Part of me wanted to be a good friend. A bigger part wanted Keith to dump her, so she’d be as miserable as me.
After dinner, I slumped in Odile’s chair.
“Mary Louise abandoned me. Again.”
“Didn’t she invite you over to see her dress?”
I stared at the books on our 1955.34 shelf. Bridge to Terabithia, Roots, My Antonia. “I don’t want to go.”
“What if I come, too?” Odile asked.
I perked up. “It might help.”
The whole way to Mary Louise’s, she watched me. Like a hawk, Mom would have said. The minute we walked through the door, Mary Louise twirled for us. In the pastel gown, her neck and shoulders exposed, she appeared more delicate than ever.
Her body had changed almost overnight. Her breasts rose as bold as the Rockies, while mine stayed flat as the plains. Her hips curved like a bell, but my body, straight as a pencil, hadn’t budged.
“What do you think?” She tugged at the bodice.
“Stunning,” Odile said.
Crossing my arms over my stunted chest, I thought for a minute, until I found the compliment that would mean the most: “Prettier than Angel.”
“No!” Mary Louise peered at the mirror beside the coatrack. “Really?”
I nodded, not able to get any more words out. Jealousy welled like tears, and in that moment, the most beautiful she’d ever been, I could barely stand to look at her.
Keith arrived. He hovered near the door, and Sue Bob nudged him toward Mary Louise. The way he gazed at her made me feel hopeless. A sour bile rose in my throat; I swallowed again and again. Not sure I could last much longer, I inched toward the door. Mary Louise bounced over, and Sue Bob snapped a photo of the two of us. “Why should you be miserable and alone?” the bile said. “A real friend wouldn’t have guilted you into coming over. She’s gloating, can’t you see that? Tell the pimply jockstrap what she said—that the custom cutter she made out with kissed better, did everything better.”
With Mary Louise’s arm wrapped around my waist, I said, “Keith…”
Odile frowned.
“You should know—” I continued.
“Don’t,” Odile whispered. “It only takes a word. I can see the crows circling in your head.”
CHAPTER 45
Odile
PARIS, SEPTEMBER 1944
HOW COULD YOU betray me? Margaret’s question echoed in my head as I drifted down the sidewalk, toward the river, toward home. Though the magnificent Alexandre III bridge loomed before me, I only saw Margaret’s stubbled scalp. I wanted to hide in my room, or confess to Maman and Eugénie. But both would be horrified by the way I’d put my dearest friend in harm’s way. In Paul’s way. No, I was too ashamed to face Maman. I couldn’t go home. And I couldn’t go to the Library, where everyone loved Margaret. She had made it clear that she never wanted to see me again. This meant she wouldn’t return to the Library if I still worked there, and she’d lose her friends and her calling.
Not long ago, I’d cast suspicious glances at subscribers and wondered what kind of person would write a crow letter. Now I knew: someone like me. Monsieur l’Inspecteur, Margaret Saint James—a British subject—dared to fall in love with a German soldier. I’d even delivered my complaint to a policeman.
I started across the Seine, belt buckle in hand, the leather swaying like a switch. Leaning over the railing, I watched the water. I was a brute, every bit as much as Paul. I tugged at my wedding ring and hurled it into the river. There. He was no longer my husband. We’d divorce, and never speak again. Divorce. A divorcée was lower than a fallen woman. “What will the neighbors think?” Maman would ask. My mother wouldn’t care why I was divorcing. She would cast me out, just like Aunt Caro.
An hour earlier, I’d celebrated my future. Now there was only darkness. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I ambled up the Champs-Élysées, past couples dining at an outdoor café, around a line of cinemagoers, and continued on, not knowing where I was going until I arrived at the American Hospital. As I passed by the ambulance in the drive, a nurse said, “Glad you’re back. We could use the help.”
