Liberating Paris

by Linda Bloodworth Thomason

  “On May 23, 1984, Auxiliary Sheriff’s Deputy Frank Lanier observed someone throwing a Coke can out the back window of a limousine near Paris, Arkansas. Officer Lanier proceeded to pull the limo over and issue a ticket. The people inside asked if he had any idea who he was talking to. When he admitted he didn’t, they informed him that they were the Rolling Stones and that they were late for a concert in Little Rock. Officer Lanier responded that it is against the law to litter in Arkansas. The Rolling Stones then affected a highfalutin’, New York City kind of attitude, telling him to call up their lawyer and using derogatory names like Goober and Chickens—. It was at this time that Officer Lanier took the Rolling Stones into custody, impounding their limousine and incarcerating them in the Paris County Jail. The next day, after paying a fine of $1,000, they returned to the site of their arrest, picked up the offending Coke can, and apologized for insulting the citizens of Paris. Sheriff Serious West accepted their apology on behalf of the town, saying, ‘They seemed like nice boys who just needed a little supervision.’ He also said they would be welcome to come back and visit anytime, but they never did. I swear all of this happened exactly as I have told it. Signed, Frank Lanier.”

  Then, Frank made a little speech. It wasn’t very good. For one thing, he laughed inappropriately. This was something he had been doing since childhood. Over things like when somebody falls down or a squirrel gets electrocuted on a telephone pole. It’s not that Frank was mean, it just felt good to see something else getting a piece of his diet. But this laughing also made him more nervous, because he knew he shouldn’t be doing it. And also because he knew he could be next.

  It took the committee less than five minutes to reject Frank’s petition. After conferring with the others, Milan said as kindly as she could that while the letter told an interesting story, it did not provide any new evidence of historical significance. By comparison, she reiterated some of the more appropriate items that were already in the capsule—an old Civil War letter, Depression-era tin nickels that Jeter’s Market had issued so that men couldn’t spend them on liquor, Serious West’s Golden Gloves, the homburg hat Sidney Garfinkel had been wearing when he first arrived at Ellis Island and in Arkansas, the championship football Jeter had tried so valiantly to catch, and so on. Then Milan added that, besides, the Rolling Stones were British and the committee had already included something from England—Lena Farnham Stokes’s picture of the queen. After that, she pounded her gavel and declared the meeting adjourned. Frank was seething. Was she kidding? They already had something from England? A picture of a fat-assed housewife with a crown on her head? What did that have to do with Paris, Arkansas? Anyway, this was not something from England. This was an American Coke can that belonged to the number one rock group in the world, a group whose members had insulted him and their whole town and the entire state! And he had torn them a new asshole for doing it. Name one other place in America where something like that had happened. It was historical, that’s what it was. And that was all there was to it. Afterward, when Milan and Brundidge tried to console Frank, he waved the Coke can in their faces and told them that if he had to, he would take it all the way to the Superior Court of the entire United States. And even though he got it wrong, they knew what he meant.

  Midsummer. Hot. Marrakech. Slim and Sidney lost two weeks of walking because he had eye surgery and then she sprained her ankle while working in her garden. But today they were emerging from la Palmeraie, the gloriously abundant forest of date palms resting at the foot of the High Atlas Mountains. Sidney, who had been more quiet recently (reassured that Slim was now committed to walking, whether he spoke or not), had come back to life the minute their little map told him that Marrakech was in sight. And even though they were now really walking along the deserted Main Street of Paris, Arkansas, Slim had become a little excited, too, just listening to Sidney describe the exotic foods and vibrant colors and textures of all the fabrics that fill the souks of downtown Marrakech.

