The Dogs of Winter

by Ann Lambert

  Marie dropped her books and papers on her chair and tried to stuff them into what few square inches of surface area remained on her desk. She rolled back in her chair and took a moment to consider the few photos she had on her wall. Very dated ones of her kids’ high school graduation—Ben’s open and sincere smile, Ruby’s more guarded smirk. Another one of her mother, Claire, and her older sister, Madeleine, in poofy peach dresses at her middle sister Louise’s wedding, and one of Marie in a kayak on the Sea of Cortez, paddling very close to a humpback whale. Magnus had taken that picture. The Norwegian love of her life. They had sworn to sail the seven seas together, and they did manage four of them before Magnus opted for number five without Marie. He got on a boat for Madagascar and left her behind. She followed his career obsessively at first, then on and off for years as he rose through the ranks of whale researcher royalty, but she never heard from him again. Sometimes, Marie could still feel the actual physical pain of her separation from Magnus. It took her years to recover from his betrayal, and Marie had kept her emotional distance from all men until she’d met Daniel. They were an unlikely couple. The closest he came to life at sea was a canoe on a Laurentian lake. Daniel had dyslexia and a lifelong resistance to reading. His idea of outdoor adventure was his childhood camp in the Laurentians where the counsellors unpacked your clothes for you. But Daniel had an encyclopedic mind and endless curiosity. He was a charming fast-talker, the opposite of laconic, Viking Magnus. He ran his father’s successful shmata business and was well off. He was sexy and fun and he loved Marie, at least for the first ten years of their marriage.

  “Would you like to hear the latest?” Marie’s colleague, Simon, a history teacher two offices down the hall, dropped into her spare chair and sighed deeply. Marie waited for him to launch into his usual litany of complaints about his students’ shocking ignorance, and he didn’t disappoint. “So. I am reviewing the material for their first in-class test, a test, by the way, they would like all the questions to beforehand.” Marie had heard this one many times before. “And then one bright light in the peanut gallery at the back of my class says, ‘Sir?’” At this point Simon was imitating his lazy consonants and teenage slur. “‘Sir, do we have to know who fought who in World War Two for the test?’” Marie smiled her sympathy, but only half-listened as Simon bemoaned their general illiteracy and total absence of any knowledge of history. “I mean, what happens to an ahistorical generation? To a generation of moral relativists? To a generation that is constantly told their opinions are most valuable and precious, regardless of the facts?” Marie watched as he kept talking. She and Simon had had a brief encounter a few years earlier when Marie was about two years divorced. They had had a lovely evening, as long as they talked about nothing but Simon himself. Then, for some inexplicable reason, Marie agreed to go to his place for a nightcap. Within minutes, he had groped at her on the sofa, and kept placing her hand on his erect penis. She told him she wasn’t ready for sex with him. Then he started to cry and apologize. Marie wasn’t sure which was worse.

  “What happens is Trump. The rise of fascism in the United States. And Doug Ford. Demagogues the world over.” Simon waited for a response, but Marie offered none. There was an awkward silence. Then he rose from the chair and sauntered back to his office, his load lightened perhaps, Marie thought. Once again, Marie felt so grateful for Roméo, even though he’d missed their Saturday night date, and he had yet to explain to her what fresh drama Sophie had concocted to ruin their night. Marie checked her watch and realized she had seventeen minutes to pick up a very necessary coffee before her next class.