Margaret didn’t want anything to do with me, but I could care for the wounded here. I’d stay at the hospital—staff and volunteers slept on cots—like I had at the beginning of the war. I wouldn’t have to face my family and friends, and Paul would never find me. Relieved, I slumped onto the cement stoop of the back entrance.
Margaret had been right. I’d never admitted how angry it made me when she insulted soldiers like Rémy or when she insinuated that Bitsi’s mourning was a charade. I’d never admitted I’d been jealous of her glamorous life. I’d bottled up my resentment, and like a magnum of champagne that someone had shaken, sticky emotions came bursting out. In the moment, I’d wanted to punish her, and a moment was enough to ruin a life—Margaret’s and her daughter’s.
An American soldier on crutches hobbled over. “Hello, little gal.”
I sniffled, and he tendered a handkerchief.
“What’s wrong?”
I bit my lip, afraid to open my mouth, afraid the whole story would rush out.
He sat beside me. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve done something terrible.”
“Well, that’s something that most people can understand.”
His gaze was so intense that I had to deflect his attention. “Which state are you from?”
“Montana.”
“What’s it like?”
“Heaven.”
Subscribers from Kentucky had said the same thing, so had soldiers from Kent and Saskatchewan. “You’ll have to convince me.”
“Montana’s the prettiest place on earth, and that’s saying something, sitting where we are, in gay Paree. I wanted to get away from my hick town, but if I’m lucky enough to go back, I swear I’ll never leave. The people there are decent. Honest. I used to think that was boring.”
“Boring might be nice for a change.”
“How come you speak English so good?”
“I learned at the American Library when I was a child.”
“There’s an American Hospital and an American Library?”
“Don’t forget the American Radiator Company and the American Church! M. de Nerciat, one of our subscribers, used to joke that Americans had colonized Paris without telling anyone.”
He laughed. “What subscribers?”
“I’m a librarian. Well, I used to be.”
“I’d love to see your library. Maybe you could take me.”
I frowned.
“You’re right.” He rubbed his thigh. “With this bum leg, I should stay put. But I’d like to spend more time with you.”
The following afternoon, we picnicked on the stoop. He traded his cigarette rations for ham and a baguette. He told me that fields in Montana resembled a patchwork quilt. He told me there wasn’t a cloud in the big sky. He told me I needed to taste his mother’s beef stew. Two days later, he asked me to marry him.
I wanted to go away without seeing anyone I knew ever again. To start over and become someone else, someone better. I’d miss my parents, but they were better off without me. I’d miss my colleagues and my habitués, but in my absence, Margaret could remain. I loved the Library, but Margaret meant even more to me, and I would prove it to her.
“Little gal?” Buck gazed at me with such understanding, I felt I could tell him everything. Yet somehow, I sensed he already knew.
“Of course I’ll marry you.”
He pulled me close. I felt the warmth of his chest, the soft cotton of his shirt. I felt safe.
The day I’d come back from Brittany, I’d taken my suitcase to the Library. At dawn, when no one but the caretaker was about, I retrieved it along with the last batch of crow letters I had stolen. At Bitsi’s desk, which was covered with children’s drawings; sticky pens; and her favorite teacup, which no one else wanted because it was chipped, I wrote Dearest Bitsi, Please take tender care of Margaret. Tell Mama
n and Papa I’m fine, tell them I’m sorry. Look after the Professor’s manuscript. I love you like a sister, like a twin. Yours, Odile. I meandered through the Library to say goodbye. First to the periodical room, where it all began. To the reference room, where I’d learned as much as subscribers. To the Afterlife, where I ran my hand along the spines of the books to let them know they wouldn’t be forgotten. And I left the Library for the last time.
CHAPTER 46
Lily
FROID, MONTANA, FEBRUARY 1988
ON THE WAY home from Mary Louise’s, Odile asked what I’d almost said to Keith.
“Nothing.”
“Lily,” she chided.
“She cheated on him with a custom cutter.”
“That’s none of your business. Why would you tell?”
“I don’t know!”