  Something Slim had learned since leaving Casablanca was that Sidney, at the tender age of twenty, was a silk procurer for a major fabric house in Belgium. But the thing that completely dazzled her was his expertise and knowledge of silk. Right now he was explaining how Moroccan farmers carry the eggs of silkworms close to their chests in order to keep them warm, and also how they speak softly, so as not to startle them. Then, he said, after the eggs hatch, each worm spins a cocoon, which is then boiled until the end of the silk thread unravels. He described how each individual fiber is lustrous and strong on its own, but the more it bonds and is woven with other fibers, the more fragile and delicate the fabric itself becomes—so that eventually, if even one thread is pulled, the entire piece will be ruined. “But,” Sidney added significantly, “without taking this risk, there would be nothing so beautiful as silk.” Slim was wondering if they were still talking about fabric.

  Then he casually mentioned that one client in particular, The House of Worth, used only silk from Marrakech because of the loving care the farmers gave to their worms. And that, in some cases, Sidney himself actually preselected these worms.

  Slim stopped and stared at him for a moment. She told him that her wedding gown had come from the House of Worth. They excitedly compared dates and figured out that Sidney, being Worth’s only supplier of silk at the time, had probably, indeed, selected the fabric and possibly even the worms that spun Slim’s wedding gown. And that within a few months of her wearing it, he had been sent to Breendonk concentration camp while she had waited for her husband to return home from war.

  They were walking again now. In spite of their initial excitement, they realized that this new information didn’t really mean anything at all. It was simply interesting and unexpected—like finding out that someone on a train knows your cousin. But for some reason, they had both become quiet. And, for the first time, Slim held Sidney’s arm all the way home.

  Slim was sitting on her bed. Next to her was a large cardboard box. She hesitated for a moment and then opened it. She unzipped the plastic bag inside and then unfolded an exquisite white gown with long sleeves and a slender skirt and not an ounce of lace. Slim had relayed the story of this gown’s origin to Elizabeth, who, now having second thoughts about her own dress, asked to see this one. Oddly, Slim had never imagined that her granddaughter might be interested in such a relic. And, on the heels of Dr. Mac’s death, Elizabeth had thought the subject too delicate to broach. But Slim’s conversation with Sidney had changed all that. And so, she had pulled the dress from her attic and now sat staring at it, feeling strangely unconnected to the day it had been worn.

  Slim ran her hand tenderly across the fabric, as though she were trying to feel something more than mere silk, and noticed that not a single strand of thread had been pulled. Then she held the bodice of the gown to her cheek, caressing it and leaving it there, absorbing the texture. After a while, she rubbed her face with the skirt, too. Finally, she lay down on the bed, wrapping herself in the material, burying her face in the folds of it and drawing her knees up and moaning—at first, a low, soft, steady sound, followed by a louder, plaintive, broken noise that shook her shoulders. She wept for the delicate beauty that had remained intact all these years and for the man who had helped to create it and for what happened to him afterward and for the occasion of her wearing it and for the man she had worn it for and for all the things she had not wept over in a very long time.

  Elizabeth, unheard by Slim, had come in and was now standing in the open doorway. She watched for a moment or two, and then crossed and put her hand on Slim’s back.

  “Grand-mère?”

  Slim sat up and looked at her, startled. Elizabeth sat down next to Slim. “This is what I want to feel someday. What you’re feeling right now.” Slim pulled her granddaughter close.

  “Thank you, my darling. That’s the best thing anyone’s ever said.”

  It was after dusk on Main Street and the air felt just as hot and stale as it had during the day. Mavis was lockin
g up Doe’s as Rudy waited for her. She dropped the keys and he retrieved them since she was now too pregnant to bend over. Once they were under way, Rudy said, “…so Denny, he says to me, you know Dwight’s not really feeling emotionally strong enough to go on a road trip with you right now.”

  Mavis sighed, “I’m sorry, Rudy, I can’t get involved in your love life today. I’m too damn tired.”

  Since there were no cars or people around, they were now walking in the middle of the road. Rudy said, “Why do we stay here? Is it because we’re afraid we can’t make it anywhere else?”

  Mavis groaned. “What are you talking about? Why does everyone always say that?”

  “Say what?”

  “That everywhere else is better, tougher. What a crock!” She waved her hand at all the deserted buildings. “Just look around. Hell, if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere…” Her words trailed off as she continued waddling up the empty street.

