Monday Mourning

With darkness, a hard wind had kicked up. Now and then the car rocked, as though toed at one end by a giant sneaker. A winter city crept by my windshield. Lamp-lit windows in the high hills of Westmount. The blackened rail yards. Suburban bungalows electric with discount store Christmas schlock."

"Past Ville St-Pierre, congestion eased, and I gunned it back up to a blistering thirty. My fingers drummed the wheel. The dashboard clock said five-thirty. Anne’s flight had probably landed.

A full hour after leaving the lab, I entered the terminal at Dorval Airport.

I did the windmill thing with my arms. Catching sight of me, Anne grasped the pull-handle of a boxcar-sized suitcase and wheeled it in my direction. A laptop hung from one shoulder, an enormous leather purse from the other.

Sudden flashback. My sister, Harry, surrounded by enough Louis Vuitton for a world tour. She’d come for a week. She’d stayed a month.

Oh boy.

Anne is very tall and very blonde. More eyes than mine followed as she muscled her Pullman through the crowd of greeters. Reaching me, she bent and threw both arms around my neck. The laptop slid forward and gouged my ribs.

“Traffic was a nightmare,” I said, relieving Anne of her shoulder gear.

“You’re a darlin’ to come for me.”

“I’m thrilled you’re here.”

“The pilot claimed it was eighteen below. Can that be true?” Anne’s drawl sounded as out of place in the quebecois hubbub as the Rawhide theme at a PETA benefit.

“That’s Celsius.” I didn’t point out that the reading was only a hair above zero in her worldview.

“I hope there’s a blizzard. Snow would be a kick.”

“Did you bring warm clothing?”

Anne spread both arms in a check-it-out gesture.

My friend wore a cable-knit sweater, suede jacket, green cords, and pink angora muffler with matching hat. I was certain her purse contained fuzzy pink mittens to complete the accessorizing. I knew her thinking.

Though Anne was born in Alabama and schooled in Mississippi, she had traveled North, and, like many Southerners, gained a theoretical understanding of the concept of cold. But the mind is an overprotective parent. What it doesn’t care for, it hides. Like many inhabiting the subtropics, Anne had repressed the reality of subzero mercury.

This was Quebec. Anne was dressed for autumn cool in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Exiting the terminal, I heard Ms.