Liberating Paris

by Linda Bloodworth Thomason

  CHAPTER 15

  Monday morning. Milan was lying in her bed, partially covered by her Yves Delorme duvet. There was a cool washrag across her brow and a chocolate diet drink on the nightstand that was half-gone, the half that was her breakfast. The Sevres porcelain ashtray was full of cigarettes, which had only been puffed on once or twice.

  Nothing had been said about the weekend. Wood had gone to work. Charlie was at school and Elizabeth was getting ready to go back to college. Normally, Milan would be in her daughter’s room, bringing her toast with blackberry jelly on it, sticking a new lip gloss in her overnight, helping her pack. But the headache that started days ago was still with her. The headache that waxed and waned and throbbed and once or twice caused her to vomit—the one that refused to go away, even though the source of it left, mercifully, yesterday.

  Duff and her son had planned to leave on the Saturday after Thanksgiving. But because things were going so splendidly, and because Duff had not been home in so long, everyone agreed that it would be insane to stick with her original plan. So they had played charades and Scrabble and gone sledding and to see another movie that even Brundidge liked. And Mavis had everyone over for chili. And even though it had started snowing again, Duff had wanted to go for a trail ride. (Milan stayed home. She knew too much about Duff and Wood and horses.) And so Elizabeth and Wood and Luke and Duff had set out on their puzzled steeds, across the frozen ground, heading for the woods that flanked the north side of Fast Deer Farm. Milan had watched it all through the sheer drape of the upstairs bedroom window. This was where she loved to sit and look out on the world below her—a place of solitude and seeming omnipotence, whose existence she could not have even fathomed in her childhood. Brundidge had once joked that she stayed in that upstairs window so much, she looked like some half-witted girl on Bonanza. Anyway, it was here that Milan had watched Elizabeth and her dad and Duff and her son ride away together looking like a new family, with the snow falling on their backs. And in some way, it made her feel that she had already died—that she wasn’t there at all anymore but was merely an unseen ghost observing events that she was powerless to change.

  Elizabeth came in to say good-bye. Milan, with the washrag still covering her eyes, reached out toward her daughter, who crossed to the bed and lay down in her mother’s arms. Milan removed the cloth as they embraced each other. And then, holding on to Elizabeth, she said, “I hate for you to go, Lils.”

  “Me, too. Tickle my back.” Elizabeth pulled up her sweater as spontaneously as a little kid would. As Milan obliged, Elizabeth added, “Luke doesn’t tickle backs.”

  “Well, then, you can’t marry him. You couldn’t possibly live with a boy who’s not willing to do that.”

  “Shoulders.” Elizabeth guided her mother’s hand. “You can see how kind he is, can’t you?”

  “Yes. He has a good heart.”

  “Right. But he doesn’t show it off. He reminds me of Daddy.”

  For a brief moment, Elizabeth noticed her mother’s sadness.

  “She was okay, wasn’t she? I mean, she was nice.”

  “She was fine.”

  “Then what?”

  “Nothing. Just a little mad at you for growing up so fast.”

  Elizabeth threw her arms around her mother, rolling her around on the bed. Milan laughed, in spite of herself.

  “Mimi, I will never leave you. You and me are forever!”

  “You’re my girl. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I need a Krackel.” She opened the drawer of her mother’s nightstand and unwrapped a square of chocolate and ate it.

  For much of their lives, the two of them had nearly subsisted on raw cookie dough and anything else that had sugar in it. It was probably the only flaw that could be found in Milan’s parenting. Even when Elizabeth was small and they took long, luxurious bubble baths together, the tub would be lined with the discarded wrappers from their feast of Payday candy bars, Hershey Kisses, and chocolate cupcakes made by Little Debbie—all the things Milan had once coveted (and sometimes been given for free) at Jeter’s Market. Little by little, Elizabeth had also acquired the appetite that was born of her mother’s impoverished childhood.

