Ice Lake by John Farrow

been shovelled recently, and likely would not be again for the season. Certainly the old man had nowhere to go. Presumably a neighbour was keeping the short walk and the stairs clear. Typical of Quebec architecture, the steps started almost at the curb, for in this climate no one wanted to shovel much. The detective climbed the stairs of his childhood home, invaded by a sense of that distant time, a poignant memory of his father as a young man meandering inside him, and a sense also of their love for one another—patient father, rambunctious child; proud father, world-weary adult son—resting upon his shoulders, his sensibilities, his heart.
The detective went inside without knocking.
His first surprise, although he should have expected it, was that his father had had his bed moved down to the living room, the sunny space just off the small foyer. He would negotiate the stairs to the second landing no more, and here he benefited from heightened stimulus. The broad window onto the street kept him entertained, as did the nearby television, while fragrant aromas emanating from the kitchen were a short drift away. Down here, Albert had no ready access to a toilet, but if a nurse was attending to him full time he had probably been reduced to using a bedpan anyway.
Emile went in quietly, not wanting to wake him.
The old head lay softly upon its pillow, hardly making an impression. The face was thin now, the hair as white as the snow outside. He seemed calmly asleep, despite the clutter of an intravenous bag overhead and the oxygen tanks attached with precious lifelines to his nostrils. A step caused a noisy creak, and Emile stood still. His father’s head lolled to one side and the eyelids fluttered open. Before a word, before, it seemed, recognition, a smile appeared. No matter who had entered his vicinity, Albert would have a smile for the intruder.If Death arrived this noisily, Emile Cinq-Mars speculated, his dad would greet him with a grin.
His eyes blinked rapidly, as though to dispel a haze, or decipher conflicting information. “That you, Detective?” his father asked. “You’re about the right height.”
“It’s me, Papa. How are you?”
“Sleepy. Well. Come closer, Emile.”
At first, Albert could not lift his arm for a handshake. Emile leaned down and kissed his father’s cheek, then held his father’s hand. After a few minutes he felt the old man’s strength emerging from his sleep. The large, bony hand squeezed his, and they remained in that position for more than ten minutes until Emile stood and finally removed his winter coat.
He went through to the kitchen then and met the nurse, who was playing solitaire. She hadn’t heard him come in. Cards had never been allowed in his father’s house when Cinq-Mars was a boy, and he reflexively thought to object, catching himself in time. Not only would he sound silly voicing the prohibition, but his father would probably storm an objection, for not all the interdictions of his youth had withstood time’s test. Few, in fact. Cinq-Mars poured tea for himself and his father and brought the cups through to the living room on a silver tray, an activity that awakened a sadness of a different order, for it evoked the routine of his mother bringing the tea in to her husband on the same tray. She’d been gone now for almost a decade.
“Papa. Tea.”
“Splendid!”
Cinq-Mars worked the crank that raised the top of the bed, bringing his father up to a sitting position, and pulled up a chair for himself. He poured the tea and the two men drank quietly in the familiar, warm comfort of the house.
“Emile,” Albert Cinq-Mars began. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”
The French language had always been vital to Albert. While he was familiar with the local dialect, he had been very particular about proper diction, exact pronunciation, and the correct use of words. That lifelong discipline now stood him in good stead. Although his voice was frail and dry, and he