“I was going to buy groceries.”
“This is all a waste of time!” Raymond cut in. “Tell your mother you’re hungry. While she’s in the kitchen, you can steal the urn. We can’t spend all day here.”
“Would you please make me a sandwich?” asked Thomas.
“Of course, sweetheart. That’s what mothers are for. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“To the office, hurry!” Raymond exclaimed.
Thomas obeyed his father. To be safe, he peeked his head into the hallway before going in, to make sure his mother wasn’t hanging around nearby. He could hear her humming in the kitchen.
“Operation Office!” his father announced, as if they were high-ranking military officials.
“Operation Ridiculous, if you ask me,” grumbled Thomas.
Raymond’s former office hadn’t changed a bit. It was a large, inviting room with French doors that opened onto a wide balcony. The walls—covered in expensive beige wallpaper—perfectly complemented the oakfloor. Massive bookcases stood on either side of a fireplace that hadn’t heated the room in quite some time.
“Look on the top shelf,” his father suggested. “Probably near the window.”
Thomas stood on his tiptoes and reached up, feeling around behind the books for the urn.
Jeanne assembled a quick sandwich with cold cuts from the fridge. When she came back to the living room, carrying the tray, she was surprised to see it empty. The noise in the next room led her to leave the tray on the coffee table and quietly pad into the office.
She was even more intrigued when she found Thomas perched on his tiptoes.
“Are you looking for a particular book?” she asked.
Thomas jumped and turned around.
“Where are Dad’s ashes?” he asked abruptly.
“That’s one way to do it,” muttered his father.
“I used them to test my new bagless vacuum. Oh, don’t look at me like that, I was joking! I’m sure they’re where they’ve always been, though I’ve never checked. Still, I doubt your father’s escaped. Funny, he never spent this much time at home when he was alive.”
“Do you ever miss him?”
“Would you mind saving this kind of conversation for another day?” Raymond protested. “One when I’m not around, for example ...”
“Well, then, go away!” whispered Thomas.
“Excuse me?” his mother replied. “You are really acting very strange today. And by the way, you’re looking in the wrong place. Your father is on the other side of the fireplace, on the top shelf, behindMadame Bovary. It was my little act of revenge. Here, use the armchair to climb up. I don’t feel like going back to the kitchen for the step stool.”
Raymond buttoned his jacket and disappeared, clearly troubled.
Thomas pushed an armchair—the one in which his father’s ghost had first appeared to him—over to the bookcase. There, he finally found what he was looking for. Reaching behindA Sentimental Education, which was just as dusty as the neighboring copy ofMadame Bovary, he finally got his hands on the urn.
“There’s a small wooden box next to it,” his mother said. “Take that while you’re at it. If you feel like diving into your father’s history, or worshiping his memory, its contents will no doubt tell you more about him than his ashes will.”
“Can I take his urn with me?” asked Thomas.
“You may as well, given that you were planning to hide it in your shopping bag anyway. Remind me: How old are you, again?”
Thomas had the uncomfortable feeling that he was eight years old again, and had just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Come on, let’s go back to the living room,” she said. “This office depresses me. I never stay long.”
Obviously intuiting that Thomas didn’t want to stay any longer, his mother led him to the kitchen, where she wrapped the urn in newspaper and placed it in the shopping bag, smiling the whole time.