  Now she peppered Milan with silly, overwrought kisses. “I love you, Mims. Love you. Love you. Love you.” Elizabeth and Milan had been this way with each other from almost the moment Elizabeth was born. They were hopelessly smitten, eerily bonded—they even had their own language, like twins—lying around in each other’s arms, cuddling, acting silly, calling one another by their pet names, most especially Mimi or Mims and Lils, the reason behind them nobody could remember anymore, or even if there had been one. Wood used to shake his head and say there was something wrong with them and that they were crazy. Even during Elizabeth’s high school years, she and Milan rarely fought—which puzzled the other mothers, who regularly complained that there was nothing more deadly than a coiled teenage girl.

  Though they reveled in their mutual affection and girliness—picking out bedroom fabrics, and clothes and jewelry, leaving each other notes and funny little cards—they were not confidantes. Milan didn’t believe in that sort of thing between parents and children. She wouldn’t dream of laying her problems at the feet of Elizabeth or Charlie, wouldn’t hear of troubling one second of their childhood. She was a mother in every sense of the word, with rules and limits and close supervision, all the things lacking in the Lanier household (household?—what a funny name for that place). She was the Brownie leader, the room mother, the field-trip chaperone (the one who looked so different from the other mothers that Elizabeth once asked Milan if she was a movie star), and even though she sometimes got carried away with these things, making a fuss, showing up with ten dozen gingerbread men when a few boxes of cookies would have done—even though she could drive Elizabeth crazy—in the end, the daughter seemed to have been born knowing the intent of her mother’s heart. And for an easygoing, forgiving girl like Elizabeth, that intent trumped any of Milan’s annoying traits. Plus, a serious inventory of the Lanier siblings could only leave one with awe and respect for the kind of person Milan, by sheer will, had turned herself into.

  Unlike some abused children, who ended up abusing their own kids, Milan tended to the physical and emotional needs of her offspring like an ever-vigilant lioness. In spite of the fact that she had Mrs. Denby, her sixty-year-old, white-haired housekeeper, Milan always insisted on working right alongside her, which included ironing all of Elizabeth and Charlie’s sheets and bedclothes herself. Nothing pleased her more than making things look starched and fresh. And when her boy and girl were little, she had spent hours putting them to bed, reading them stories, bringing them ice cream and juice and even a single Ritz cracker in the middle of the night, making sure every stuffed animal was in its place. Then, after she had performed her self-imposed marital duties, she would often return to their rooms and sit quietly in the chair next to these flannel-clad cherubs, who had by now almost disappeared into the soft down of their beds—just sit there, absorbing the wonder of them, happy, safe, clean children. And in her mind, giving thanks that she had lived to see such a sight.

  Brundidge was already in his office with his feet on the desk, holding the phone. He had just completed reading, as he did every day, via his computer, the New York Times, the Washington Post, and the Wall Street Journal. But it was this last paper that had provoked his ire. And now he was in the process of doing something about it.

  A crisp female voice said, “Wall Street Journal.”

  “Yes, I’d like to speak to Mr. Charles Ahearn.”

  “One moment, please.”

  There was a wait as Brundidge fine-tuned some number two pencils on his state-of-the-art sharpener. Then the voice returned. “I’m sorry. Mr. Ahearn isn’t in. Would you like to speak to his editor?”

  “No, I would not. I’ve spoken with her before and she has an extremely poor attitude.” There was silence, then, “All right. Put her on.”

&nb
sp; After a couple of rings, a thirties-sounding woman with a low, self-assured voice came on the line. “This is Charlotte Rampling.”

  “Yeah, I know. The girl from Smith, not the European actress.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Charlotte, this is E. B. Brundidge. I’m callin’ you from, as y’all like to say, down here in Arkansas.”

  The woman groaned under her breath, “Oh, shit. What is it now?”

