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Later, Philippe hurried from the Metro in Malakoff to his house on Chemin de Fer. The sun was setting noticeably earlier every night, and the evenings were closing down quickly. As he walked along Boulevard Charles de Gaulle, the lady of one of the houses opened a window, reached for the metal shutters folded neatly to each side, and unfolded them with a clatter so that they covered the opening. Then he heard the glass window shut with a thud. She was closing out the little light left to her.
As Philippe strode, he reviewed the talks that he and Elodie had had with Meredith about the baby, and what they felt they could do to help her. She would have to take most of the responsibility, but they would assist with childcare while she finished college and went to work.
He had told her he was pro-life across the board: abortion, the death penalty, and euthanasia were, in his opinion, all man taking on the role of God to end a human life.
Philippe passed through the section of the public path that was lined with bushes—he’d heard from neighbors who gardened that they were Mexican orange bushes—with softly fragrant white flowers. He had an idea for a children’s book and wanted to work on it that evening. Getting a picture book published was even harder than getting an adult work of fiction published, he had heard. But he’d work on the story anyway. Someday in the not too distant future he’d read it to his fatherless grandchild, the little sweetheart perched in his lap. He couldn’t wait. This was the good God was bringing from Meredith’s tragic choices.
He climbed the steps and opened the front door of the house. It was dinnertime. Elodie had told him she would make bœuf bourguignon. The rich stew simmered and filled the house with delicious smells of burgundy wine, mushrooms, and pearly white onions.
Elodie was in heels, wearing a skirt, blouse, and frilly apron. Only a Frenchwoman would cook in heels, Philippe thought with tenderness.
“Cherie,” he said and kissed both of her cheeks, and then her lips, lingering there.
“Mon cher,” she replied, breaking away from his embrace and reaching for the breadbasket. She began to slice a baguette. “Would you call Meredeez to the table?”
He walked to the bottom of the stairs a contented man. When Meredith didn’t answer two calls, he climbed up, a little annoyed. Why did the kids always have their bedroom doors closed at dinner time?
There was no answer to his knocks, so he opened her door. She was laying on her side, sleeping. No wonder she hadn’t heard.
He shook her shoulder gently and called her name. She still didn’t answer.
He turned to the white dresser and clicked on the small lamp opposite the melted red candle stuck in a wine bottle. She didn’t move, so he flicked the interrupteur on the wall to turn on the overhead light.
Returning to her, he noticed that her jeans seemed darker around her thighs. He smelled a coppery smell.
“Elodie!” he shouted.
He ran to the bedroom door and shouted his wife’s name again. She came running up the stairs quickly, stirred by the urgency in his voice.
“Quick! Call an ambulance!” she said as soon as she had checked Meredith. “Vite! Vite!”
