Free Theory of Remainders by Scott Dominic Carpenter Page A

it.”
“That would require his presence.”
“Philip,” she said suddenly, “you’re coming apart at the seams.”
He flinched. Was it so obvious?
“There, on your sleeve. All those loose threads.”
He looked down at his cuff. “It’s nothing,” he said. “I lost a button.”
“You should trim them.”
He waved her away. “Really, don’t—”
“You’re always so ragged.”
He was about to explain that he didn’t typically travel through airport security with scissors, that he hadn’t had time to worry about buttons and shoelaces, and that a few extra threads were the last of his concerns, when suddenly Yvonne leaned down, her blouse gaping at the neck. He caught his breath as she drew the sleeve up to her parted lips. There was a flash of teeth as she bit and pulled, tugging at the fiber.
“There you go,” she said, surrendering his arm to him. “That tidies it up a bit.”
Philip drew back his hand, coughed and looked away.
Two children raced into the room, stopping against the liquor table and making the bottles rattle before they charged out the other door.
“It’s hard to see you again,” Yvonne said.
He nodded. “I feel like I’ve stepped backwards in time.”
“Yes,” she mused. “But perhaps it’s good. To let us close the door. Once and for all.”
“Funny,” he said, his lips pursing. “That’s more or less what Hervé told me.”
“Don’t be too hard on him. He’s not in an easy spot, either.”
Maybe. Philip wasn’t ready to give Hervé the benefit of the doubt. He guided the conversation into other territory, and soon Yvonne was telling him about her position at the University. Then she recounted the story of Hervé’s creation of the infertility clinic, and in her words it sounded less entrepreneurial and more noble. Still, every detail strained his patience. He rubbed his temples. The well of his French was running dry.
“Yes,” he said. “Everything seems to have worked out pretty well for you.”
Yvonne agreed.
“And you have a daughter,” he added bluntly. “Don’t forget about her.”
She paused. “That’s right. Have you met Margaux yet?” She looked about the room. “I’m not sure where she’s run off to.”
How, he wondered, could she speak of daughters so nonchalantly? “Yes,” he said. “I’d say you’ve made quite a wonderful little life for yourselves.”
Yvonne’s posture stiffened. “Do you hold that against me?”
“Not at all. It’s just that we’re different that way, you and I. I can’t shut things away, close them off. You were always so much better at that.”
Now Yvonne was standing. “It was fifteen years ago, Philip.”
“Fourteen. And ten months.”
He’d expected—perhaps hoped—to get a rise out of her, but instead it was a pained expression that formed on Yvonne’s face. In fact, perhaps it was even pity? His neck flushed with heat. “At least I haven’t forgotten,” he said.
“And you think I have?”
He crossed his arms.
Her face contracted. Then she paused and forced herself to relax. She almost never lost her cool, after all, which Philip had counted among her most infuriating traits.
“You and I, we did what we could,” she said to him. Her voice was collected.
He gave a small snort of indignation. Did she actually believe that? “No we didn’t,” he objected, too tired to play the game of politeness. “We gave up. We quit.” He put his hand to his eyes. A headache was starting to bloom. It was bad enough being in this house, in this town. Did he also have to put up with Yvonne’s self-serving revision of history?
“I don’t know how you take it all in stride,” he continued, unable to stop the ugliness in his own voice. “Or rather, maybe I do. Maybe that’s the advantage of teaching literature: you learn how to lose yourself in fictions. You make believe.”
“Philip.”
“Don’t Philip me.” He was standing up now.
Heads were turning.
“Stop it,” she said firmly. “You’re