Learning to Swim (34 page)

I had just opened my mouth to reply when a woman grasped his arm lightly.
“Vincent, mon cheri, tu parles anglais, mais c’est le club français ici!”
she said, in lilting French so precise it almost sounded affected. The woman was slender, with a slightly upturned nose and short auburn hair in a stylish cut I suspected was quite expensive. She made a
tsk-tsk
sound.

“Ah, Marguerite,” he said in delight. “Yes, yes, you are so right, I should not be speaking English, but my poor colleague Thomas here unfortunately cannot comprehend a word of French, and I don’t want to leave him out of the conversation.”

She smiled at me with a touch of curiosity, but none of the rancor sometimes evident when wives find their husbands talking to other women.

“Troy, this is my wife, Marguerite. Maggie, dear, this is Thomas’s friend Mademoiselle Troy Chance, from Lake Placid, and you remember Thomas Rouse from the history department.”

She nodded and smiled and we shook hands, hers slender and elegant with silvery nail polish and several sparkly rings. I knew I hadn’t met her, but I tried to remember if I’d seen her around campus. I didn’t think so.

Thibault turned to his wife. “Dear, Troy is the one who is looking for the men from the poster, the ones who are French-speaking, Canadian, I believe, who have been living in this area.” I nodded, and he continued speaking to Marguerite. “If you don’t mind, perhaps, keeping Thomas company while Troy and I circulate?”

She raised her eyebrows, in apparent good humor. “Of course. I’d be happy to keep Mr. Rouse company.” She somehow made it sound ever so slightly risqué. She took Thomas’s arm and led him to a set of chairs in the corner of the room.

So I went off with Thibault to meet the club members and fumble with my French. The number of people in the room swelled to perhaps two dozen, people coming and going, with more arriving who
weren’t affiliated with the university. No one showed a glimmer of recognition of the drawings of the men, but all were friendly and willing to help. Most were American, a few from France, and only one was Canadian, from British Columbia. From time to time I glanced over to check on Thomas, who seemed delighted by Marguerite’s company, which somehow amused me.

“Any luck?” Thomas asked when I rejoined them.

“No, but it was worth trying.”

“Who are these men you are looking for?” Marguerite asked.

I told her the half-lie I’d decided on. “They tried to abduct a friend’s child, and we had heard a rumor they were living up here.” At her half gasp, I added, “Oh, the child is fine, but of course they’d like to find the men.”

“But surely the police …”

I shrugged. “They do what they can.”

Thibault had rejoined us. Some unspoken communication passed between him and his wife, and he said, “Thomas, my friend, we haven’t had much time to visit. Would you and Troy join us and some people for dinner this Monday at our house? I know it’s short notice, but we would love to have you. We will speak English, I assure you.” He chuckled.

Thomas looked at me, and when I nodded slightly, replied, “Certainly, we’d love to.”

“It’s casual,” Marguerite added. “Just a few other couples, some friends I think you’ll like. We’ll be dining around seven, but do come earlier. Do you know where we live?”

Thomas shook his head. Thibault pulled a card from his pocket, wrote an address on it, and handed it to him. “It’s easy to find. We’ll look forward to having you.”

We thanked them as we headed out the door. “I hope that’s okay with you,” Thomas said as we climbed into his Toyota.

“It’s fine; they seem nice. And, hey, a free dinner, right?”

He laughed. I wondered if the Thibaults thought we were dating, and if that would be awkward. But if Thomas wanted to set them straight, I figured he would. I found it curious that he seemed
enchanted by Marguerite, who was so different from me. But maybe he was branching out. Maybe his next girlfriend would be elegant, with precise makeup and carefully lacquered nails. I closed my eyes. It had been wearying to try to think and talk in French for nearly two hours.

The next morning I drove out of town to see two apartments in the surrounding semi-rural area, but they clearly weren’t what I was seeking. On a whim I decided to take the afternoon off, and looked up movie schedules. The latest Gerard Butler movie was playing at the Roxy on College Street, and I could make the next matinee showing if I hustled. I took Tiger out, left a note for Thomas, and set off at a fast clip, eating a yogurt on the way.

I’d been a Gerard Butler fan since some friends had talked me into watching the TV movie
Attila
from Netflix. Never in a million years would I have thought I would enjoy a three-hour movie about Attila the Hun, but, hey, it was Gerard Butler. Next came
Dear Frankie
and
300
, and even
P.S. I Love You
and
Nim’s Island
—but I did draw the line at his screwball romantic comedies.

I love going to the movies and prefer going alone, because then you don’t have to worry if the other person is enjoying it and can just lose yourself in the film. After the final credits, I sat in darkness a minute or two before emerging, blinking, into the sunlight.

I’d once seen an old Albert Brooks movie about writers who required a muse for inspiration, and theirs was Sharon Stone. Mine, I thought, would be Butler, unshaven, rambling, gorgeous.

“So, Gerard,” I would say. “I’m getting kind of stuck here. I’m not finding anything out.”

He would look at me with that sideways grin and say in his delightful Scottish brogue, “Well, Troy, I think you need to try something new.”

I was striking out with the apartments and the posters. Nothing had developed with the French club, and I’d gotten no replies to my newspaper or Craigslist ad or email. The only other possibility I could see was asking around at the Burlington ferries. Surely the police had already done this, but it couldn’t hurt to do it again.

“Ferries,” I said to the imaginary Gerard. “I’ll try showing pictures and asking questions down at the docks.”

He grinned and winked, and disappeared
.

