The Dogs of Winter

by Ann Lambert

  “And without vocal cords, don’t forget.” Marie paused and then asked, “Who has something to add?”

  A dozen hands shot up. “Whale lungs are the size of small cars.”

  “Humpback whale migration can be twelve thousand miles long—from Samoa to the Antarctic.”

  Marie let the students share a few more facts, and then she checked her watch. Five minutes left. “Are there any questions so far?”

  One student’s hand shot up. “How long do whales live?”

  Marie looked out at the class of young, earnest faces. “Can anyone answer that?”

  If Michaela Cruz had been there, she would’ve offered an encyclopedic response. But one girl with carrot red hair and a prominent nose ring said, “It depends. Do you mean in captivity or in the wild?”

  The boy looked puzzled. “I don’t know. In the wild, I guess.” The girl went on to explain quite concisely that captive whales die younger, but of course whales in the wild are vulnerable to predators, disease, boat strikes, and entanglement in nets. A budding teacher herself, Marie thought. But now she was starting to lecture the class, and that was Marie’s job.

  “Our time is almost up, so I’ll leave you with this mind-blowing fact about how long whales can live.” She began to collect her papers, glasses, and phone. “A few months ago, the tip of a two-hundred-year-old harpoon was found in a bowhead whale in the Canadian Arctic. Two hundred years old. Which of course means the whale was at least that old.”

  One student raised his hand. “How did the whale die?”

  Marie responded in a matter-of-fact tone. “She was killed in the hunt up in Nunavut.”

  The same student’s mouth opened incredulously. “Like, recently?? People are still killing them? How are they allowed to do that?”

  “The Inuit are still allowed to hunt.”

  The class reacted indignantly. “That’s disgusting.”

  Marie shushed them with a hand. “It was the first bowhead whale killed in eight years. It will feed hundreds of people in that area.”

  Marie glanced out the classroom door. The next class was impatiently waiting to be allowed in. “As we’ve talked about for three weeks now, the Indigenous whale hunt cannot be compared to the wholesale slaughter and near eradication of whales by…well, by people like me. And by me, I mean white people of European ancestry. So I can’t get too self-righteous about the Inuit hunting them.” The class broke out in little circles of discussion, which almost salvaged the morning for Marie. A few stragglers hung on to chat at her desk, but with the next class coming in, she made a quick exit and escaped to her office.

  Marie sat at her desk fuming. She had been so excited to get to class, as Michaela’s presentation was that morning, and she had prepared a class activity that should’ve been very successful, based on the content of Michaela’s paper. Marie checked her work emails again, but Michaela had left her no messages, no apology for not bothering to show up that morning. She had asked of few of her classmates if they’d seen her, but they claimed to have no idea where she was. Marie knew it was possible that an emergency had come up. But she had experienced this kind of bullshit behavior way too many times. Almost as though he had picked up Marie’s disappointment on his teacher radar, Simon came sidling into her office. He bit into an apple and between chews pronounced “Well, seventy-eight percent of my class failed their first test. I guess that makes me a pretty bad teacher.”

  Marie smiled ruefully at her colleague. “The worst.” She could’ve let it go there, but she wanted to get her own complaining in. “If it makes you feel any better, I got stood up again by a student I really like and whose work is terrific. She just didn’t show. No message, no nothing.”

  Simon dropped the apple core in Marie’s wastebasket. “Did her grandmother die?” Teachers often joked about their students having at least four grandparents and several emergency spares considering how many suddenly took sick and died in the course of the year.

  Marie shook her head. “I’m just really pissed.”

  Simon started in on a litany of his recent disappointments when Cassandra, another of their colleagues from down the hall, stuck her head in Marie’s door.

  “Hey. Did you guys hear? They found a body at that closed down church two blocks from here. I was walking past it on Saturday—there was like a huge crime scene or something going on—yellow tape, people in hazmat suits. It was like fricken CSI.”

  “Wow. Do they know what happened?” Simon asked.

  “I haven’t seen anything on the news yet,” Marie offered.

  “It was a man. A young man, I heard. Probably homeless. It’s so sad.”

  “Very sad.” Simon added.

