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

Old Maurice was trying to do. If you just concentrated on the swan instead of the empty chair, it was almost like my mother was there. Like she was just in the washroom—combing her hair or putting on a fresh coat of lipstick—and would be back any minute.
    Of course, my mother was never coming back to table number six. Old Maurice did his best, sending over a bottle of ginger ale in an iced champagne bucket just like the old days. But eating at a table for one made me sad.
    Old Maurice was a little melancholy himself. Apparently Young Maurice wanted to get rid of the tablecloths and swan-shaped napkins and turn the restaurant into one of those sleek, high-tech places that look like very expensive cafeterias. “He thinks I am a useless napkin-folder who is ready for the Old Pastry Chef’s Retirement Home!”
    We talked about my mother and, after a while, the waiter brought the bill. When I made a move to look at it, Old Maurice snatched it up smoothly from the little bill tray and ripped it in two neat little halves. When I protested, he said, “In memory of your dear mother.” Then he took the pink rose from his lapel and placed it on my mother’s plate next to her napkin swan.
    â€œWithout his mother, a boy’s life is like a custard tart without the crust,” he observed. “There is nothing to hold it together.” His sad eyes got watery again. “If there is anything you need, Maurice Girard Senior is eternally at your service,” he declared. He wrote down his home phone number for me before clicking his heels and giving a little bow. “You will remember this, Henri?”
    I told him I would and thanked him very much in French. And then Old Maurice headed back toward the kitchen. Even though he was moving for the kitchen at a fast clip, I thought he looked a little tired. But then he straightened up, put his shoulders back and kept moving. I guess he knew that everyone was paying attention to his deportment.
    For a minute, I just sat there and looked at the rosebud next to the napkin swan. It gave me a funny feeling, like I was sad and grateful at the same time. You might not think that those two feelings can go together, but once in a while, they really do. I guess that’s why I took all the burglary money out of my wallet and left it on the little bill tray as a tip for Old Maurice and his staff.
    After my visit to Chez Maurice, I made up my mind to stop recreational theft for good. And you know something? I did stop. Even before I moved into Evelyn’s tree house, I was beginning to consider myself more or less reformed. I think my mother would have been proud of me. At least for a little while.
    Mind you, there have been a few times lately when I can’t help thinking of all the things I could buy with the tip money I gave Maurice if I still had it. But you know something? Ever since my last visit with the swans, I can see my mother’s face a little more clearly every time I close my eyes and think of her. And there’s no way you can ever put a price on that.
    Back when I was still going to concerts, I liked to use what I called the Chez Maurice technique whenever there was an empty seat beside me. I just looked at the empty seat and pretended that my mother was at the coat check or just up the aisle getting a program. Right before the lights would dim, I’d almost convince myself that she was going to return to her seat and tell me to stop squirming and listen to the music.
    Sometimes I wonder if all the cultural events I have attended are actually making me the sort of refined individual my mother would appreciate. I guess that’s the thing about living by yourself in a tree house. It gives you the chance to reflect on a lot of memories that wouldn’t normally cross your mind in a house full of people. Sometimes I’m so busy reflecting that it’s hard to get to sleep.
    There is a certain time of night when, even though I