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Book: Apocalypse for Beginners by Nicolas Dickner Translated by Lazer Lederhendler
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bills!”
“So what was she doing at the Saint Vincent de Paul?”
“The usual obsession: more and more food. And, hey, it’s free—just imagine! Like dangling a loaded syringe in front of a junkie.”
She gave the door a little punch and let out a growl.
“Anyway, I don’t know what happened. She attacked the Christmas tree, broke a couple of things. They called the police.”
I remarked that Hope was pretty calm, despite the turn of events.
“Bah, I’m used to it. In Yarmouth, I had to manage things so that the social workers wouldn’t send me to a foster home. Someone should give me a degree in the art of negotiation.”
I parked the car in front of the police station, just under a sign that said, “Parking Prohibited. Towing At YourExpense.” The street was quiet, with a few snowflakes dancing in the orange light of the mercury arc lamp. All of Rivière-du-Loup was huddled indoors waiting for the Christmas Eve celebrations.
While Hope was having a discussion with the police officer on duty, I pretended to take an interest in the artificial Christmas tree standing in a corner of the waiting room, its branches sagging under layers of tired tinsel. It was easily the saddest evergreen in all of North America.
The officer was lecturing Hope, his fists on the counter. He was not supposed to let a minor take her mother out of jail, whether it was Christmas Eve, Easter morning or two days after Saint-Jean-Baptiste Day. Hope pleaded Mrs. Randall’s case: Anyone could see she was not in her normal frame of mind, and the best thing for her would be to go home to rest and to take a generous dose of clozapine and a sedative. A night in prison would do nothing to improve the situation.
The police officer grumbled a little and began to fill out a form. He would make an exception, but only because the detainee had not been violent and had not resisted arrest.
“Do you have a proof of residence?”
With a practised air, Hope produced a telephone bill.
“I’m going to send the file over to the public clinic. Your mother needs to see a health professional.”
Hope nodded: Yes, yes, she was familiar with the procedure.
The officer dumped onto the counter Mrs. Randall’s personal effects: a handful of change, a wristwatch, a Bic pen (no cap) with multiple teeth marks and a set of keys. While Hope pocketed the items, the police officer opened the cell and escorted Mrs. Randall to the hallway.
Her eyes had a faraway look. Hope’s movements were strangely protective as she helped her mother with her coat.
“Are you okay, Mom? How are you feeling?”
“I’m hungry.”
“Okay, then, let’s go home.”
As we drove back, the silence in the Honda weighed ten thousand tons. I steered the car over the icy streets, Hope stared up at the car roof, and her mother, leaning her head against the window and mumbling inarticulately, seemed more preoccupied than ever with the end of days. What new omens had she observed during the last few hours? Graffiti on the wall of her cell? The artificial Christmas tree in the waiting room? The policeman’s moustache? Or simply that a girl of seventeen had been obliged to get her mother out of jail on Christmas Eve?
26. CHIMPS IN THE CLOSET
I pulled up in front of the Randall Pet Shop and helped Hope extract her mother from the back seat. Propping her up on either side, we stumbled our way to the door. While Hope fumbled with the lock, Mrs. Randall rambled on, her arm dangling over my shoulder.
Once inside, Mrs. Randall said she was not hungry any more, that she would rather sleep until 1997, or even longer, if possible. That she would wake up only in the event of an unaccredited apocalypse, thank you very much. While Hope removed her boots and coat, I pulled opened the sofa bed. The springs creaked, indicating the need for a few drops of oil. Everything in that dump rusted from the dampness.
Hope helped her mother climb under the sheets, pulled the blankets up to her chin,
“So what was she doing at the Saint Vincent de Paul?”
“The usual obsession: more and more food. And, hey, it’s free—just imagine! Like dangling a loaded syringe in front of a junkie.”
She gave the door a little punch and let out a growl.
“Anyway, I don’t know what happened. She attacked the Christmas tree, broke a couple of things. They called the police.”
I remarked that Hope was pretty calm, despite the turn of events.
“Bah, I’m used to it. In Yarmouth, I had to manage things so that the social workers wouldn’t send me to a foster home. Someone should give me a degree in the art of negotiation.”
I parked the car in front of the police station, just under a sign that said, “Parking Prohibited. Towing At YourExpense.” The street was quiet, with a few snowflakes dancing in the orange light of the mercury arc lamp. All of Rivière-du-Loup was huddled indoors waiting for the Christmas Eve celebrations.
While Hope was having a discussion with the police officer on duty, I pretended to take an interest in the artificial Christmas tree standing in a corner of the waiting room, its branches sagging under layers of tired tinsel. It was easily the saddest evergreen in all of North America.
The officer was lecturing Hope, his fists on the counter. He was not supposed to let a minor take her mother out of jail, whether it was Christmas Eve, Easter morning or two days after Saint-Jean-Baptiste Day. Hope pleaded Mrs. Randall’s case: Anyone could see she was not in her normal frame of mind, and the best thing for her would be to go home to rest and to take a generous dose of clozapine and a sedative. A night in prison would do nothing to improve the situation.
The police officer grumbled a little and began to fill out a form. He would make an exception, but only because the detainee had not been violent and had not resisted arrest.
“Do you have a proof of residence?”
With a practised air, Hope produced a telephone bill.
“I’m going to send the file over to the public clinic. Your mother needs to see a health professional.”
Hope nodded: Yes, yes, she was familiar with the procedure.
The officer dumped onto the counter Mrs. Randall’s personal effects: a handful of change, a wristwatch, a Bic pen (no cap) with multiple teeth marks and a set of keys. While Hope pocketed the items, the police officer opened the cell and escorted Mrs. Randall to the hallway.
Her eyes had a faraway look. Hope’s movements were strangely protective as she helped her mother with her coat.
“Are you okay, Mom? How are you feeling?”
“I’m hungry.”
“Okay, then, let’s go home.”
As we drove back, the silence in the Honda weighed ten thousand tons. I steered the car over the icy streets, Hope stared up at the car roof, and her mother, leaning her head against the window and mumbling inarticulately, seemed more preoccupied than ever with the end of days. What new omens had she observed during the last few hours? Graffiti on the wall of her cell? The artificial Christmas tree in the waiting room? The policeman’s moustache? Or simply that a girl of seventeen had been obliged to get her mother out of jail on Christmas Eve?
26. CHIMPS IN THE CLOSET
I pulled up in front of the Randall Pet Shop and helped Hope extract her mother from the back seat. Propping her up on either side, we stumbled our way to the door. While Hope fumbled with the lock, Mrs. Randall rambled on, her arm dangling over my shoulder.
Once inside, Mrs. Randall said she was not hungry any more, that she would rather sleep until 1997, or even longer, if possible. That she would wake up only in the event of an unaccredited apocalypse, thank you very much. While Hope removed her boots and coat, I pulled opened the sofa bed. The springs creaked, indicating the need for a few drops of oil. Everything in that dump rusted from the dampness.
Hope helped her mother climb under the sheets, pulled the blankets up to her chin,
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