Liberating Paris

by Linda Bloodworth Thomason

  Unlike Mavis and Miss Delaney, who had willingly allowed themselves to be known, Milan had been dragged here. But she was standing up now, applauding and cheering. Now that her façade was gone, she could see so clearly what was at stake. And she knew there would never be another afternoon like this one, where people have stepped so bravely and so far from the main road and yet were still demanding a place on the map. She could see by the tentative faces below her that everyone was now feeling at risk, the way people do when a lesson is about to be learned, one way or the other. And she wanted to seize this opportunity, to stand up with her husband, in front of all of them, and say, yes, I support this. This is who I am. She wanted, finally and gloriously, to be known.

  When Milan turned around, she was startled to see Elizabeth standing there, holding Slim’s gown. Then her daughter said matter-of-factly, “I don’t know if I’ll ever get married. Or even wear a wedding dress. But if I do, I’d like it to be one that was worn by my grandmother…and my mother.”

  Downstairs, someone must have cued the little orchestra, because it began to play “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” Cake and Lily Brundidge started down the aisle, carrying their little baskets, matching their steps and giggling, unaware that they, too, were now civil rights warriors, just as their dad and uncle Wood and uncle Jeter had once been on a day only a little warmer than this one, when they had tested the waters of the Paris County municipal pool. As the girls scattered their petals with too much abandon, they could not have known that they were helping to challenge the social and legal fabric of the United States of America—the very country that their daddy had shown them on their bedroom walls was the greatest one in the world. And right now, this same man was tracking their every step with his raised eyebrows, nodding, smiling, and then monitoring faces in the crowd for their response. Charlotte watched it all with amusement and wonder. Who were these outrageous people who had drawn her into their strange world through a thousand-miles-away telephone call? A world that seemed oddly familiar—aggravating, unpredictable, audacious. The fact that she was starting to feel a little at home in it made her, at the same time, uneasy. She made a mental note to tell Brundidge that she could not come back for a while.

  Suddenly a murmur raced through the crowd. It seemed that something was happening at the end of the long white runner. As heads began turning, it became clear that what that something was, was Milan. They would’ve stood anyway, because in spite of the fact that she was already married, it was the mannerly thing to do. But it was mostly the mere sight of her that brought them to their feet. Although Milan’s beauty was widely acknowledged, no one was prepared for the lovely way she filled out Slim’s gown or how the sun shone through her hair onto the slightly faded fabric and made the full measure of her seem almost golden.

  When she started down the aisle, Othelia Lanier wept. And Slim nudged Sidney excitedly, confiding that this was the dress he had helped to make. Because Milan was shorter than Slim, the gown’s hem cascaded onto the lawn, and made a silky whispering as she passed each row of guests. When she swept by Slim and Sidney’s aisle, even Slim gasped a little and Sidney literally held on to his chair, overcome to see the garment that so singularly and lovingly connected the life he had once known to this one.

  And Wood, standing in front of the trellis, watched in wonder while Milan made her way toward him. As she got close, he shook his head and stamped his foot softly, trying to keep his composure, and then failing, had to turn away.

  Finally, the new wedding party was lined up in front of the Reverend Frank Lanier, who identified himself, though Wood had specifically told him not to, as a Doctor of Divinity with the Church of the Meaningful Word. There were some snickers, which caused Wood to stop and explain to the remaining guests that Frank was indeed an ordained minister with the full authority to marry people, which only seemed to invite more doubt.

  Afternoon shadows were climbing up Frank’s polyester suit by the time each couple had said some version of wedding vows. Wood had said his the loudest. As luck would have it, Frank had pretty much memorized the traditional marriage ceremony, which had apparently come with his ordination certificate. Only a few parts seemed incoherent, like when he threw in “abomination” for no reason and stumbled over the phrase “man and wife” in regard to Mavis and Mary Paige, finally settling on “wife and…wifey.” But people got the general gist of what was happening and the legality of such a preceding, or the lack of it, could be dealt with later.

  While “Ave Maria” was being sung by Sam Blackburn III, Wood glanced up and saw Elizabeth, wrapped in a sheet, watching from her upstairs bedroom window. Luke, without a shirt, was standing next to her, looking happy. Wood wondered how many others had seen it, too. Jesus. People had to be thinking by now that they were all insane. Everybody getting married but the bride, who was already upstairs on her honeymoon.

  After the ceremony all three couples made their way down the aisle, amid a blizzard of rose petals—a blizzard because, as always, Milan had ordered too many. And it seemed that these petals were being thrown even more enthusiastically than usual, as though the revelers who released them were trying to make up for all the guests who had gone home.

  Now in the middle of the flower storm, Wood pulled Milan close to him. Though he shielded his eyes, he could still see a patch of magnificent blue sky, not unlike the one that had served, almost a year ago, as an umbrella over his father’s funeral. That day, like this one, had all the warmth of summer in it as well as the achingly tender light that comes with fall—a light as complex as the color of the Champanelle River—and seems to carry within itself a feeling that something is being left behind and also the idea that something new is coming.