  They waited for Marie’s response. Marie didn’t feel she had anything more to add to the conversation. Disappointed, her two colleagues left her office and kept chatting as they walked down the hall. Marie picked up her phone and checked the breaking Montreal news. There was nothing she could find about the body near the college. But then a face appeared on her screen that she recognized. She immediately tapped in his number. He answered on the fourth ring.

  “Marie? Is everything okay?” Marie rarely called him during the day.

  “Oh my God, Roméo. I just saw her picture on the news!”

  “Who?”

  “The girl who was hit by the car—Rosie Nuk-ilik? They just showed her on the news—”

  “Yes, they’ve finally identified her.”

  “I know her from Alexis Nihon—I used to see her at the McDonald’s sometimes. And, and around. I mean, I don’t know her, I never talked to her, but I recognized her white parka—it has this very distinctive, beautiful embroidery on it. It’s why I noticed her, maybe.” Marie stopped and thought about what she’d just said. “It’s just fucking awful.” Marie heard a beeping on Roméo’s phone.

  “I have another call I have to take. We’ll talk later, okay? I’d like you to tell me everything you can remember about this woman.” Roméo cut her off. She stared dumbly at her phone for a few seconds, and then up at the photos narrating highlights of her life on her office wall. She realized that she really knew nothing about Rosie Nukilik that would be helpful at all.

  Twenty-Seven

  Tuesday night

  February 5, 2019

  JEAN LUC DAVID lifted a glass of Veuve Clicquot and turned to each of his distinguished guests. “Nastrovnya! L’Chaim! Santé! Cheers! Did I miss one?” They all raised their glasses in confirmation and almost in unison swallowed the champagne. Dima Golikov downed his in one gulp. His girlfriend barely touched the glass to her lips, as she knew one of them had to stay sober. Cheryl Wiseman, the showrunner for Nasty Women, somehow inhaled the bubbles and snorted champagne through her nose. Her wife hustled Cheryl away to the bathroom to clean up the spray she’d showered herself with. Jean Luc sipped from his glass after first making meaningful eye contact with Margeaux, who was a stickler for such protocol. Then he took a moment to appreciate his surroundings. Gennifer has secured them a private room at Touché, one of the most exclusive and difficult restaurants in the city to get a reservation. Seated across from him was his American producer and his wife. Next to them was Mylène, who was on the cusp of mega fame as Quebec’s latest homegrown pop diva, and who went by her first name only. Jean Luc had scored a major coup when she’d agreed to perform the theme song for their new season. He wondered if she could act, too. Maybe she could be the lead in his Filles du Roi series. Although the people who frequented Touché were used to seeing vedettes, he couldn’t help but notice the patrons at other tables staring—even for the blasé elite, this collection of stars was unusual and impressive. Jean Luc took Margeaux’s hand and kissed it very tenderly. Sometimes, it felt like life couldn’t get much better. Suddenly three waiters appeared with several platters of fruits de mer, charcuterie, and of course for Cheryl and her wife, a plate of végétalien f
ood. Jean Luc could not understand how anyone would willfully choose to eat that vegan sawdust, but he made sure it was available at all times to Cheryl. He knew that without her, his show was dead in the water. She and her wife returned to the table and made no attempt to hide their disgust at the plate of meat before them. Jean Luc was about to offer another exuberant toast when he noticed Gennifer standing discreetly with the maître d’ near the entrance to the room. She tapped her right index finger to her temple, their code for: direct communication is required immediately. He excused himself and made his way towards her. She turned on her heel, headed back to the main part of the restaurant, and waited for him in a corner of the service bar.

  “Qu’est-ce que tu fais ici? What are you doing here?” Jean Luc took Gennifer by the elbow and led her further down the bar, away from any possible eavesdropping.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I texted you a bunch of times and you didn’t answer—”

  “I’m trying to focus on my guests, who if you’ve noticed are very key people to our future success, so I have not been checking my phone every five minutes. What is it that’s so important?” He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Gennifer thought how very old and tired he looked sometimes.

  “That girl—the one who you invited to um…read for, you know, a very small role for next season.”

  “Yes. What? What about her?” Jean Luc glanced quickly around the room, then returned his attention to Gennifer.

