The Prisoner of Snowflake Falls (7 page)

Playing piano in cocktail lounges didn't leave my mother with a lot of money to throw around. But whenever she could afford it, we would go to a really nice restaurant called Chez Maurice, famous for its delicious French pastries. She would try to teach me the finer points of dining etiquette. Like which fork to use for salad and how to politely address a waiter. It was her favorite restaurant because, as she put it, the whole place was “glued together with good manners.”

Chez Maurice was run by the Girards, a father and son who were both named Maurice. In the busy kitchen, everyone called the son Young Maurice and the father Old Maurice. Old Maurice was the owner and head pastry chef. He was originally from Paris and kept a little replica of the Eiffel Tower by the cash register. Sometimes Old Maurice would talk sadly about growing up as an orphan and the hard times he had in Paris. But he was normally a very jolly individual.

Old Maurice was round all over and had a little gray mustache that looked like it was painted on. He always wore a pink rosebud in the lapel of his chef's jacket and called me
Henri
, the French way to say Henry. Old Maurice always stood very straight. He told me once that he was very proud of his posture. “As a waiter you must always assume that others are paying close attention to your deportment,” he said. “Slouching is very bad for business.”

You might think that Young Maurice would be a lot like Old Maurice. But he wasn't. Young Maurice was very slim, unsmiling and clean-shaven. Old Maurice described him as “Someone who is inexplicably crazy for rapid exercise and all kinds of fizzy water!” But even though Young Maurice was crazy for exercise, I would often see him slouching while serving customers. Personally, when it came to slouching in the restaurant, I agreed one hundred percent with Old Maurice. It just wasn't the sort of place where anything should look tired or droopy.

At Chez Maurice, the napkins were folded in the shape of swans. So whenever my mother felt it was time to go to the restaurant again, she would say, “Henry, I think it's time that we went to visit the swans.” My mother always said the same thing when they put a swan-shaped napkin on each of our plates. “It's so pretty that I can't bring myself to unfold it.” Maurice would bring her an extra napkin for her lap. After that, he would place the swan beside her plate so she could look at it all through lunch.

The thing I remember most is how happy my mother was during those lunches. We would laugh and her cheeks would get a little flushed from the single glass of wine she always ordered. Even though I was just a kid, I knew she was the prettiest woman in the room. I think Old Maurice thought so too. He promised that he was going to name a special pastry after her someday. Plus, he always made sure we had table number six, a window table with the best view in the entire place.

Old Maurice came over to our table once and asked, “Does the gentleman find his ginger ale satisfactory?” My mother said, “We're pretending its champagne, Maurice.” After that, Old Maurice brought my bottle of ginger ale over to me in an iced champagne bucket. He would say, “Someday, you will grow tall and this will be champagne!” and we would all have another good laugh. At the end of every lunch, Old Maurice never failed to take the pink rosebud he wore in his lapel and give it to my mother. She never failed to blush and say, “
Merci
.”

Old Maurice reacted the same way every time. His eyes got a little watery and then he gave a little bow. Like my mother was a European princess or something. “No, thank you, madame,” he would say. “It is my great privilege to be of service.”

I guess my mother never forget how special she felt at Chez Maurice. When she was sick in the hospital, I would squirt some of her perfume in the air and she would say, “Let's pretend we're at Chez Maurice. What are we having for lunch?” In real life, she wasn't really eating much at all. But as soon as she started to pretend we were visiting the swans, she developed quite an imaginary appetite.

After deciding what we were going to have for the lunch we weren't actually eating, my mother would get worn out. It was never hard to tell when my visit was over. Mostly because she would ask me to leave the bottle of perfume on her bedside table. “I just like to know that it's there,” she said.

What was my biggest hope? That my mother would get better so we could go back to Chez Maurice. I used to think about her spraying on Springtime in Paris and getting all dressed up. You know, looking just like she used to. But the last time we visited the swans together, it was just in our imaginations.

