh... my girlfriend," he said.  He was just buying time, Barbara could tell; he'd been caught offguard.  Besides, he was probably as completely inarticulate about serious feelings as any other young man who was only just getting to the age where he actually *had* serious feelings.

 "Never mind, I don't want to force you to talk about her.  But you know what?"  She gave his hand a fierce little shake.

"You could do me a favor.  When you see your girl, be sure you tell her.  Say what you really feel, even if it makes you feel like an idiot.  Take the risk, you won't break in half.  And you never know -- it really *might* be your only chance."

"I have to go," he said, and slid his hand out from under Barbara's.  He stood up quickly, then paused and looked down at her.

"Uh, Barbara," he said, then licked his lips, trying to think of how to phrase what he wanted to say. 

Nothing came out, though, and after a moment, he reached out to take a lock of her hair between his fingers, and played with it, feeling the texture.

The strand of her hair looked only barely whiter than his hand, Barbara noticed.  Between an aging woman and a very young man, his gesture should have seemed bizarre, but the mixture of tenderness and respect in his eyes made it almost natural.  The moment stretched out, but finally he let her hair fall back into place and reached to zip up his jacket, closing it over the dried rose and shrugging it into place on his shoulders.

"Thanks," he said.  She held his eyes, insisting, and he smiled and yielded.  "Okay -- if I get the chance, okay?"

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