“Well, think about it.”
“I wanted her to myself again.”
“Is it possible that you’re angry with her?” Odile asked.
“Maybe.”
“What’s her real crime?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Tough!”
I knew she wouldn’t let it go. “I don’t have a boyfriend, but she’s had two. These last months, she completely forgot me.”
“I understand,” Odile said.
It felt so good to hear those words. The sour bile dissipated.
“If Mary Louise has done something to hurt you, tell her,” she continued. “Don’t bottle it up, and don’t think her being unhappy will make you feel better. Mary Louise has a big heart—there’s room for you and Keith.”
As we walked up onto Odile’s driveway, she said, “You’ll have boyfriends, too.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Believe me.” Under the stars, I could see her solemn expression. “Love will come and go and come again. But if you’re lucky to have a true friend, treasure her. Don’t let her go.”
She was right, I needed to treasure Mary Louise. But if I was ever to confess to Mary Louise what I’d almost done, I was sure she’d never talk to me again.
Odile unlocked the front door and we sank onto her couch.
“I want to run away.”
“Don’t run,” Odile said.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“I’ll tell you why. Because I ran away.”
“What?”
“Like you, I felt ashamed. I ran away from my parents. My job. And my husband.”
“You left Buck?”
“No, my first husband. My French husband.”
I was confused.
“You’re not the only one who was jealous of your dearest friend,” Odile admitted.
“You?”
“I betrayed her.” She touched her tarnished belt buckle. “Margaret said she never wanted to see me again. She and I shared the same social circle, and we both adored the Library. But for her, it was a labor of love—she’d volunteered selflessly, giving without getting a centime in return.”
“How could you leave?”
“If I’d stayed, she would have lost everything, most especially the place she called home. I loved the Library, but I loved Margaret more. Too ashamed to tell friends and family the truth, too afraid of the consequences, I married Buck and left France without saying farewell. I’ve never seen my brother’s grave and hope my parents were able to claim his body.” She took a deep breath. “I ran. And until you, I’ve never told anyone.”
I threw my arms around her, but she didn’t hug me back.
“I can never forgive myself,” she whispered.
“For what you did to Margaret?”
“For abandoning her.”
“She told you to go.”
“Sometimes that’s when you should stay.”
Stunned by what she’d said, I surveyed the ferns near the window, the tidy stack of records, the shelf of our favorite books. After the tornado of revelations, I almost expected to find that these things had crashed to the floor.
“But… you always know the right thing to say.”
“Because I’ve said so many wrong things.”
“Are you really a bigamist?”
“Buck’s dead. So not any longer.”
We chuckled, though it wasn’t funny. But it kind of was.
“What did you do? Was it so bad?”
When Odile finished telling the tale of Margaret and her lover, and how Paul and his cronies had attacked her, the missing pieces snapped into place and I could see the whole picture.
“Even if what you say is true—”
“It’s true,” she said sharply. “They shattered her wrist.”
“It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t break any bones.”
“I might as well have. I told.”
“Each person is responsible for their actions.”
“Generally, I’d agree,” she said, “but not in this case. The stakes were too high. I put Margaret in danger. I never breathed a word of this to anyone, not even Buck.” She looked me straight in the eye. “But I’m telling you because I don’t want you to make the same mistake. Control your jealousy, or it will control you.”
I wished I could convince Odile of what I felt to be true, that she would never hurt anyone.
“Do you ever wonder what happened to Margaret? Do you think she went to England for her daughter? Did you ever try to contact her, to see if she’s okay?”
Odile opened a drawer and took out a newspaper clipping from June 1980 of the Herald, and I scanned the profile of Margaret Saint James:
We’d lost lovers, family, friends, our livelihoods. Many of us were picking up the pieces of our lives, though some pieces were lost forever. We had to re-create ourselves.
