by Peter Kirby
It was as though a light went on in Vanier’s head.
“Damn right, Alex. That’s the best idea I’ve heard in months.”
“And don’t worry. I’m going to get a job, too.”
“That can wait. Focus on getting better.”
“It’s part of getter better.”
“Don’t know where you’re going to find a low-stress job, though.”
“There must be some.”
Vanier couldn’t come up with one that easily. He looked up to catch the eye of the waiter.
“Wanna go home?” Alex asked.
Vanier thought for a moment. Said, “Sure. Maybe we can pick up some take-out. Indian?”
“Indian sounds great.”
Vanier stood up, and they walked towards the door.
Nineteen
When spring finally takes hold of Montreal, it does it overnight, going from damp and grey to hot and sunny in a heartbeat, it’s hardly a spring at all, more of day or two prelude to summer. The light pulls people out of the shadowy places, terraces sprout like flowers and fill with people, bikes are hauled out of storage, winter clothes disappear, and vast expanses of skin are exposed to soak up the warmth.
It took a week before Vanier was cleared to go back to work, and another to close the Legault file. Now, there was nothing unfinished and nothing of any significance to make him stick around. He had called Anjili and asked if she wanted to play hooky. Vanier had never been on a date to the Botanical Gardens, but, he thought, there’s a first time for everything. She didn’t take much convincing, but even though Barbeau’s body had been removed, she made him promise to avoid the Alpine Gardens.
They followed paths that broke away from the asphalt pathways favoured by runners and stroller-pushing parents, and meandered through copses of thick woods that opened on wide vistas before arriving beside a pond where ducks were settling down to raise families.
The ground was mostly still dormant, but here and there flashes of colour from an advance guard of blossoms were breaking through. Anjili linked her arm through Vanier’s, and they scanned as they walked, looking for evidence that the earth was waking up, for the patches of white, purple, red, and green rebelling against the dark browns of sleeping earth. Anjili pointed to a small cluster of blue flowers.
“Do you know what it is?
Vanier looked down, “All flowers are roses …. Except daisies. So those must be daisies.”
She laughed and read the name stick beside the plant. “Woodland crocus.”
“I was close,” he said.
They sat on a bench next to the pond and watched the ducks. A few swallows were flying overhead, catching early insects.
“I love the smell,” he said. “The dirt. It smells new.”
“You know that it’s microbes being released. That’s what gives the musty smell.”
“You’re just being romantic.”
“You’re right. It’s the smell of spring.”
“And the noise?”
“No traffic.”
“Yes. But if you listen, you can separate the different bird songs.”
She listened. Above everything were the complaining noises of ducks and seagulls. But beneath them were at least three different bird songs vying for attention. It didn’t take long for her to find the birds responsible for each call, and she pointed them out to Vanier. A brown bird flew down from a tree and bounced across the grass about six feet in front of them.
Segal asked, “What kind of bird?”
“All birds are robins … Except owls,” he said. “So that’s a robin.”
She turned to look at him, surprised. “Right.”
He smiled.
A small green and yellow tractor pulled a trailer along the far side of the pond, too far away to hear the noise of the motor. It stopped near some large bushes, and they watched the driver get out and pull tools from the trailer. He went around the bushes, breaking out the winter debris, working methodically, leaning between the tall plants to pull dead vegetation out of the undergrowth. After fifteen minutes, he had a good-sized pile. He unhitched one wall of the trailer and began lifting the leaves and sticks into it.
“That guy looks just like ... ” She stopped herself, not wanting to break the mood.
“Alex?”
“Yes. Alex. Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“He just moves like Alex.”
“Let’s carry on.”
They got up from the bench and walked slowly around the pond. The worker saw them coming and stood looking at them, one hand on the upright rake. When they got close, he waved the greeting, and Anjili beamed a smile.
“Hi Alex,” she yelled.
“Hey, Dr. Segal. Didn’t know you came to the Gardens.”
“Your father’s idea. He has some great ones now and then. It’s beautiful here.”
“Yeah. I know.” Alex was smiling, something Vanier couldn’t see enough of.
Vanier looked around. “Lots of work to do here.”
“It never stops, Dad. But it’s great.” Alex looked at his watch.
“I’m on break after I dump this stuff. Want to grab a coffee?”
“Sure. I’ll give you a hand.”
Vanier grabbed the rake and began raking the remainder of the pile together for Alex to load into the trailer. Then the three of them squeezed into the front seat of the John Deere, and Alex drove to the maintenance section. He let them off, pointing the way to the cafeteria.
“I’ll see you there in ten minutes.”
Vanier and Anjili linked arms and set off for the cafeteria in the Turkish Garden.
“Desportes?” she asked.
“He’s the best employment agency in town. Alex likes it here. No stress, and he’s outside all day. I think I’ll talk to Mr. Desportes and see if they have a job for me in the Gardens.”
“Why don’t you do that?” she said, half wishing he would.