  The wind came up and blew some hats off, as the guests rushed toward the three couples. Mavis’s mother nervously shook hands with her own daughter before spewing in a loud rush of breath, “Just be happy.” Then she hurried away, fanning her eyes with the wedding program. Mavis ran after her mother and when she caught up, spun her around, holding her without either of them saying anything. Then Mrs. Pinkerton, who seemed to feel better after this, straightened her daughter’s collar and, starting to cry again, ran toward her car.

  Across the yard, Mary Paige was being embraced by all of Elmer Tillman’s grandchildren, whom she had babysat throughout most of high school. There was some laughter over how Mary Paige was the only sitter who would allow them to go outside and holler and beat on pots and pans on New Year’s Eve. And Lloyd Case, with his daughter Melanie and her husband, Dennis, were pumping Serious West’s hand, thanking him for asking about their little boy, who had some kind of spinal problem, and not saying anything about all the years Serious, on his own time, had cruised Main Street just to make sure everything was okay before heading home. Instead, Lloyd said that if he had known Miss Delaney was the marrying kind, he would’ve beaten Serious to the punch. And there were a lot more after that, who, if they didn’t say congratulations, said something that let Serious know that they were not going to oppose his happiness. Like prosecuting attorney Doug Riffel, who said he was against this marriage, not on the basis of race, but because Serious was pigheaded and obnoxious. And Serious had let out a delighted hoot that rolled across the crowd like good music and reassured everyone that they were right to stay.

  Margaret Delaney had been embraced by so many people that her little hat was now crooked—people who wanted to tell her about some book they couldn’t put down or to remind her how their grown children had been ahead of the pack at college because of her devotion. Or how the McCurdy’s son, Jesse, was one of the stars of the Gulf War, because when they had been waiting out in the desert, he was able to regale his fellow soldiers with a chapter by chapter account of a different novel every night. Miss Delaney had heard such comments before, but she knew these people needed to retell them today, to reassure her and themselves that nothing had really changed between them.

  Now the sun was in Slim’s eyes as she pressed
her palm against her son’s cheek and whispered something. And then Wood got behind his mother and enclosed her in his arms. When he saw his own son watching all this, he said, “Hey, Charlie, you know what I say when people call me a mama’s boy? I say thank you.”

  Charlie smiled. Slim shook her head at Wood’s silliness. Wood motioned for Charlie to join them, but he declined. His dad grabbed him anyway and, as they started to roughhouse, Slim stepped back and watched, feeling farther away than usual from the Brown Meanness.

  A few feet away, Sidney Garfinkel shook Milan’s hand. Then she took her hand back and threw her arms around him, not knowing of his role in creating the dress she was now wearing, but instead thinking of the one that had arrived over twenty years ago and blurting out what she had been too shy to say then, “I love you, Mr. Garfinkel!”

  Sidney was so taken aback that he impulsively kissed her on the mouth and then, embarrassed, removed an expertly folded handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed the lipstick from his own lips. Milan saw that he missed a spot and knowing this was her forte, she took the handkerchief, with Sidney submitting his face to her, just as he once might have to his own mother when he was still a schoolboy back in Belgium.

  Elizabeth and Luke had now rejoined the party. Elizabeth pulled Slim aside and whispered, “Grand-mère, I’ve been upstairs having sex and I love it!”

  Slim stared at her.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna tell anyone. I just wanted to tell you. But seriously, it’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not discussing this with you now.”

  “Okay. But don’t get too prissy on me.” Elizabeth grinned, raising her eyebrows. “I know you stole tomatoes with Mr. Garfinkel.”

  Slim laughed a little, marveling at the wondrous communication network of Paris and thinking that if she did have a secret worth keeping, her granddaughter would be one of the few who she would trust with it.

  Brundidge sidled up to Wood, holding one of the little carryall bags that belonged to his daughters. “Don’t worry. I’ve got the top of the cake covered.”

  He unzipped the bag, allowing Wood a clandestine peek at the two dolls inside. Brundidge smiled, “Lesbian Barbies.” Wood was nonplussed. Brundidge added, “In fact, that may be the new name for our movie.” Brundidge moved on, pleased with himself and how the day was turning out.

  Wood was now gazing across his lawn at the several hundred people waiting in line to say something encouraging to the ones who they knew needed to hear it. He was wishing his dad were here to see such a sight, this man who loved to rub up against wrong ideas until they looked all worn out. Right now, he would have his arm around Wood and he would be saying, “Well, son, you sure got yourself into something today, didn’t you? But that’s okay. I’ve already told people that your mother and I have just given up on you. That it’s all in the Lord’s hands now.” Then, he would proudly pat Wood on the back and walk away.

