Forgetfulness by Ward Just Page A

village. Florette and Dr. Picot had been childhood friends and she was good enough to supervise the autopsy herself, and that morning at the service she offered to—explain anything he wanted explained.
    I can't tell you much that you don't already know or suspect, Dr. Picot said.
    Thomas was standing next to his car, the urn containing Florette's ashes in his arms. The burial was private.
    She said, Florette was in good health, strong as an ox despite her filthy cigarette habit. Her ankle fracture was very serious and naturally there was hypothermia due to the cold. The cut at her throat was not deep and there was very little bleeding because her body was so cold. Her blood was beginning to congeal. Strong as she was, all this was too much for her. When she was cut her heart stopped. I am certain she was unconscious so at the end the cold would not have mattered to her. I'm bound to say that one hour would have made the difference but I'm sure you and your friends did the best you could under the circumstances. She had a bad time of it, I'm afraid. It's a blessing that at the end she was surely unconscious. The cold, her injuries. She had tremendous faith, as you know, and her faith would have helped her through her ordeal. Still, the experience would have been very lonely for her and frightening. Is it true there were four men? Whoever they were, they deserve to rot in hell.
    I'm sure they will.
    Poor Florette. It's not the first time something of this sort has happened, men from outside the region, poaching, smuggling, running guns or drugs or just running away.
    These mountains—the doctor began but did not finish her thought. Instead, she shrugged and walked away.
    He wondered what Dr. Picot wanted to tell him about the mountains. Probably she had an urge to explain the local superstitions but thought better of it. So he was left with Florette's urn in his arms, imagining her blood going cold as her heart failed. The other details he put at the back of his mind.
    Thomas watched the doctor make her way to her car, head down, moving slowly. When she turned suddenly to look up at the bedroom window, he gave a little wave of his hand and knocked wood. She blew a kiss and continued on her way. The doctor was not an agreeable woman but she was a good friend to Florette; and he did not believe that one hour would have made any difference. He watched Dr. Picot's car move off, the sunlight so bright it hurt his eyes. He did not know what he would do for the remainder of the afternoon. He had thirty people in his house. They were good to
come but he didn't want them there. Thomas moved the silver elephant so that it stood beside the photograph of him and Florette having their picnic in the mountains. The time was spring. She had bought cold chicken and a block of pâté and a bottle of the local rosé. She told risqué stories of village life when she was a girl, hilarious stories with the flavor of Rabelais. They were nothing like the stories of LaBarre when he was a boy. Thomas stared at the photograph and tried to remember the exact spot on the mountain where they had had their picnic but he could not; it was so long ago and all mountains looked the same when you were on them.
    Thomas pressed the heels of his hands on the dresser top and leaned until his forehead touched the windowpane, warm from the autumn sun. The noise downstairs continued. He did not want to face them but knew that he must for Florette's sake. He took a sip of wine from the glass on the dresser. He had forgotten it was there but almost at once he felt better, moving into some variety of equilibrium. The person he wanted with him was St. John Granger, dead now nearly one week. Granger knew how to get rid of people. He had been successfully getting rid of people for decades. Granger, master of the silent stare, connoisseur of the oblique and puzzling remark; and all the time he was laughing inside, as he said, "where it counted." Also, he knew