Tipsy from the celebration, I tottered to Margaret’s, along the gilded Alexandre III bridge, where I caught a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. “Hullo, you beautiful iron lady!” I cried out to her.
At the door, Isa greeted me. A maid at the door? How peculiar. Perhaps the butler was ill, too. “Madame isn’t here.”
“When will she be back?”
Isa tried to shut the door. “She’s not going anywhere in her condition.”
I pushed my way in. “In her condition? Is she… with child?”
“I wish,” Isa said tearfully.
“Is she ill? Is her husband here?”
“He’s taken the little miss and gone to England.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” The champagne had gone to my head, and I had trouble following what she was saying. “Hold on. You said she’s not going anywhere. Is she home?”
“Madame doesn’t want to see anyone.”
“But I’m her best friend.”
Isa hesitated. “She might be sleeping.”
“If she is, I’ll come right back.”
I teetered down the hall, touching the wall now and again for balance. Of all the crazy things, of course Margaret would want to see me. A pity she’d missed the party. What a terrible time to come down with something. Only Margaret could be so unlucky.
At the threshold of the dim room, I watched her sleep and knew I should let her rest, but I couldn’t contain my excitement and tiptoed closer. Tufts of hair clumped near her ear, and the rest was a few millimeters long. Her neck appeared to be bruised. I blinked. Clearly, I’d had too much to drink. Mais non, even after I rubbed my eyes, her hair was short and the bruises remained. Her wrist, wound with white gauze, rested on the coverlet. It appeared as though she’d had some kind of accident. No. She looked shorn, beaten and shorn like the young maman on the street. The thought sobered me.
Without opening her eyes, she asked, “Who was at the door, Isa?”
“Me.”
Margaret sat up.
“What happened?” I asked.
“As if you don’t know.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.
I stared at the gray bruises that pearled around Margaret’s throat. “When?”
“A week ago.”
I recalled Paul’s edginess, his insistence that we go away. Something had been off. How could I not have seen?
“Why did you tell him about Felix and me?” she asked.
“I didn’t…” I didn’t mean to.
“You’re the reason this happened!” She held a hand to her naked crown.
I began to tremble and grasped the headboard. “No.”
“Then why did he do it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Liar!” Margaret said. “And I thought diplomatic circles could be vicious. Tell me, friend, what exactly did you say?”
“Nothing, really…”
“Yes, Felix gave me things. But I shared, believing you would do the same for me. You knew exactly who the presents came from.”
“Yes, but I never would lower myself—”
“Lower yourself? You didn’t have to, because I did it for you. And for Rémy.”
“I didn’t ask you for anything!”
“You didn’t have to.”
“This isn’t my fault.”
“Then whose fault is it?” she asked.
Her bald stare unnerved me. I looked to the window, to the vanity, to the portrait of Christina.
“What’s so wrong about wanting someone?” Margaret continued. “Being wanted? You were the one who said that I was in a foreign country, that I could do as I pleased.”
“I meant learning to ride a bike, not taking up with a Nazi!”
Margaret reached up as if to touch her pearls, like she did when she was upset, but for once she wasn’t wearing them.
She needed to know I hadn’t meant to hurt her. “I didn’t do this.”
“Paul was the gun, but you pulled his trigger.”
“What about you? What you said about Bitsi pretending to mourn—”
“Was unforgivable,” Margaret said. “At least I can admit when I do wrong.”
“I only told one person.”
“How could you betray me?”
“I was envious.”
“Jealous of me, when you had the perfect job, a loving family, and a devoted man?”
I never considered what I had, only what I wanted. “Surely it’s not that bad. Your hair will grow out.”
“You think the worst thing he did was to my hair? Because of you, I’ve lost everything.” She held up her broken wrist. “See what they did to me? I can’t dress myself, I can’t write to my daughter. If you hated me so much, I wish you would have hired an assassin, because to my family, I might as well be dead. The staff had a choice to remain with me or go to England with Lawrence and Christina. No one but Isa would stay in the flat with a harlot like me.”
“I never meant for…”
Margaret threw back the coverlet and lifted the hem of her negligee, revealing the welts that peppered her legs. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could take back my words, wishing I could undo the harm.
“Coward! If I can bare the scars, you can bear to look.”
She bristled with anger. Her spirit had been bruised but not broken.
“Lawrence photographed me, you know. If I dare make a fuss, he’ll use the pictures in court to prove I’m an unfit mother. Only sluts get their heads shaved, right? How am I ever going to get my little girl back?”
“I could telephone Lawrence, explain…”
“Telephone Lawrence, explain,” Margaret scoffed. “You should go.”
“I could stay and help. Make your meals, write to your family.”
“I don’t want any more of your ‘help.’ Please leave.”
I moved toward the door.
“Wait!” she said.
I turned. I’d do anything for another chance. Surely, she’d forgive me. We’d been through so much together.
“There’s a blue box on the shelf in the dressing room. Bring it to me.”
I tried to give her the package, but she said, “For you. I asked Felix to find it. When you wear it, I hope you’ll remember what you did, and realize what it means to be a true friend.”