  Once the Motherhouse to the Gray nuns, the imposing

  nineteenth-century greystone buildings at the corner of Atwater and Sherbrooke streets were sold to the Quebec government in the early eighties and turned into Dawson College—or CEGEP—as they are called in Quebec. The convent’s chapel was turned into a spectacular library. Few other traces of the nuns remained, but most significantly one did—the great dome—and at its apex, the Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus in her arms. For some, this overt religious symbol on a public, government building should have been removed years ago. For others, it was an important historical landmark that preserved the patrimoine of Quebec. Quebec was once again flirting with laicité—the complete separation of church and state in terms of religious symbols, including personal apparel items such as the kippah, the crucifix, and the hijab. Many Quebecois supported this in backlash reaction to the past autocracy of the Catholic church. A minority (usually including minorities) saw this as overt xenophobia, and in the case of the public servants the hijab ban applied to, cruel and petty. Within minutes, Marie had passed several students, each wearing one of the controversial religious symbols as she navigated the main staircase down to the busy atrium of the school. She refused to be pushed and jostled by students, cell phone in one hand, Starbucks coffee in the other, rushing to class. She secretly loved all that teenage hormonal energy. She loved watching the confident girls strutting down the hall, the others who thumb at their phones to avoid eye contact, or to look like they’re never alone. She loved the gaggles of obstreperous boys, the sheer energy of almost ten thousand students on the move. Marie decided to cross over to the mall by the underground metro level, her preferred route in winter, as she didn’t have to actually go outside, and wouldn’t need her full cold weather regalia. Besides, the aftermath of the snowstorm—snowbanks three feet high and sidewalks still not fully cleared—made stepping out into the January air even less appealing. She emerged from the Dawson doors into the actual metro station and passed by the Jehovah’s Witness couple flogging their version of Christianity, who still looked so hopeful that she might stop for a little proselytizing. She could already taste that café latte with an extra shot of espresso. Maybe she’d treat herself to one of those blueberry oatmeal squares that cost a fortune and about eight thousand calories.

  Between the metro turnstiles and the shopping center proper, this part of Alexis Nihon mall was known for its high concentration of homeless people. Marie recognized some of them from over the years, and some were more transient, their faces changing every few months. A few of the regulars were there, their empty Starbucks or Tim Hortons coffee cups held aloft, begging for a loonie or a toonie. A couple of them were passed out inside filthy sleeping bags, their few possessions gathered around them in tired plastic bags. Sometimes one would begin to shriek aggressively at a shopper, but for the most part they were harmless, too drunk or high or sick to be a threat to anyone. Except sometimes to each other. Marie always walked quickly past what she called the gauntlet of guilt on the way to her daily coffee. She passed the first guy who wished her “Bonne journée!” with a cheery wave and a snaggle-toothed grin. Another regular, an old woman swaddled in layers of mismatched clothes and a floral babushka on her head, lifted her cup and smiled weakly at Marie, mumbling something in a language Marie didn’t understand. She used to stop and ask how they were. She always used to drop some change into their cups and every now and then she still did. But over time, a feeling of frustrated helplessness had eroded her empathy. She wanted to ask what had happened to them that brought them to this state and this place. She wanted to ask what she could do. But she didn’t. Instead, she held her purse a bit tighter and hastened past them, making just enough eye contact to remind herself that they were human, too.

  Just as Marie turned past the vegan burger shop, she heard shouts and then terrible screaming. Ahead of her, surrounded by a small group of onlookers, were two uniformed cops. One held a woman by the waist, and the shrieking came from her tiny body, as she tried to kick and twist herself out of his grasp. The other cop held the arms of a second struggling woman behind her back, and she seemed to be writhing in pain, screaming something Marie couldn’t make out.

  “Qu’est-ce qui se passe? What’s happening?” Marie asked an older woman with a Pharmaprix uniform on, watching the scene unfold next to her.

  “Wha
t do you think? The usual. They’re drunk, and got into a fight, and the cops are breaking it up. Les ostie d’Esquimaux!” She shook her head, gave a dismissive shrug and left. The crowd seemed to have lost interest as well, and started returning to their mall activity, one or two looking back to see if anything else might happen. The policeman finally wrestled the kicking woman to the ground very roughly, causing her to hit her head hard on the mall floor. The woman started to wail, holding her head and rocking back and forth.

  “Hey! Qu’est-ce que vous faites là? What the hell are you doing?” Marie heard herself yelling. “You’re hurting her!”

  The cop who had the other woman finally subdued and quiet was speaking calmly into her shoulder walkie-talkie. She looked right through Marie like she wasn’t even there. The policeman growled “Occupés-toi tes oignons! Mind your own business!”

