And then he talked about what had happened. The shattering events. And the healing.
He ended his address by saying, “We are all of us marred and scarred and imperfect. We make mistakes. We do things we deeply regret. We are tempted and sometimes we give in to that temptation. Not because we’re bad or weak, but because we’re human. We are a crowd of faults. But know this.”
He stood in complete silence for a moment, the huge auditorium motionless.
“There is always a road back. If we have the courage to look for it, and take it. I’m sorry. I was wrong. I don’t know.” He paused again. “I need help. Those are the signposts. The cardinal directions.”
And then he smiled again, the creases deep, his eyes bright.
“You are extraordinary and I’m very proud of each and every one of you. It will be an honor to serve together.”
There was a pause, and then the cheering began. Lusty, robust, joyful. They threw their caps in the air and hugged each other, while Armand Gamache stood at the podium. And smiled.
Under each of their seats, the graduates found a package, wrapped in simple brown paper. In it were two books. Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations and Ruth Zardo’s I’m FINE. Gifts from the Commander and his wife.
After the ceremony, cadets came up, eager to introduce Commander Gamache to their parents.
Jean-Guy stood beside him, never leaving Gamache’s side, scanning the crowd. And finally, he spotted them. Working their way toward them.
Beauvoir stepped forward, but a hand was laid on his arm.
“Are you sure?” Jean-Guy asked.
“I’m sure.”
Though Gamache did not look certain. He was pale, but his cheeks were flushed, as though his very body was conflicted. Engaged in a not entirely civil war.
The two men watched as Amelia Choquet wove through the crowd.
“I can stop them,” whispered Jean-Guy urgently. “Just say the word.”
But Gamache was silent, his eyes wide. Beauvoir could see the tremble in his right hand.
“Commander Gamache,” said Amelia. “I’d like to introduce you to my father.”
The man was slight and older than Gamache by about ten years.
Monsieur Choquet studied him for just a moment, then held out his hand. “You turned my daughter’s life around. You brought her home to her family. Merci.”
There was the briefest pause while Armand looked at the outstretched hand, then into the man’s eyes.
“You are welcome, sir.”
And Armand Gamache shook Monsieur Choquet’s hand.
*
Now it was Armand’s turn to stand beside Jean-Guy, as Annie and Reine-Marie stood on the other side of the baptismal font with the minister between them.
The minister was Gabri, specially anointed for the occasion, by himself.
He wore his choir robes, and in his arms he held Annie and Jean-Guy’s baby.
“Oh, please,” Olivier was heard to pray. “Dear Lord, don’t let him lift the baby and sing ‘Circle of Life.’ Oh, please.”
The baby howled in Gabri’s arms.
“This is nothing,” Jean-Guy whispered to Armand. “You should hear him at night.”
“I did. All night.”
Jean-Guy smiled proudly.
Gabri lifted the baby up as though offering him to the congregation. “Let us sing.”
“Oh no,” whispered Olivier.
And Gabri, in his rich tenor, began “Circle of Life,” joined immediately by the choir and the congregation, and then by Olivier, in robust, full voice.
Jean-Guy looked at his son and felt, again, a surge of love that left him weak, and strong. He glanced at his father-in-law and saw that Armand had stopped singing and was staring, open-mouthed, straight ahead of him.
“What is it?” whispered Jean-Guy, following his gaze to the back of the chapel. “The cadets?”
Armand shook his head. “Non. I’ll tell you later.”
“Who here stands for this child?” Gabri asked when the song was over. Olivier and Clara stood at their seats.
“I don’t know why they didn’t ask me,” came a querulous voice.
“Probably because you can’t stand,” said Myrna.
“I can’t stand you,” muttered Ruth, and struggled to her feet.
Myrna was about to tell her to sit down, but something about the elderly woman made her stop. Ruth was standing straight and tall. Her face forward. Resolute. Even Rosa looked as dignified as a duck possibly could.
Then Myrna got up.
Then Monsieur Béliveau, the grocer, rose to his feet. As did Sarah, the baker. As did Dominique and Marc and the Asshole Saint. As did Billy Williams and Gilles Sandon and Isabelle Lacoste and Adam Cohen and Yvette Nichol and the Brunels.
Jacques and Huifen and Nathaniel and Amelia stepped forward.
The entire congregation stood.
Jean-Guy took his infant son in his arms and turned him to face the men and women and children who would be his godparents.
And he whispered, “May you be a brave man in a brave country, Honoré.”
*
“What were you looking at?” Jean-Guy asked Armand, as they stood on the village green eating burgers off the huge grill Olivier had set up.
A long table had been brought out, filled with salads and fresh rolls and cheeses. Across the green was another, longer table with all sorts of cakes, pies, pastries. Cookies and brownies and candies and children.
Little Zora, in an excited tizzy, ran straight into her grandfather’s legs, knocking herself to the soft grass. And looked up at him, in amazement.
He gave his plate to Jean-Guy and scooped her up, kissing her cheek, and the tears that were moments away turned to laughter, and she was off again.
The bar had been set up on Ruth’s porch, where the old poet sat in a rocking chair, Rosa on her lap and her cane across the arms like a shotgun. The four cadets got their beers and were deep in conversation.
“What’re you talking about?” Clara asked, pouring herself a gin and tonic.
“Ruth says she wants a name for her cottage,” said Nathaniel. “She asked me to choose one.”
“Really?” asked Myrna. “She asked you?”
“Well, more told me to find one,” he admitted. “And told me not to fuck it up.”
“So what’ve you come up with?” asked Clara.
“We’ve narrowed it down,” said Huifen. “It’s between Rose Cottage”—she pointed to the sweetbriar roses around Ruth’s porch—“and Pit of Despair.”
“I dare you,” said Clara, laughing, as she and Myrna crossed the dirt road and joined Reine-Marie and Annie, who was holding Honoré and chatting with Gabri.
“A beautiful ceremony, mon beau,” Annie said, kissing his cheeks.
“Merci. I was thrown a little when everyone stood up,” he admitted.
“But you covered it nicely by breaking into ‘Hakuna Matata.’ The King James version, if I’m not mistaken.”
Gabri leaned down and spoke to Honoré. “One must always have a song in the heart.”
“And an éclair in the hand,” said Myrna, lifting hers.
“Sage words,” said Annie.
She looked across the village green and noticed her husband and her father walking back to the chapel.
They followed and found the two men standing once again in front of the stained-glass boys.
Reine-Marie slipped her hand into Armand’s, then pulled it away.
“You’re all sticky.”
“That was Zora,” he said.
“Of course it was,” said Reine-Marie. “What’re you looking at?”
Armand was staring at the window, but not at the one boy who always drew their attention. He was looking at one of the other young men.
“He’s pointing at something,” said Armand.
“Huh,” said Jean-Guy, leaning closer. “You’re right.”
“But what?” asked Reine-Marie. “That, maybe?”
She followed the direction of the finger and saw a bird in the sky above the battlefield.
“Or maybe the tree,” said Annie. A single charred evergreen stood askew in the mud.
“I noticed the gesture a while ago, but thought it must be just an artistic touch,” said Armand. “But when I was at the front of the church during the baptism, I realized what the soldier wanted us to see. He’s not pointing into his world. He’s pointing into ours.”
He turned, and they turned with him.