  “Oh, shit? Is that the way you talk? What kind of a professional deal is that?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m having a bad day. What did he do this time?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, it’s the same ol’ stuff, Charlotte. The guy seems to be incurable.” Brundidge looked at his computer screen. “Instead of using the name of our state, he’s referring to it again as Dogpatch, with a little joke thrown in about inbreeding, implying that we’re all a bunch of ignorant rednecks who sleep with our own kids. It’s not good, Charlotte. You know, we’re trying to raise formidable little girls down here.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “I guess you’re aware what the real number one incest capital of America is.”

  “Yes, you told me.”

  “Hey, that’s okay. Don’t feel bad. Hell, everbody’s got problems.”

  “So, let me get this straight. You’re calling to insult,” slightly mimicking him, “New York City.”

  “Hell no. I love New York. The people of New York are some of the finest people I have ever met in my entire life. It’s you and Mr. Charles Ahearn I have a problem with. You know who you all remind me of? France. And you know why? ’Cause you look down on America.”

  “I’ll make Mr. Ahearn aware of your complaint.”

  “Oh, am I done? You’re so abrupt and rude, I can never tell.”

  “It’s two hours later here. I have a lunch.”

  “I’ll bet you do. Gonna have a little swordfish sashimi with a couple of rainbow rolls, are we?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Sure you do. That’s what you and all your friends live on. You ought to get your head out of your ass and come down here and eat some barbecue.”

  “Why in God’s name would I want to do that?”

  “Expand your horizons. Just remember, Charlotte, while you’re sittin’ up there on your little ten-inch café chair, ordering raw fish and seaweed salad, we’re down here eatin’ smoked pork and lyin’ around in our big, soft Barcaloungers. I mean, how ignorant can we be when we’re the ones who ended up with the killer food and the comfortable chairs?”

  There was another pause, then, “Seriously, Mr. Brundidge, this is me talking now, not the Journal, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I figure you’re probably recording this, so you can imagine how much I must really want to say it. Fuck off.”

  Charlotte hung up. Brundidge looked at the phone and smiled a little, unsure as to how he felt about her.

  Elizabeth was gone now. The phone was ringing. Milan decided not to answer. Suddenly, she heard Mavis on the speaker, talking in a raspy, manlike whisper, “I know you’re in that bed. And I know where you live. If you don’t pick up, I’m gonna come over there and scrub off all your makeup, snap your picture, and put it in my store window.”

  Milan sat up in her bed, looking small and fragile. She lifted the receiver. “I’m up.”

  “And what are we doing with ourselves today?”

  Milan yawned. “I don’t know yet. I’m thinking about washing my house.”

  Mavis repeated it, like she was imagining it. “Washing your house. Listen, I know how you love to hose down the old homestead, but it’s ten degrees outside.”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot.”

  “I think we’ve lucked out with this Luke kid. He seems to be okay.”

  “Yep. That’s the important thing. I’m just happy for my girl.”

  “And Duff was okay, too. You know, it could’ve been worse.”

  Milan lay down on her side. “He’s falling in love with her. Again.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Please don’t deny what’s happening. It just makes me feel lonely.”

  There was silence, then, “Want me to bring you an éclair?”

  “No.” Another pause. “What else have you got down there?”

  Mavis looked around at her bountiful glass case and shelves. “Well, we’ve got a lot of sugar. But if you’re coming, we can get more.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Wood had been driving for over an hour before he realized he was already halfway to Excelsior Springs. The town where Duff lived. He hadn’t intended to go there at all. But his 7 A.M. tubal ligation had been canceled because the patient’s blood pressure had become erratic and he had called off the surgery. Now, he had no more appointments until after lunch. And he was thinking, those could be changed, too, if he said he wasn’t feeling well. Wood never postponed appointments, so they would have to believe he was really sick. The only question that remained was, would Milan call his office? She usually didn’t, because she respected his time at work. But she was not leaving anything to chance right now. She had watched him closely all weekend, refusing to go to bed, until he and Duff had done so, too—sitting up half the night, playing Scrabble, when she hated games, and then making way too much of the fact that she beat them both. What the hell was that all about? It was embarrassing. And then, never letting them out of her sight, except for the trail ride that she made certain Luke and Elizabeth went on, too—ensuring that the two old lovers were never effectively alone for the entire four days. It was pure Milan, so transparent, but thinking no one else could see how she was controlling it all. He was pretty sure that Duff could see. And he thought he had detected something else in her eyes, too. Pity. Pity that he would give his life to someone who had so little regard for him. Someone who would use a trick to marry him. And manipulate any circumstance just to keep him, with never a thought or inquiry as to his true feelings about anything. What a sad ending for a past lover and soul mate to witness. Maybe he was on his way to see Duff, because he needed to know if it was true that she felt sorry for him. If it was, then he would tell her that she needn’t be, because he was happy. Or he would demand to know what the hell she was going to do about it. But of course, he could not do that. Because she might not give the answer he wanted to hear. And if she did, well, then he wouldn’t want to hear that either.