  Marie watched as they half-dragged the two women away, and then decided to follow them. The cops pulled them through the double doors onto Atwater Avenue, directly across from the old Montreal Forum. A couple of very rough-looking friends were waiting for them there out in the cold, their breath suspended in the frozen air, howling at the cops in protest. The injured woman patted at her head gingerly, while the other woman was pulled away by a different gang. The two police officers returned to the warmth of their squad car and watched impassively through the window. Marie hastened over to confront the police, then stopped herself. Was it because of her relationship with Roméo? Had he turned her into someone who tolerates police abuse? She checked her watch and realized she was already three minutes late for class. No chance for a coffee now. Marie ran back into the mall. She would definitely discuss this incident with Roméo as soon as possible. It was just fucking unacceptable.

  Eight

  “AH! BONJOUR, MONSIEUR ISAAC. Comment vas le Bon Samaritain ce matin?”

  A very short and very wide bakery clerk beamed at him as she handed over the bag of freshly made sandwiches. She had a very pretty face that the severe hairnet she had to wear did nothing to enhance. Isaac took the bag from her with a quick bow.

  “Très bien, merci, Madame Yvonne. Vous changez des vies aujourd’hui! You’re changing lives today!” He placed the bag in his giant backpack, careful not to crush the contents. He already had several thermoses of sweetened tea in there, and the packing had to be careful. Isaac Blum made his way out the door of the Atwater winter market, nodding to a few clerks at the specialty shops lining the long corridor. Le Boulangerie de Babette was the only one of them who generously offered him food for the homeless every Monday and Thursday. Of course, the bread was at least a day old, and the charcuterie older than that, but Isaac took what he was offered. To the people on the streets that he served, the food sometimes made all the difference. Before he stepped outside, he pulled his thick woolen tuque lower over his ears, put on his enormous mittens, and zipped his jacket up so it covered his nose. The key to surviving winter in Montreal, especially on his rounds, was excellent winter wear. As he stepped onto what seemed to be the sidewalk, he took a moment to take in the day. The sky was so perfectly and cloudlessly blue that the massive blizzard that rampaged through two days earlier seemed like a hallucination. Of course, its aftermath was everywhere—the temperature plummeting to minus 25, the still unplowed sidewalk with the furrow down the center where people struggled to walk in each other’s single tracks, the glistening snowbanks, the roofs of the buildings almost sagging under the weight of the snow.

  Isaac headed towards the tunnel. So far, he was relieved to see none of the usual suspects—the storm must have driven them into whatever shelter they could find. It was unusually quiet for a Monday morning, as though the storm had given everyone a day’s reprieve from the quotidian. It was so quiet, the only sound apart from muted traffic was the squeaking of his boots as he walked on the snow, compacted by the frigid temperature. Isaac decided he would check the area around the tunnel, then make his way up Atwater to Cabot Square Park. Once he had distributed all the sandwiches and emptied the thermoses of tea, he would treat himself to a little McDonald’s breakfast sandwich at Alexis Nihon.

  Isaac had to put his hand over his eyes to protect them from the glare of the sun off the snow, so white it was almost blue. He scanned the area at the west end of the tunnel. Nothing. That was good news. When he turned to make his way back towards the market, something got caught in his peripheral vision. When he looked again, he spotted what looked like a garbage bag and peered at it again. Probably a dead dog or coyote; he knew they frequented this area at night. But as he drew closer, he felt a visceral dread. He began to run, his breath bursting out of his lungs in white puffs hovering in the frigid air. Isaac dropped to his knees. What he’d seen was not a pile of discarded clothes. Not a dog. Not garbage. It was a human being, so small he thought she was a child at first. Then he looked closer at her face, her eyelashes frozen shut, thick white frost lining her lips, eyebrows, and nostrils. Isaac gently broke away her scarf, so frozen it was rigid, from the tiny neck. He checked for a pulse, but he knew she was dead. Isaac put his mitten back on but remained on his knees. He covered his eyes, and began to recite the kaddish, the ancient Jewish prayer for the dead.

