Read Online The Prisoner of Snowflake Falls by John Lekich - Free Book Online

every lunch, Old Maurice never failed to take the pink rosebud he wore in his lapel and give it to my mother. She never failed to blush and say, “ Merci .”
    Old Maurice reacted the same way every time. His eyes got a little watery and then he gave a little bow. Like my mother was a European princess or something. “No, thank you, madame,” he would say. “It is my great privilege to be of service.”
    I guess my mother never forget how special she felt at Chez Maurice. When she was sick in the hospital, I would squirt some of her perfume in the air and she would say, “Let’s pretend we’re at Chez Maurice. What are we having for lunch?” In real life, she wasn’t really eating much at all. But as soon as she started to pretend we were visiting the swans, she developed quite an imaginary appetite.
    After deciding what we were going to have for the lunch we weren’t actually eating, my mother would get worn out. It was never hard to tell when my visit was over. Mostly because she would ask me to leave the bottle of perfume on her bedside table. “I just like to know that it’s there,” she said.
    What was my biggest hope? That my mother would get better so we could go back to Chez Maurice. I used to think about her spraying on Springtime in Paris and getting all dressed up. You know, looking just like she used to. But the last time we visited the swans together, it was just in our imaginations.
    After Mom died, I took the bottle of perfume off her bedside table at the hospital, and I have kept a close eye on it ever since. I make sure to travel light these days. I have a backpack filled with such essentials as a toothbrush, a few lock-picking tools and my emergency Holloway hotline cell phone. Not to mention a big bottle of Springtime in Paris. I would not confess this fact to just anybody, mostly because of the embarrassment factor, but if anything ever happened to that bottle of perfume, I’d be very upset.
    A while ago, I got the idea to go back to Chez Maurice for lunch. It was her birthday and I was feeling nostalgic about the happy times we had there. Also I had saved up all my burglary money and wanted to do something special. This may sound weird, but sometimes I have trouble remembering what my mother looked like. I mean, I’ll close my eyes and try to recall the details of her face and everything will get a bit hazy.
    I had grown up quite a bit since the last time I was in the restaurant, and I didn’t think anybody would recognize me. Young Maurice—who didn’t seem so young anymore—didn’t give me a second look. But I could see Old Maurice squinting from across the room like he was trying to figure out if it was me.
    I could tell he was really glad to see me. He took my hand and started to pump it like he was still a young Maurice. “But it has been so long!” he exclaimed. “Why do you not come to see Old Maurice?” Then he looked around, all excited, and asked, “But where is your dear mother?”
    I explained to Old Maurice what had happened to my mother. I told him it was her birthday, and I was taking the whole day away from school to do the kinds of things that reminded me of her.
    Old Maurice didn’t say anything, but I could tell he was upset. His eyes were starting to water. Then he pulled himself together and got very official. Calling over a waiter with a quick snap of his fingers, he said, “The gentleman will require table number six.”
    I could hear the waiter whisper that table six was reserved for a larger party. “Move them to table number eight!” ordered Old Maurice.
    Even though I ended up sitting at good old table number six, I was kind of confused at first. Despite the fact that I was dining alone, there were two table settings. Naturally, I thought there was some mistake. But the longer I looked at the white napkin swan across from me, the more I understood what