After Mom died, I took the bottle of perfume off her bedside table at the hospital, and I have kept a close eye on it ever since. I make sure to travel light these days. I have a backpack filled with such essentials as a toothbrush, a few lock-picking tools and my emergency Holloway hotline cell phone. Not to mention a big bottle of Springtime in Paris. I would not confess this fact to just anybody, mostly because of the embarrassment factor, but if anything ever happened to that bottle of perfume, I'd be very upset.

A while ago, I got the idea to go back to Chez Maurice for lunch. It was her birthday and I was feeling nostalgic about the happy times we had there. Also I had saved up all my burglary money and wanted to do something special. This may sound weird, but sometimes I have trouble remembering what my mother looked like. I mean, I'll close my eyes and try to recall the details of her face and everything will get a bit hazy.

I had grown up quite a bit since the last time I was in the restaurant, and I didn't think anybody would recognize me. Young Maurice—who didn't seem so young anymore—didn't give me a second look. But I could see Old Maurice squinting from across the room like he was trying to figure out if it was me.

I could tell he was really glad to see me. He took my hand and started to pump it like he was still a young Maurice. “But it has been so long!” he exclaimed. “Why do you not come to see Old Maurice?” Then he looked around, all excited, and asked, “But where is your dear mother?”

I explained to Old Maurice what had happened to my mother. I told him it was her birthday, and I was taking the whole day away from school to do the kinds of things that reminded me of her.

Old Maurice didn't say anything, but I could tell he was upset. His eyes were starting to water. Then he pulled himself together and got very official. Calling over a waiter with a quick snap of his fingers, he said, “The gentleman will require table number six.”

I could hear the waiter whisper that table six was reserved for a larger party. “Move them to table number eight!” ordered Old Maurice.

Even though I ended up sitting at good old table number six, I was kind of confused at first. Despite the fact that I was dining alone, there were two table settings. Naturally, I thought there was some mistake. But the longer I looked at the white napkin swan across from me, the more I understood what Old Maurice was trying to do. If you just concentrated on the swan instead of the empty chair, it was almost like my mother was there. Like she was just in the washroom—combing her hair or putting on a fresh coat of lipstick—and would be back any minute.

Of course, my mother was never coming back to table number six. Old Maurice did his best, sending over a bottle of ginger ale in an iced champagne bucket just like the old days. But eating at a table for one made me sad.

Old Maurice was a little melancholy himself. Apparently Young Maurice wanted to get rid of the tablecloths and swan-shaped napkins and turn the restaurant into one of those sleek, high-tech places that look like very expensive cafeterias. “He thinks I am a useless napkin-folder who is ready for the Old Pastry Chef's Retirement Home!”

We talked about my mother and, after a while, the waiter brought the bill. When I made a move to look at it, Old Maurice snatched it up smoothly from the little bill tray and ripped it in two neat little halves. When I protested, he said, “In memory of your dear mother.” Then he took the pink rose from his lapel and placed it on my mother's plate next to her napkin swan.

“Without his mother, a boy's life is like a custard tart without the crust,” he observed. “There is nothing to hold it together.” His sad eyes got watery again. “If there is anything you need, Maurice Girard Senior is eternally at your service,” he declared. He wrote down his home phone number for me before clicking his heels and giving a little bow. “You will remember this, Henri?”

I told him I would and thanked him very much in French. And then Old Maurice headed back toward the kitchen. Even though he was moving for the kitchen at a fast clip, I thought he looked a little tired. But then he straightened up, put his shoulders back and kept moving. I guess he knew that everyone was paying attention to his deportment.

For a minute, I just sat there and looked at the rosebud next to the napkin swan. It gave me a funny feeling, like I was sad and grateful at the same time. You might not think that those two feelings can go together, but once in a while, they really do. I guess that's why I took all the burglary money out of my wallet and left it on the little bill tray as a tip for Old Maurice and his staff.

After my visit to Chez Maurice, I made up my mind to stop recreational theft for good. And you know something? I did stop. Even before I moved into Evelyn's tree house, I was beginning to consider myself more or less reformed. I think my mother would have been proud of me. At least for a little while.