  Isaac took out his phone. He looked at the woman again. She lay peacefully on her side, one outstretched frozen arm under her head. One boot seemed to be missing. Why was she here of all places? Where had she come from? Isaac hesitated, then he took off his huge mittens and checked her coat pockets for identification. She had none on her that he could find, and no money. Maybe she carried something in her pants pockets, but he couldn’t bring himself to look there. At the bottom of her deep coat pocket were what looked like a few dog biscuits, a tiny carving of some kind of deer, a creased photograph of a very pretty woman—maybe in her forties—standing beside what looked like Beaver Lake. On the back of the photograph, a name was written, with a phone number. Isaac quickly took a snapshot of both sides of the photograph with his phone and returned the picture to her pocket. Experience had taught him that the police often don’t bother to investigate the deaths of the homeless, especially Indigenous ones. All people are definitely not equal in the eyes of the law. Justice was anything but blind when it came to people who weren’t white. He would at least have some information himself in case he needed to use it later. Isaac touched her forehead for just a moment and felt an empty sadness. He then took his phone out once more and took several close-up photos of her face from different angles. He stood by the woman’s side, closed his eyes, and lifted his chin towards the sun. It was a dazzlingly beautiful winter day. Then he picked up his heavy backpack and headed to where he knew was one of the last working payphones in the area to call 911.

  Nine

  Tuesday morning

  January 29, 2019

  “MAMAN, ON PEUT manger un croissant au chocolat? S’il vous plait? S’il vous plait?” She was walking with her daughter to the local bakery, Chez Amandine, known for the best patisserie this side of the Atlantic. She held her hand very tightly, as the traffic was heavier and faster than usual. They chatted away with each other, and she felt perfectly at peace with the world. She didn’t think it could get much better than this. They stopped at the red light and waited for the little white figure to tell them it was safe to cross. She felt her phone vibrate, and paused to check it, letting go of her daughter’s hand just for a moment. Julie ran towards the bakery across the street directly into the oncoming cars. Danielle screamed at her to stop, but there was a sickening screech of tires, and the excruciating sound of shattering glass. It was too late. Danielle screamed and screamed, but no sound came out of her. The driver jumped from her car, and people gathered to stare, but she was paralyzed, frozen to the sidewalk. She couldn’t look. She couldn’t look. Danielle Champagne woke up soaking in sweat. Her night dress was drenched, as were her freshly laundered sheets. She looked around her bedroom, now filled with delicate early morning sunlight, and reminded herself that h
er daughter, Julie, was seventeen years old and very much alive. It was just another terrible dream.

  Danielle took a few minutes to bring herself back to the real world, and peeling off her wet nightie, headed straight to the shower. She had a huge day ahead, and she would have to gather every bit of her energy to get through it. As the water poured over her body, she realized she was still very shaken by the collision with whatever animal was in that tunnel. She hadn’t really slept much all weekend. Danielle examined her face in the enormous bathroom mirror. Those bags under her eyes wouldn’t go away, no matter how much of that stupidly expensive cream she applied. Someone once suggested she try Preparation H hemorrhoid cream. It would be a lot cheaper. Although she inherited great legs from her mother, she also got her eye bags. Danielle applied even more cover-up and powder, and overall, thought in the right light she’d be okay.

  She selected a salmon-colored power suit for the insanely busy day ahead. It was a bold choice, and very feminine. She wanted them to know she wasn’t afraid to be a woman. That morning she had a critical meeting to discuss the expansion of her company into the northeastern United States, and then an interview for a local TV station. Then she was flying to Toronto for meetings in the afternoon and catching the red-eye home that night. It was the kind of day she lived for. Danielle headed straight for the espresso machine and started to prepare a triple. On the breakfast peninsula lay the remains of Julie’s breakfast—a half-eaten bowl of granola and yogurt, and an empty coffee cup. She’d already left for school but had written her mother a note—à bientôt, hasta luego, arrivederci, bis später, see you later, alligator!! xoxo. Julie wanted to study linguistics at university and already spoke four languages fluently. Danielle wanted her to study at the Sorbonne or Oxford and couldn’t quite believe that was even a possibility, but it was. Julie was a brilliant student, and at this point in her life, Danielle could afford it. She wanted to make everything possible for her daughter.