The Long Way Home

“Unsettled,” she said. “I think the paintings frightened me a little.”


“Why?” asked Gamache.

“Because I think I know why he mailed them to Bean.”

They leaned toward her.

“Why?” Beauvoir asked.

“What makes Bean different from most other people?” Clara asked.

“Well, we don’t know if he’s a girl—” said Reine-Marie.

“—or she’s a boy,” said Gamache.

“Bean’s a child,” said Beauvoir.

“True,” said Clara. “All true. But there’s something else that distinguishes Bean.”

“Bean’s different,” said Myrna. “In the Morrow family where everyone’s expected to conform, Bean doesn’t. Peter probably identifies with that. Might even want to reward that.”

“And sending those awful paintings is a reward?” asked Beauvoir.

“Of sorts,” said Myrna. “The act is often more important than the actual object.”

“Tell that to a kid who gets socks for Christmas,” said Beauvoir.

“Ask a child who gets a gold star in their workbook,” said Myrna. “The sticker is useless, but the act is priceless. Symbols are powerful, especially for kids. Why do you think they want trophies and badges? Not because they can play with them, or buy things with them, but because of what they mean.”

“Approval,” agreed Reine-Marie.

“Right,” said Myrna. “And Uncle Peter sending Bean the paintings made Bean feel special. I think Peter identifies with Bean, sympathizes with the child, and wanted to let Bean know it’s okay to be different.”

Myrna looked at Clara, waiting for her approval. Waiting for the gold star.

“That could be the reason,” said Clara. “But I actually think it’s far simpler than that.”

“Like what?” asked Beauvoir.

“I think Peter knew that Bean could keep a secret.”

Bean had kept the secret of his or her own sex. The pressure to tell must have been enormous, but Bean had told no one. Not family. Not schoolmates. Not teachers. No one.

“Peter knew the paintings would be safe with Bean,” said Reine-Marie.

“But if they’re secret, why didn’t he keep them himself?” Jean-Guy asked. “Wouldn’t they be safest with him?”

“Maybe he believed he wasn’t safe,” said Gamache. “That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

Clara nodded. That was the feeling in the pit of her stomach. Peter needed to keep these paintings secret.

She looked toward her house.

But what was hidden in those odd paintings? What did they reveal?





EIGHTEEN


“A poem begins as a lump in the throat,” said Armand Gamache as he took a seat on one of Ruth’s white preformed chairs.

“You make it sound like a fur ball,” said Ruth. She slopped Scotch into a glass, not offering him any. “Something horked up. My poems are finely honed, each fucking word carefully chosen.”

Rosa was asleep in her nest of blankets beside Ruth’s chair, though Gamache thought he noticed the duck’s eyes open a slit. Watching him.

It would have been unnerving if he didn’t keep reminding himself it was just a duck. Just a duck. An unnerving duck.

“Well, you’re the one who said it.” Gamache tore his eyes from the watch duck.

“Did I?”

“You did.”

Ruth’s kitchen was filled with found objects, including the plastic chairs and table. Including the Scotch bottle, found in Gabri’s liquor cabinet. Including Rosa. Found as an egg, Gamache knew. Ruth had spotted the nest by the pond on the village green one Easter morning and had touched the two eggs inside. The touch had tainted them, and the eggs had been abandoned by their mother. So Ruth took them home. Everyone had naturally assumed she’d meant to make an omelet. But instead the old poet had done something unnatural, for her. She’d made a tiny incubator out of flannel, and warmed the eggs in the oven. She’d turned them, watched them, stayed up late into the night in case they started to hatch and needed her. Ruth paid her Hydro-Québec bill, to make sure her power wasn’t cut off. She paid it with money she’d found at Clara’s.

She prayed.

Rosa had hatched on her own but her sister, Flora, had fought to get out. So Ruth had helped. Peeling back the shell. Cracking it further.

And there, inside, was Flora. Looking up into those weary, wary old eyes.

Flora and Rosa had bonded with Ruth. And Ruth had bonded with them.

They followed her everywhere. But while Rosa thrived, Flora grew frail.

Because of Ruth.

Flora was meant to fight her way out of her shell. The struggle would make her strong. Ruth’s helping hand had weakened her. Until, late one night, Flora had died in that same helping hand.

It had confirmed all Ruth’s fears. Kindness killed. No good could come of helping others.

And so Ruth made it a policy to turn her back. Not for herself, but to protect those she loved.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“A poem begins as a lump in the throat. A sense of wrong,” Gamache continued the quote. “A homesickness, a lovesickness.”