Inside was a red belt. The leather was buttery smooth, long and slim as a whip.
“How can I make it up to you? Please give me a chance.”
Margaret turned her face to the wall. “Go. I never want to see you again.”
CHAPTER 44
Lily
FROID, MONTANA, DECEMBER 1987
DAD’S WIFE TOOK away Forever!” I told Odile as I slammed into her kitchen. “She said Judy Blume writes ‘smut.’ Censorship is wrong!”
“So is throwing a fit instead of sitting down to have a conversation.” Odile finished drying the last of her dishes. “You should ask Ellie what she fears.”
“Huh?”
“Reading is dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
“Ellie’s scared the book will put ideas in your head, scared you’ll want to experiment with sex.”
“I read Out of Africa and didn’t establish a coffee plantation in Kenya!”
Odile smiled a little smile that meant she thought I said something silly. “Not many people do. Sex is a natural part of life. But it’s a big step, and Ellie is worried.”
“I’ve never been on a date,” I said. “At this rate, I never will. Ellie’s trying to ruin my life.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“All she cares about are Dad and the boys.”
“Aren’t you tired of that refrain? Ellie does her best. Try to put yourself in her skin.”
“Yuck!”
“In her shoes. Have you ever considered how Ellie feels? In all these years, she and your father have never bought a new couch or lamp. She cooks in your Mom’s pans, she eats off her plates. How strange must that feel? Are you certain that you’re t
he outsider?”
She had a point.
“Love isn’t rationed. Ellie can care about all of you. You should talk to her.”
“What if—”
“Take the first step.”
On my way home, I watched the boys run around the backyard. Joe waved a leaky water pistol at Benjy, who wore his baby blanket like a cape. They scampered toward me, and each one grabbed a leg.
“Mine,” Benjy said.
“No,” Joe argued, “she’s mine.”
“You’re both mine.” I hugged them.
Inside, I ran my hand over Mom’s dining room table, the curtains she’d sewn, the pastel paintings of birds she’d chosen. Nothing here belonged to Ellie, the unpaid curator of the Brenda museum.
In the master bedroom, in my mother’s rocking chair, Ellie darned my father’s socks. “Finished with your hissy fit?” she asked.
“Sorry I ran off,” I said, the fight gone out of me. “It wasn’t very mature.”
“Hon, I just want the best for you.”
“I know.” I went to her, and she hugged me.
* * *
TO CELEBRATE MY driver’s license, Odile invited Ellie and me to the Husky House for a sundae. In the orange booth, Odile set a gift on the table. “Ordered from Chicago.” Gently I removed the velvet ribbon and opened the box. Inside was a beret, gray and downy like a dove.
“J’adore!” I lunged across the table to kiss her on either cheek. “I’ll never take it off!”
She straightened the beret over my brows.
“You look French,” Ellie said, the best possible compliment she could have paid me.
At home in my room, beret on my head, I took out the Josephine Baker record Odile had lent me and ran my fingers along Josephine’s face, jealous of her easy grin, her dewy skin, her confidence. I kicked off my shoes and yanked off my shirt and pants. In my white bra and panties, I stared at my scrawny reflection, wondering what it would be like to be a sex symbol in silk stockings. I grabbed a black marker and drew circles around my thighs, where I imagined the tops would reach. It wasn’t enough. I wanted to draw myself a whole new life.
* * *
THAT SUMMER BEFORE our senior year, Mary Louise and I worked at the O’Haire motel. We vacuumed and made beds, cleaned toilets and scrubbed tubs. It paid better than babysitting, and Mrs. Vandersloot gave us a Coke during our break.
The first week of August, the motel was full of custom cutters. The men worked from sunup to sundown and were old and grizzled for the most part, though we always hoped some would be young and good-looking. From Texas to the panhandle of Oklahoma, through South Dakota to us in Montana, they helped harvest America. The men weren’t tied to a town, not like we were. They were free, and we envied them.
Their compliments made us blush. They looked at us like we were women. Last night, under a watchful crescent moon, Mary Louise snuck out to be with one. They guzzled booze and made out in the bed of his truck. She said Johnny knew what he was doing, more than her boyfriend, Keith, did.
The cutters were moving on today, taking their machinery and the promise of adventure with them. Hauling the vacuum down the hall, I ran smack-dab into one. He grabbed the Hoover with one hand and steadied me with the other. I could smell the wheat on his worn cotton shirt. I straightened my beret and peered up at his face. Lord, he was handsome. Tanned from his time in the sun. Twenty-one or twenty-two years old. Eyes that had seen entire states, long stretches of road, and green lights, plenty of green lights. A man.
“What’s a pretty girl like you luggin’ this old thing around for? You work here?”
“Yes.”
“Where should I put it?”
“Room four.”
“No need to whisper, darlin’. We ain’t in church.”
I unlocked the door. He set the vacuum in front of the TV. The sheets were in a heap on the floor. Mary Louise would have whistled and said, “People had fun in here last night!” But I wasn’t Mary Louise.