Mind you, there have been a few times lately when I can't help thinking of all the things I could buy with the tip money I gave Maurice if I still had it. But you know something? Ever since my last visit with the swans, I can see my mother's face a little more clearly every time I close my eyes and think of her. And there's no way you can ever put a price on that.

Back when I was still going to concerts, I liked to use what I called the Chez Maurice technique whenever there was an empty seat beside me. I just looked at the empty seat and pretended that my mother was at the coat check or just up the aisle getting a program. Right before the lights would dim, I'd almost convince myself that she was going to return to her seat and tell me to stop squirming and listen to the music.

Sometimes I wonder if all the cultural events I have attended are actually making me the sort of refined individual my mother would appreciate. I guess that's the thing about living by yourself in a tree house. It gives you the chance to reflect on a lot of memories that wouldn't normally cross your mind in a house full of people. Sometimes I'm so busy reflecting that it's hard to get to sleep.

There is a certain time of night when, even though I live in a big city, things get very quiet. Evelyn has stopped playing the piano and gone to bed. There is no
whoosh
of traffic or stirring of branches. Sometimes I will look down and see the pink plastic table and empty little chairs that Evelyn's grandchildren used to play with. On the table, there is a dusty little tea set, just waiting for some long-lost kid to pour pretend tea for Evelyn. When you think about it, nothing feels emptier than a chair that somebody used to enjoy sitting in.

It's funny how the mind works. I mean, I'll look at that empty little chair and I can't help thinking about my mother and the empty chair at table six of Chez Maurice. Eventually, I will start wondering what she would make of my current situation. This wouldn't be so bad, except that I always end up thinking about how much I miss her.

This may sound weird, but when things get really bad, I take out my mother's bottle of Springtime in Paris and spray a little in the air. It doesn't put me to sleep any faster. But it does make me think of those gentler days with Old Maurice. The days of napkin swans and pretend champagne at table number six. When my mother's chair was never empty for longer than it took to wish she'd come back.

FIVE

E
ver since I was a kid, being even a little bit hungry has given me bad dreams. The past couple of nights I've dreamed that a police car was taking me away in handcuffs. Both times I've woken up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. This is so upsetting that I have to calm myself down by closing my eyes and visualizing the inner workings of various locks. This is a talent I learned during my advance training at the Walter Gurski School of Lock Picking. I find it very soothing during times of stress.

Mind you, the police-car dream is not my only problem. Things haven't been going so great when I'm awake either. Try as I might, I have not been fortunate enough to steal much more than small change. This is disturbing enough as it is. But when I looked out the window of my tree house this morning, who did I see at Evelyn's back door? None other than Mr. Cookie Collito. It was enough to make me graduate to full-fledged panic.

Cookie's real first name is Orville. But he has such a sweet tooth that even the police call him by his nickname. Under normal circumstances, I would be delighted to see him. Cookie is the person who taught me how to drive as soon as my foot could reach the gas pedal. Plus, he has taken me to many enjoyable horse races over the years.

In addition to his passion for sweets, Cookie can never resist anything that's free. He is a dedicated coupon clipper who is always entering contests to try and get something for nothing. When he isn't clipping coupons or entering contests, Cookie is busy stealing.

Cookie specializes in stealing golf carts. He dresses up like an avid golfer and hangs around with a group of guys playing a round. When they are all preoccupied with the game, he drives off with their golf cart. He knows someone who will buy the carts, no questions asked.

Don't get me wrong. Cookie is skilled enough to steal an armored tank if he wanted to. But he says he prefers taking golf carts because of the fresh air and pleasant social interaction.

Cookie has done so well liberating local golf carts that he has been on vacation in Palm Springs, California, for the past couple of months. He sends Uncle Andy postcards about how relaxing it is to actually play an entire round of golf without worrying about the pressures of work. Cookie and my uncle are very good friends. So I knew the first thing Cookie would do when he got back into town was pay a visit to my uncle in jail.