  The road was beginning to turn mountainous now and he had to pay close attention to negotiating the curves. It reminded him of the road from college in Durham that he had so often driven to meet Milan. They had rekindled their romance after Wood had broken off with Duff because she had sex with a fifty-year-old professor, something that she claimed fell under the category of youthful experimentation. It was Wood’s first experience with betrayal and it wounded him deeply—even though he himself had never been able to completely wipe Milan from his romantic consciousness. During the time they were apart, he missed her and strangely worried about her and called often just to see if she was all right. And Duff must’ve sensed his ambivalence, too, because she went out of her way to remind Wood that Milan was not one of them. That she was beautiful, but ordinary and not up to Wood’s intellectual gifts. And so it went.

  Suddenly a car was honking and he realized he had drifted a little across the center line. He quickly got back in his lane. Wood was thinking about one weekend in particular now, the one when Tom Lanier killed himself. Luckily, it had happened when he and Duff were estranged and Wood had driven all night from North Carolina just to be with Milan. For the next few months, they were together every chance they got, sometimes meeting each other halfway. It was intense and tender and just as Wood was making up his mind to love her for good, she told him the stunning news that she was pregnant. It was stunning because she was taking birth control pills. But had somehow screwed it up. And even though she wasn’t a person who screwed things up and he wasn’t even in medical school yet, h
e embraced it. And told himself that he was going to marry her someday, anyway, and what difference did it make if it happened a few years early?

  He had been overjoyed when his daughter was born and later, his son. And he and Milan had built a good life, but somewhere in the place where such things are harbored, there remained these nagging doubts—even here today on this road, they were still with him and probably with her, too. Each one like an old library book they’ve already read—a book that says something about not being loved or being played for a fool—and they keep checking it out anyway, perusing it, rehashing it, and adding new evidence to verify or impugn the truth of it, in order to believe whatever they need to believe to support their own behavior. He was sorry that they did this and that they couldn’t seem to stop. It was exhausting and it had worn their marriage out.

  His chest was starting to hurt. A lot. It was as though a tight band had been extended around him and then there was a shooting pain down his left arm. How many times had he heard that one? Great! Now he was having a heart attack. And not a very original one either. Now, when they found him, Milan would know. There was no way he would be this far out, on this highway, unless he had been on his way to see Duff. The truth was, he wasn’t even going to see Duff. That was the truth of it. He was just driving, letting off steam from the whole damn weekend, the pressures of his job, his dad dying. Wood was starting to sweat. Profusely. Maybe he could get off the main road and get to a creek or a park ground, so he could die there and it might just appear that he’d, on a lark, decided to commune with nature, because of his dad dying and everything. Because people had probably noticed he hadn’t been himself lately. Now there was a knife in his chest, a sensation of actually being cut. Maybe if he could get to the woods and die outside the car, coyotes and wolves would eat him. Without many remains, they would have to consider foul play. Maybe his car had been driven there and his body dumped. But then again, what if the snow preserved him? Did coyotes and wolves eat frozen food? He didn’t know. Wood wiped the perspiration above his lip with his shirtsleeve and then massaged his chest with the same hand.