  CHAPTER 21

  Lottie Paris Pinkerton was born at 11:03 on the evening of August 3rd. Lottie was for Mary Paige’s hero, Lottie Moon, and Jeter picked Paris for the town. It had been a most powerful moment when Wood caught the first glimpse of her coming down the birth canal. He couldn’t help thinking of how his own father had put this little girl in motion years ago, when Dr. Mac had the foresight, long before it was common, to save a young man’s lineage. After that, when Wood had taken the baby and put her on her mother’s chest, Mavis drew in her breath, overwhelmed to see the trademark red hair that she and her father were famous for. Then Wood laid his hand over Jeter’s and they had cut the cord together.

  Wood said, “What do you think, buddy? How about that?”

  When Jeter couldn’t speak, Wood covered for him, saying to Mary Paige, “Aw, he’s just upset ’cause she didn’t recognize him.”

  Ordinarily, Milan would’ve been in the delivery room, right there in the middle of it all, but she felt, under the circumstances, that this was an honor that now rightfully belonged to Mary Paige. And anyway, being present at a birth was such an intimate thing and Mavis had already proven that she and Milan were not on intimate terms. That’s why Milan had stayed in the waiting room, along with Brundidge and Rudy and Mavis’s mother, who regularly fainted at the sight of blood.

  When Wood and Jeter had emerged, with Wood holding Paris in his arms, everyone cooed and carried on as Brundidge pounded Rudy on the back and a look seemed to pass between Wood and Milan that said this had put them in mind of their own babies.

  Maybe it was the splendid moment itself, but Milan could not recall a time when Wood had looked more endearing, in his rumpled scrubs, with his hair partially matted by perspiration and one of his shoes untied. Several of the nurses had confirmed that it had not been an easy delivery and that Mavis’s blood pressure had climbed to such a dangerous level, Wood had almost performed a C-section. Suddenly, Milan was seized with the urge to shake his hand and tell him how much she admired his unerring skill and good humor and that, even if he didn’t want her anymore, she could still love him for guarding their old friend like the tenacious angel she knew he could be—at least, when he was at work. She was all too aware of the precautions he would’ve taken, the worry and second-guessing over someone who was probably too old and too overweight to be having a child. That was his way, attending to every small detail, anticipating and smoothing over every crisis and then acting like it was nothing more than a happy accident when it all turned out like a dream.

  This was what she had wanted to say. But instead, she merely made a fuss over Jeter and his fatherhood and then stood paralyzed with rapture when Paris had wrapped her hand around Milan’s finger. Later, she felt weary as the elevator carried her all the way to the basement when all she had wanted was to get off on one. Once outside in the parking lot, she stopped and looked up. There, on the third floor, the bright yellow light of the delivery room was still on. She knew that the man inside would be washing up about now, after which he would review the first words written about a little girl who was still less than an hour old. How much she weighed, how long she was, the color of her eyes—but nothing about the people who would annoy and challenge and love her and who she would probably find a way to love back. Suddenly, Milan hurried toward her car, trying to outrun the unbelievable thought that she might not be one of them.

  After most everyone else had gone home, Wood, Brundidge, and Jeter sat up half the night in Wood’s office, smoking cigars and drinking Glenfiddich scotch, with Brundidge mindlessly congratulating all of them on the fine progeny they had so far managed to spawn.

  “I don’t like to brag, but we got good-lookin’ kids. Now that’s just a fact. I’m sorry, but all kids are not lookers. You ever sit outside the entrance to the Magic Kingdom? Whoa! I’m not sayin’ the little SOBs don’t have a right to be there. Hell no! Just because ours are better lookin’ doesn’t mean the others shouldn’t get in. That’s their God-given American right! And by God, I’ll fight anybody who tries to stop ’em! I will now! I mean it!” Wood and Jeter stupidly agreed that they, too, would fight for homely children to be admitted to Disney World.

