Free Theory of Remainders by Scott Dominic Carpenter Page B

embarrassing yourself.”
He raised his voice another notch. “You crack open the books and let the metaphors buoy you up. I guess some people just read Dante, while the rest of us have to live it.”
Yvonne started to respond but caught herself, resting her eyes for a moment before speaking again. “Thank you for coming this evening. And for making the trip. It meant a great deal to me.”
“I’m not done,” he snapped.
“It was nice to see you, again, Philip. Have a good flight back.”
“Don’t you dare walk away,” he barked.
But she did dare.
“That’s right,” he called to her back in English as she crossed the room. A voice in his head hissed at him to shut up. “Run along! Whenever it gets uncomfortable, just turn away.”
She disappeared around the corner into the living room. Guests gawked at Philip, and he felt himself shrink from their eyes. Why had it been so important to antagonize her, to feel the old passion, that ancient anger? He’d blown on the dark coals and made them glow again.
Through the doorway he spotted Hervé heading in his direction, on a mission. Philip escaped down the back hall.
In the kitchen he surprised a group chatting around the coffee maker, leading him to zag to the right, toward the service staircase. He clomped up to the second floor, but even there voices echoed from rooms, so he climbed yet another flight up to the cramped third floor. Aside from storage areas, there was nothing but a single tiny bedroom up here, the old servant’s quarters, a room he knew all too well. If nothing else, it would be a decent place to hide out for a bit. He made for the door at the end of the landing, twisting the knob and pushing it open.
There was a thump, followed by a yowl, a gasp, and the sound of tumbling furniture. An orange cat caught by the swinging door bounded over a night table and up onto the single bed. At the little writing desk an adolescent girl with dark hair had leapt to her feet so suddenly that her chair had tipped over, her mouth forming an O of astonishment. Philip gaped at the shape of her forehead, the curve of her nose, the roundness in the eyes. His focus sharpened. She looked to be eleven or twelve, startled, but not frightened.
“Excuse me,” he stammered in French, staggering back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone was here.”
“This is my room,” she replied with a hint of indignation.
He stared. “Your room?”
“When we visit Mamie ,” she replied.
Mamie? Grandma? Did she mean Anne-Madeleine? So this was Margaux, Yvonne’s daughter. He paused and glanced about the walls. The room had changed. There were new posters, new furniture, new colors. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I . . . I took a wrong turn.” He backed out. “I shouldn’t have barged in on you.”
Now her face wrinkled in a look of concern. “Were you looking for something, Monsieur? ” She studied him and her eyes widened with a kind of recognition.
Philip took another step back, and as he saw Margaux moving toward him, he turned and bolted, dashing down the hall to the stairway, taking the steps two by two, desperate to escape. It was crazy, really, this whole visit. What on earth had he been thinking? He charged through the kitchen, leaving astonished guests in his wake.
Outside the front door he collided in the dark with a couple coming up the walk, the man stinking of whiskey. Philip pushed past.
“Where do you think you’re going?” called a voice in French.
He wheeled around. The man was Roger. A woman stood at his side. Not Élisabeth. Younger. Much younger.
“You can’t leave now,” Roger slurred, grinning. “I just got here. The party’s about to begin.”
Philip wasn’t prepared to face any more drunken Auberts. He turned and strode to the jungle of cars, some parked at the base of the drive, others nosed onto the lawn. Under the trees where it was nearly black, he searched for his Renault. In the distance Roger exchanged whispers with his date. Footsteps