  “Michaela Cruz. Her name is Michaela Cruz.”

  “Yes. I remember her. So?”

  “Her friend—someone named Brittany—She messaged me and….” Gennifer took a deep breath and continued. “She said that you sexually assaulted her friend at the Diamond in the Rough party. And, she demanded I tell you that they will go to the police if we do not agree to meet with her tomorrow.”

  Jean Luc did not respond at first, and then in an almost stage whisper, he answered. “What the hell are you saying? What is she talking about? You were there. She looked at a contract. I explained what we were looking for. She excused herself to go to the bathroom, I went back to the party. I guess she left. That’s it, that’s all.”

  Gennifer looked down the bar for a moment and focused on the animated conversation between the bartender and a patron. “Um. J.L? I wasn’t there the whole time. You were alone with her.”

  “No, Gennifer, you were there the whole time.” Jean Luc David almost smiled. “You know, it is the little bitches like her who get away with this shit. Who knows what they imagine in their fucked up little heads? I cannot be responsible for that.”

  “She said you forced her friend to perform oral sex on you.”

  Jean Luc slammed his hand on the bar, hard. “Have you seen my wife? Do you think I need some stupid little girl with stars in her eyes to suck my cock?”

  There was a long pause. Gennifer kept her gaze even with his, and then she had to look away. “I guess she wants some money. Or that contract signed immediately. Or a more…prominent part in the show?”

  “It’s disgusting what depths certain people will sink to. I have always been a target.”

  “Women…misunderstand your charm. And your power, Jean Luc—”

  “Exactly!”

  Gennifer touched his hand ever so briefly. “So. What do you want to do?”

  Jean Luc smiled and kissed her hand with the lightest touch of his lips. “I want you to deal with it. The way you always do.”

  He turned away from her and without hesitation returned to his guests.

  Twenty-Eight

  Wednesday morning

  February 6, 2019

  NIA FELLOWS SAT ON one of the reliable but weary-looking armchairs in The Bunker. A solicitous social worker had just brought her a cup of steaming tea and now sat across from her looking very concerned. Nia was exhausted beyond whatever exhausted was. She kept feeling Christian’s frozen body in her arms. How he felt like he might break into a hundred pieces. How that beautiful man she loved so much was completely absent from that horror by the church. She couldn’t remember how long she sat there with him, but she finally realized she had to go and get help. She ran to Alexis Nihon mall and begged for someone to call 911. But no one would. They took one look at filthy and terrified Nia and practically ran the other way. Finally, one man stopped and offered her his phone. After that, everything seemed to happen so fast and so slowly, like one of those surreal movies where you’re not sure what’s real or what’s a dream.

  Therese, the social worker leaned closer. “Nia? What did the police say? Will there be an investigation?”

  Nia answered in a flat monotone, as though any expression in her voice was too exhausting. “They took me to the station. Asked me a lot of questions.” Nia stopped to take a breath. “They made me feel like I did it.” Nia looked down at her feet. “And I did. I knew he wasn’t in good shape that day. But I really wanted to get to the housing office, and Christian would slow me down. I should never have left him alone. Never!” On this last word, Nia’s voice finally broke. Therese took the teacup from Nia’s red, chapped hands and tried to hold her, but Nia felt repulsed by that much contact and tucked herself tighter in the chair. A few of the kids had gathered on the periphery and were listening intently to Nia’s story.

  “One of the cops was actually very kind—now that Christian is dead.” Nia’s voice had returned to that deadly monotone.

  “Did they say they suspect foul play? Did someone hurt him?”

  “I don’t know. Their questions were weird. They kept asking me if anyone would want to harm Christian.” Nia finally made eye contact. “Who would want to hurt him?”

  Therese, stroked Nia’s hands very gently. “No one. Christian was very special.”

  “That man—the Good Samaritan? He…told me—that night—that some guy was hanging out with Christian and took him to that…place by the church. I’d like to know who that guy was.”

  “Did you tell that to the police?”

  “Yes, I did. But. I have no…description. It was weird, though. I stopped outside the metro station—at Atwater. I asked some people there if they’d seen Christian and Hamlet. Gave them my last smokes. And. One of them…seemed like, familiar to me. Like I knew him from someplace else. Where he was somebody else. More his voice than anything. I just feel like I knew that voice.” Nia looked off into the distance. “And, like, what was the Good Samaritan doing there—”

  “Isaac, you mean?”