I had an acquaintance who dealt with this loss by destroying things. The crashing of plates hitting the floor was her solace. Perhaps she wanted to break things before they broke her, but the destruction bothered me. Those were lean years in Paris; rationing continued well after the war. We were hungry and tired.
I asked her maid to give me the shards, thinking that I could mend them, but they were beyond repair. I put fragments together to brighten my daughter’s worn clothing. Library subscribers admired the brooches. I started selling them, and Parisiennes wore my work. What is fashionable in Paris is soon worn the world over.
I was thrilled to glimpse Margaret, alive and well, and a real artiste. “Are you sure she lost custody of her daughter?”
“She was certain she would…”
“According to the article, her daughter lived with her.”
Odile studied the news clipping. “I never interpreted it like that.”
“Maybe things didn’t end so badly for Margaret. There’s the address of her boutique in Paris.” I pointed to the page. “You should write.”
“She might not want me to.”
“You should try.”
“I want to respect her feelings.”
“You’re afraid she won’t write back.”
“That, too.”
“Write to her!” Maybe this was how I was like my mother, a guerrilla optimist. I felt there could be a happy ending for Odile and Margaret, I felt it with my whole heart. Love will come and go and come again. Treasure a true friend. Don’t let her go.
“I’ll think about it.”
We’d gone down a dark road, fraught with ugly feelings, but she’d seen me at my worst, and still loved me. I kissed her on both cheeks and said good night. Once again, Odile had saved me.
CHAPTER 47
Odile
FROID, MONTANA, 1983
I SPENT ANOTHER BIRTHDAY alone, with track and field on the television, because Buck and Marc had liked sports. I remembered how we three had watched together on the couch, how Buck had hit the mute button (“Damn announcers never say anything good, anyway.”), so I could listen to Bach on the stereo.
Perhaps I lived too much in the past. It was easy, when many memories were sweet. I savored my wedding night with Buck, somewha
t surprised to have found pleasure again. “Love is like the sea. It’s a moving thing, but still and all, it takes shape from the shore it meets, and it’s different with every shore.” 813, Their Eyes Were Watching God.
Of course, there were trying times. Meeting Buck’s parents, at their home, on what felt like their terms. “Ma, Pop, this is the surprise I was telling you about. Here’s my little gal, Odile,” Buck had said proudly, and pulled me to his side.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, enunciating clearly like the Countess.
“A deal?” his father said.
“Ordeal,” his mother corrected.
“Oh-deal and I got hitched in France,” Buck said.
His father regarded me warily. His mother’s vague smile became a bitter pucker. “How can you be married if we weren’t there?” she asked.
“What about Jenny?” Mr. Gustafson said.
“She’s like a daughter to us,” Mrs. Gustafson said. “While you were… away, we spent the holidays together.”
Away? Buck wasn’t taking the waters in Europe; he was in combat.
“Everyone assumed you and Jenny had an understanding,” she continued.
I looked to Buck. “She was my high-school sweetheart,” he explained. “I never asked her to wait. I’m not a kid anymore. The war… She’ll never understand like you do. Of everybody, you’re the only one who knows.”
It was true, Buck and I had the war—his mother couldn’t even bring herself to say the word. But time moved forward, and he and I had so much more—a home and a son and happiness.
My in-laws never warmed to me, but Father Maloney was kind. He hired me as the church secretary, and I enjoyed writing the newsletter and assembling a small library in the vestibule. It took time for the villagers to forgive me for “stealing” Buck from his high-school girlfriend, but the tarter the townspeople, the sweeter he was. When I showed Buck a photo of the ALP courtyard, he planted a border of petunias like the Library’s. Through an army buddy back East, he found books in French, and my shelves were covered with Professor Cohen’s novels, set in Egypt after the war. Though the manuscript she’d entrusted to me had never been published, I liked to think that it was safe in the Library. Buck never complained about the expense of my subscription to the Paris edition of the Herald, never pointed out that the news came a week late. “Some women want jewels, you need paper,” he said. “I knew that when I married you.”
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