“I like your little hat.” He walked over, until we were an inch apart. I knew he could feel my heart pound. “You’re as pretty as a doe.”
My eyes closed with the shock of his lips on mine. Nothing had ever felt so good.
“Come on, Mike,” a cutter hollered from the lobby.
We moved apart. I held my breath. His calloused hand caressed my cheek. “You okay?” he asked.
I nodded. He’d forget me the minute he hit the highway, but I would remember our kiss forever. The rest of the morning, my fingers moved to my mouth.
After work, Mary Louise and I stopped by my house to fill Mom’s hummingbird feeder. We continued on, past the Girl Scouts in the park. Right outside town limits, she and I lay on the prairie, its grass stiff like hay. A few feet away, a gopher poked his head out of a hole. It was hot and dry, it was always hot and dry. In the distance, we heard a combine grumbling over the field. I clasped my hands behind my head. Mary Louise sucked on a piece of grass. Clouds rolled past, never staying long. The rest of the world watched MTV while we lived reruns of Little House on the Prairie. School was a week away. I thought we would die from the peace and quiet.
“Promise we’ll get out of here,” she said.
* * *
ON MY LAST first day of school, I wore a skirt that matched my beret, and everyone gawked—in Froid, people who didn’t wear jeans were mutants. Mary Louise and I didn’t have any of the same classes. Every time I caught a glimpse of her, she was down the hall with Keith. I waded through confused freshmen but never reached her. Robby and I had the same schedule. He was an aisle away, just like in church, just like always. Somewhere deep down, I knew he liked me. But I didn’t trust deep down.
After school, chez Odile, I drank café au lait and contemplated her wedding photo. Would a man ever look at me the way Buck had looked at her? The way Keith ogled Mary Louise?
“I barely see Mary Louise anymore,” I said, hurt she’d dropped me as easily as AP Math.
“The thing about friendship is that you won’t always be at the same place at the same time,” Odile said. “Remember when you had your hands full with Ellie and the boys? It’s Mary Louise’s turn to be busy. First love is like that. It takes all your time.”
“You make love sound like a leech.”
She laughed. “Well, it is.”
“No it’s not!” I said hotly.
“She’ll be back. Give her time.”
I thought of the way Mary Louise flushed when Keith slung his arm around her. When I drew near, he tugged at her waist and said, “Let’s go.” She followed because they wanted to be alone together. Mary Louise got everything first. First kiss. First base. First love.
“It’s normal to be jealous,” Odile said.
“I’m not!”
“It’s normal,” she repeated. “Only…”
“Only what?”
“Try to remember your day will come,” she finished lamely.
Yeah, right.
At home, Ellie made my favorite dinner, steak and french fries served with a green salad. Everyone else had their salads first, but I ate mine last, followed by a piece of cheese like a Parisienne.
“Do you have to wear that hat all the time?” Dad asked.
“It’s a beret. C’est chic.”
“You haven’t taken it off in months. Is it chic to stink?”
I ignored him. “Le steak est délicieux!”
“Can’t you get her to speak English?” Dad asked Ellie.
She smiled. I think she liked it when I spoke French.
“Have you considered what I said about applying to college?” Dad asked.
“I told you, I’m going to be a writer.”
“Writing isn’t a profession,” he said.
“Tell that to Danielle Steel,” Ellie said. “She’s richer than Jonas Ivers!”
“You’ll study accounting,” Dad said. “You need a backup plan.”
“A backup plan? You think I’ll fail? Anyway, it’s none of your
business what I study.”
He poked his fork in my direction. “It is if I pay the tab.”
“With you, everything comes down to money.”
“One of the jobs of a banker,” he said, “is making sure that everyone has a plan.”
I had no idea how we’d gone from a nice dinner to a fight about college.
“I think,” Ellie said, “your father’s trying to say that he’s seen people lose their homes, entrepreneurs lose their businesses, and he doesn’t want you to suffer the way they have.”
After dinner, I went to Odile’s. “When you were my age, did you know what you wanted to be?”
“I loved books, so I became a librarian. You need to find your passion.”
“Dad said I should learn a trade.”
“He’s not wrong. You need to feel alive, but you also have to pay the rent. It’s important for a woman to have her own money. I worked as the church secretary, and appreciated the income. You want to have choices.”
“I just wish he wouldn’t lecture me.”
“Dear Professor Cohen always said, ‘Try to accept people for who they are, not who you want them to be.’ ”
“What did she mean?”
“She was talking about my father. She said he had my best interest at heart, but I wouldn’t believe her. You and your dad are different, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love and worry about you.”
* * *
THE DAY OF the winter formal, I told myself it didn’t matter that no one invited me to the dance. Boys in Froid didn’t have any brains. I’d find my soulmate in New York; I had already applied to Columbia. With five million men, one of them was bound to like me. Simone de Beauvoir didn’t find Sartre until she was twenty-one.
In the cafeteria, Mary Louise sidled up to me and invited me over after dinner to see her gown. For months, she’d forgotten I existed. Now she wanted to show off.
“Can’t,” I lied. “Too much homework.”
“Please!”
The Paris Library Page 31