  “Yeah. There’s something wrong with him. I just feel like, like he was almost following me. Like he knew.”

  Therese took the empty cup from Nia’s clasped hands and placed it on the floor.

  “Isaac is…I think Isaac is pretty harmless. But I can see how his…devotion might strike you as a bit creepy.”

  “They just took Christian away like…that. Like he was nothing. Like he was a bag of garbage. I didn’t even get to see him again—and I have to. I have to let his family know, don’t I? His family doesn’t know. But he ran away from them—he hated them. But he loved them, too, I know it. Oh my God, someone has to tell his mother.”

  “I would think the police have notified his family, Nia. You know they will probably ask you back to ask a few more questions.” Therese pulled a card from her pocket. “This guy…Detective Pouliot came by here and left me his card.”

  “The police aren’t gonna do anything.” She hesitated and then added, “I don’t want to talk to the cops again. I have so many tickets I haven’t paid—they’ll arrest me again. I know they will. I owe like a thousand dollars!”

  Therese tried to comfort her. “Nia? I can talk to the police for you.” She hesitated before asking the next question. “Would you like to call someone? Is there any…family or…someone that you’d like to call?”

  Nia thought of her family. There were only the three of them. Her mom, Janey, wh
o Nia remembers teaching her to read by the time she was three. Nia’s first book was Hazel’s Amazing Mother, about a mother who defends her daughter against bullies. Nia loved the book because she had an even more amazing mother—who knew how to keep beehives, raise chickens, and do a perfect swan dive into the little pond behind their house. Nia worshipped her. Her father, Gavin, had built their little house on a few acres of weedy land outside of Lennoxville, a busy university town two hours southeast of Montreal. He did odd jobs around the town, but mostly worked at home. An avid birdwatcher, Gavin could entice the chickadees and jays and even crows to come to him and eat out of his hand. He taught Nia how to save a bird when it hit a window and knocked itself out. He would hold it in his two hands, and jiggle it around, all the while asking, “What’s your name, little bird? Come on, tell me your phone number. Wake up!” Nia couldn’t remember a single bird who didn’t come back to life in her father’s hands and fly off frantically back into the trees when he released them. It wasn’t until Nia was eleven years old that she found out what her parents actually did for a living.

  “I have no family to call.”

  Her mother was in a halfway house in St. Jerome, after serving three years in a detention center in Laval. Nia hadn’t seen her in almost four years. Her father was arrested after a high-speed chase with three Sûreté du Québec cars, which lasted, amazingly, for seventy-three kilometers down the Eastern Townships highway. They got him with several kilos of heroin in the trunk of his old Volvo. That night, Nia waited with her mother in their beautiful little house for her father to call. He never did. Two days later, Nia’s mother was arrested. That was when she discovered that her gentle, funny, and eccentric parents were almost single-handedly responsible for the epidemic of heroin amongst the local college crowd.

  “I have to find Hamlet. Do you think he’s dead?”

  “I don’t know, Nia. I think it’s possible he’s still alive. I’m just not sure what more you can do to find him.”

  After Christian’s death, Nia had had an explosion of energy fueled by adrenaline and shock. She had called the Montreal SPCA so many times they started blocking her calls. She had also called every shelter she could Google, but not one of them had Hamlet. She had roamed every block in the area where they found Christian, but no Hamlet. She asked everyone she knew on the street if they’d seen him or heard anything about him. She insisted the people at several shelters and missions put Hamlet on their websites and Facebook pages. Then she had literally collapsed at The Bunker. She was haunted by what might have happened to him. Was he run over by a car? Was he in a ditch somewhere, dumped by someone who couldn’t care less? Did someone take him to hurt him? Torture him? These images played over and over in her head until Nia felt like she would implode with worry and grief. But that morning, as the bright light of another sunny winter day dappled the floor of the lounge at The Bunker, she closed her eyes. As Therese covered her in a fleecy kids’ blanket covered in smiley faces that someone had donated, Nia Fellows finally fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.