Free Theory of Remainders by Scott Dominic Carpenter

visible to those in attendance, planted halfway between the geriatric wing and the daycare.
The younger sister, Flora, passed through, chatting with him briefly before leaving to check on little Georges, who had reportedly gorged himself on the chocolates someone had brought, and who now writhed with a tummy ache. Évelyne drifted by a couple of times, bony shoulder blades jutting from the open back of her black dress, nodding politely to Philip. When she finally stopped by his chair, he knew better than to take it as an act of charity. She smelled faintly of mothballs.
“Enjoying yourself?” she asked with a patronizing smile.
“Not particularly.” He saw no reason to be coy.
“Have you said all your goodbyes?”
“Are you that anxious to get rid of me?”
“I’m just thinking how uncomfortable it must be to linger somewhere you don’t belong.” There it was again: the sentiment Monsieur Bécot had expressed.
“Tell you what, Évelyne,” he said as he rose from his seat. “Let me freshen your glass. What are you drinking?” Toe of frog? he wanted to ask. Eye of newt? But he didn’t know how to say these in French. He settled for: “Some kind of witch’s brew?”
It wasn’t a mature response, and it wouldn’t help, but he couldn’t always play the professional. Sometimes the doctor was in, and sometimes he was out. He left Évelyne grimacing, and in the middle of the next room, he crossed paths with her gutless husband, Sylvain, who shrugged a smile in his direction, as if to suggest that he didn’t have the necessary authorization to visit.
Wine and liquor flowed in abundance. He breezed by the table set up as a bar, a rainbow of liquids and labels: Nuits-Saint-Georges, Sancerre, Pernod, Armagnac, Calvados, Poire Williams. There were times he still thirsted for a drink, but this wasn’t one of them. What with the fatigue and the crush of memories, alcohol would finish him off. Besides, what the hell had become of Roger? It was just like his former brother-in-law to insist that Philip stay for dinner and then not show up.
He ensconced himself in another chair, even more remote, and attempted to vanish. He looked at his watch and wondered what time it was in Boston, but his brain failed to complete the calculation.
In the end it was Yvonne who came by. He watched her cross the living room, stopping twice to exchange words with guests. During these brief halts she shot a smile in his direction to make sure he understood she was en route. The brown suit from the morning was gone, replaced by a sleeveless blouse and a black skirt that stopped at the tops of her calves. Her dark hair was probably dyed these days, and he thought there was a bit more makeup than before. Still, if gravity had taken its toll on Yvonne, you couldn’t tell by looking at her breasts or hips, or the underside of her arms. At least from a distance she looked remarkably preserved, while he himself had grown old.
She settled onto the arm of his chair, her thigh near his elbow. “Are you very drunk yet?” she asked him in French.
He inhaled her fragrance. It was hard to imagine that Yvonne and Évelyne were related. “No,” he replied. “Not yet.”
“I am,” she confided. “Drunk, that is. What a horrible week.”
“I can imagine.” He paused. “I’m terribly sorry about your mother, you know. I always liked her.”
“And she doted on you.”
He hunted for something to add, but his mind was as empty as an old cupboard. Finally he turned up a crumb. “When is Roger going to get here? I’m still on Boston time, and I’m not going to last much longer.”
She cracked a smile. “As you may recall, my baby brother can be a little unpredictable.”
“What was all that about this morning? What’s up with him and Élisabeth?”
Her expression clouded. “Bit of a quagmire, really. I don’t fully understand what’s going on. Roger puts on all these airs, but I don’t think he’s very happy. You should ask him about