That night I slept soundly. Maybe there was something to this muse thing.

T
HE NEXT DAY, I BORROWED THOMAS’S OLD THREE-SPEED
, pumped up the tires, and rode to the docks and locked it to a nearby fence. I wouldn’t leave a decent-looking bike locked outside in a university town, but this one was decrepit enough that no one was likely to cut through a cable for it.

I had planned to show the ticket seller the picture and ask if she had seen the men, but when I saw her downward-turning mouth and dead stare, I chickened out. Instead I just bought a round-trip ticket.

I watched the incoming ferry chug in between the pilings. When it docked, the ferry workers moved quickly, securing the boat, lowering the ramp, and motioning the cars off while the foot passengers walked off.

I boarded, handing my ticket to a blond kid, and went on deck to wait while the cars drove on. Today was a clear day, not misty and drizzly like the afternoon I had found Paul. This wasn’t the boat I’d been on that day or the one Paul had been on either. Ours had had a separate section below deck for cars.

When the ferry was under way, I walked about, trying to get up my nerve to ask questions. The first worker I tried, a thirtyish tanned guy with a black brush cut, neatly snubbed me. “I wouldn’t know,” he said, sneering, and hustled off as if he had something important to do.

I turned, flushed, and the blond kid who had taken my ticket winked at me. “Don’t mind Horse. He just likes to throw his weight around.”

“Horse?” I thought I hadn’t heard right.

He grinned widely. “His name is Horace, but we call him Horse. He hates it. What is it you need?”

I pulled out the folded paper with the kidnappers’ pictures on it. “I’m looking for these two guys. They were on the last ferry going to Port Kent on the last Sunday in May.” This was a long shot. But it had been the first week this ferry route was open—ice on the river kept it from running year-round—so maybe it would stick in someone’s mind.

The kid took the paper and squinted at it. His snub nose was sunburned and peeling, and he looked like a grown-up Dennis the Menace. “Why are you looking for them? Are you a PI or something?”

“No, nothing like that. They snatched a friend’s kid, and we’re trying to track them down.”

“Wow, a kidnapping. Or a custody thing, maybe, huh? Are these guys local?”

“They’re French Canadian, from Montreal, I think, but they may have lived here.”

“Which boat was it? We have three that sometimes run this route—the
Adirondack
, the
Champlain
, and this one, the
Valcour.
”

“It wasn’t this one,” I told him. “It had a long lower deck for cars.”

“Hey, Jimmy,” someone yelled to the blond kid.

He looked up. “Be right there!” He started to hand the paper back to me. “That sounds like the
Champlain
. I don’t recognize these guys, but I can do some asking around and find out who was on that shift. Can you come back tomorrow?”

“Sure, but keep the picture, I have a bunch.”

Finally I’d met someone willing to try to help. Emboldened by my success, when the ferry docked I approached the ticket seller in Port Kent, who was younger and friendlier than the one in Vermont.

“Hey, I’m looking for these guys who ran off with my sister’s kid, who were on the late-afternoon ferry from Burlington the first week the ferries ran,” I told her. “I’m wondering if you’ve seen them.”

She looked at the picture. “Wow, that’s really tough. Nope, sorry.” As I turned away, she called out, “I hope you catch the bastards.” I thanked her and reboarded as the waiting cars filed onto the ferry.

The blond kid, Jimmy, took my ticket. “You again, huh?” He winked.

It did feel strange to cross to New York and then cross right back, spending an hour on a ferry and then heading back where you started from. I sat out on the deck, leaning back against the rail and feeling the wind on my face. I tried not to think of the last time I’d been on a ferry to Burlington. Another worker came by, this one with dark reddish hair, also young and tanned.

“Hey, I was probably on that shift,” he said. “You want me to take a look at that picture?”

I pulled a fresh one out of my daypack and handed it to him. He studied it and shook his head. “Don’t remember ’em. But that was one of the first trips of the year and I think Dwight was on that shift with me. If anyone will remember them, he will. He has an incredible eye for people and cars.”

I perked up. “Dwight?”

“Yeah, he’s not on today, but he’ll be working this boat tomorrow. I’ll give him a heads-up when I see him in the morning, if you wanna come back.”

“Yeah, sure!”

“Just be sure you get on the right ferry. Check the name.” He pointed it out, painted on bow and stern, and rattled off the departure times. I scribbled them down. If I missed it, it would be a two-hour wait before it returned.

You wouldn’t think a six-block bike ride followed by two hours on a ferry would be exhausting, but it was. I pedaled up the hill toward the apartment, wishing for a lower gear. Or a lighter bike. I’d left my bike at home so I’d concentrate on this—not that I ever would have left it at the dock. It would have been stolen in a flash.

I threw rotini on to cook, and cut up some apples I found in the back of the fridge, mixed in oatmeal and cinnamon, dabbed butter on top, and popped it in the oven. I cooked green peppers and cauliflower, then added Ragu from a jar.

Thomas sniffed appreciatively when he came in. “Apples?”

“Yeah, I made an apple crisp with those old Granny Smiths.”

Maybe it should have seemed odd eating dinner with him, but it just seemed like dining with an old friend. It had been a lifetime ago that I’d dated Thomas. I’d been someone else then.

He reminded me about dinner at the Thibaults’ the following night, and said he’d like to leave around 6:10. We’d be the first ones there, I figured, but these were his friends, so it was his call. I wished I could bow out of the whole thing, because I thought it might be awkward and almost assuredly a waste of time. But I didn’t want to let Thomas down. And maybe it would be good for me to get out.