  By 2 A.M., they were in Brundidge’s van, sitting in front of Jeter’s Market on Main Street. Now they were completely ablaze with the notion that living in a small town was the greatest birthright that could be bestowed upon a newborn baby. Determined that little Paris should have a childhood at least as wonderful as their own, they vowed to personally rebuild the entire street in her honor. Then they were quiet, steeped in the relaxed and loving familiarity that now enveloped the van. After a while, Brundidge said to the others, “You ever see a big-city bus pull up late at night? With all those sad-faced people sittin’ inside all lit up? That’s the lonesomest sight in the world.” Wood and Jeter agreed that it was. Then Brundidge expressed his undying gratitude that the three of them would never have to be on that bus and neither would their children, which made him start to cry a little and finally kiss Jeter, who told him to get away.

  Around four, they went back to the hospital and demanded that the maternity nurse go in Mavis’s room and retrieve Paris, which she did. Then the three men, having marinated themselves in cigar smoke and liquor, huddled over this tiny female person, who in spite of having just arrived out of nowhere, had already managed to consume their interest. After a while, she opened her eyes and, getting a good look at them, or a good whiff, or both, began shrieking at the top of her lungs. Jeter was so shaken by this, they quickly returned her to the nurse and hurried down the hall. With Wood saying she probably had a little gas. And Brundidge worrying that she might have too much Mavis in her. But her father was already thinking that he would try very hard never to make her mad.

  It was early morning. Slim and Sidney Garfinkel were walking when they spotted an enormous tomato garden not far from the gravel road. In the distance was a little farmhouse.

  Slim exclaimed, “Sidney! Would you look at those tomatoes? Really, we have to stop and buy some.”

  “There’s no sign. I don’t think they’re for sale.”

  “Well, then we have to steal them. Because I refuse to leave here without having one.”

  They crossed to the garden and crouched down in front of the tall staked vines. Sidney whispered, “We’re in Algeria now. They have death by hanging.”

  Slim said, while picking several of the largest ripe ones, “It’ll be worth it. These are nothing like store bought.”

  Sidney gathered some, too. Suddenly, shots rang out. They seemed to be coming from the front porch of the little house. Sidney and Slim took off running. Now a man on the porch was hollering and cussing as he fired a gun into the air. The tomato thieves never looked back. They ran until they were exhausted and finally collapsed in a little ravine under a tree. They were lying on their backs now and laughing so hard they could scarcely catch their breath. Finally, Slim sat up and took a bite of her tomato.

  “When did we get to Algeria?”

  “Last week. I didn�
��t tell you because I was afraid you would stop walking with me.” He waited, then, “Have you been there?”

  “No.” Then she lied, “But I’ve always wanted to go.”

  He smiled. She took another bite of her tomato. “My God, these are sublime. We may have to steal some more.”

  Sidney ate his, too, with a little of the juice running down his chin. “I never knew you were immoral.”

  “Really? I thought that was why you liked me.”

  He smiled again. After that, they stretched their legs out side by side, savoring the meat of the tomatoes and the day.

  In spite of having stayed out all night, Jeter was up by eight and watching worriedly as Rudy counted out bills on an old metal nightstand. When he was done, he grandly announced that Jeter had $57.29. Then he placed the paper money in Jeter’s nylon jogger’s wallet (a gift from Miss Phipps on a day of confusion) and put the change back in a shoebox. Jeter was pleased because he had even more money than he thought—especially after selling a couple of poems to something called the Three Penny Review.

  Shortly after that, Jeter’s wheelchair was sailing up the concrete ramp of the public library with Rudy running behind it. Once inside, Jeter told head librarian Susie Minetree that he was here to obtain a library card for the town’s newest citizen. And he had a reading list to go with it, too. At first she was stunned. Nobody had ever applied for a card for an infant before, much less tried to put a reading list on file. Then, having no one to tell her it was against the rules, Susie decided it was the greatest idea she’d ever heard. A few minutes later, Rudy promptly filled out all the appropriate documents, writing the word bébé next to “age.”