  Wood was looking at his grandfather’s house and imagining how puzzled the older McIlmore would be by the strange event now occurring on his property. How he would probably not understand any of it, except maybe the love behind it. Because love was one thing the McIlmore men were good at—whether it involved their wives, children, patients, or their little town. They were good at love, or they had been, and Wood resolved to be as good as the rest of them. Especially now that he had been given a second chance with his own wife. His daughter was another story. Beyond the wedding guests, he could see Elizabeth sitting in the tire swing that hung from one of Fast Deer Farm’s massive oaks. And he could hear her complaining, in the distance, that Luke was not pushing her high enough. Just as she had once complained to him. Suddenly he felt a sadness that he knew could not be lifted by anything that would occur here today. How to win back a daughter who once thought her father was a friend of Shakespeare’s and has now found out he’s more like a fool in one of the old bard’s plays. Wood felt sad because he knew there were some things that cannot be earned back. And that like the Purple Crackle, a new incarnation of whatever has once been is sometimes more pitiful than nothing at all.

  Milan had taken baby Paris from Mavis and was holding her in the air and showing her off to everyone. And Paris had tilted the large head that babies have, as she closed her eyes and smiled serenely. Wood was thinking how much she looked like someone he used to know. And how he would find a way to do right by her, would someday read her all the poems that her daddy had left behind, and take her down to Main Street and tell her about the people and their stores and their stories and how it had been there—where three boys on their horses had once ruled.

  Sidney, who must have been feeling a little reckless after kissing Milan, had now accepted Paris in his arms and was sort of cooing to her in his soft Belgian accent. It was a strange sight—Sidney Garfinkel holding a baby and cooing. But it seemed fitting to Wood, on this day when love had gotten out ahead of hate, that such a thing should happen. For Sidney Garfinkel had lived in a time when love had fallen behind. And the people of Paris, Arkansas, had, without even knowing it, made up for that in some small way—people who lived so very far from the distant hole that held almost everyone he had ever loved in it. And yet, somehow seemed to be so very much like them—these ferocious teachers who cared passionately about learning and parents who were so decent, their little boys wanted to fight Hitler for him, and all the merchants on Main Street who had rebuilt half his store before he even knew his windows had been broken.

  Wood could see now that not only Sidney, but virtually everyone in the world who mattered to him, was at this moment engaged in some sort of loving act. Even Brundidge and Charlotte, who thought no one could see them, were making out a little over by the bar. New York and Arkansas, French-kissing. Wood made a mental picture of all of it, knowing that such large-scale goodness is always fleeting. The same way he knew that some of these well-intended souls would get in their cars in a couple of hours and express doubt about what they had just been a part of. Being a student of literature and history, Wood figured that good stays, on the average, about one sprinter’s step ahead of evil. Love, ahead of the kind of people who want you to believe that birds can hate enough not to eat bread. He was lucky. His entire life, along with the hope of all humanity, could be contained within the distance of that one step, or beyond. He had never known poverty or bigotry or fear. Even his other worst mistake, throwing a football when he didn’t need to, had been paid for by someone else. Love had never fallen behind in his life, like it had in Sidney Garfinkel’s and Milan’s and, in some measure, Jeter’s. And, as it so often does, in places all over the world. When it happens, a person or a town or a country has to come in afterward and say okay, let’s clean this mess up. Let’s start over. And then miraculously, love steps off again, ever hopeful, everlasting.

  Wood was now thinking that he no longer wanted to live within that small, rarified space that had once contained him. He wanted to stay on the hunt for this feeling that had come alive, if only for a few hours, in his own backyard. He wanted to be worthy of his own life. To go where love had fallen behind. And to his sorrow, he now understood that he wouldn’t even have to leave home to do so.

  The air was turning cold as a breeze rolled off the Champanelle River and the little orchestra struggled to hold onto their sheet music. Inside the billowing white tent, waiters relit candles and began lifting the lids from enormous silver bowls as everyone made their way there. Ordinarily, Milan would be directing all this, but today she felt more like watching. She came over and leaned her head on Wood’s shoulder. Without thinking, he kissed the top of it. He was starting to feel tired. He had almost destroyed a superstore, his marriage, and his family, and had taken on the moral convictions of an entire community. Frankly, he would be glad now when all these people went home. For the first time in many years, he wanted his wife to himself. He was already planning how he would get up early and chop wood and stack it close to the fireplace so that in a month or two, he wouldn’t have
to go out in the snow so often. He was going to make a fire every night this winter and let the girl who had loved only one boy for her whole life know that that boy was now ready to listen to whatever she needed to tell him. Ready to hear about what had worried her or scared her or made her feel small. And she could tell him these things a little at a time or not at all, but he would be there. And if she needed to wake him in the middle of the night and have him soothe her, or to use him as a light against the darkest parts of her childhood, then he would be there for that, too. As true and steady and unmovable as he would be when the need for building fires has long passed and some distant winter has come to cover the prince of Paris and his first love with a fresh new blanket of snow. He was as sure of that as he was that he would be back on his horse tomorrow morning, riding toward the sun.

  EPILOGUE

  Some children were running alongside the Champanelle River. There were five or six of them and they were racing a dog with a can in his mouth. Seven-year-old Marcus West Junior, who lived nearby, was one of them. And Cake and Lily Brundidge were there, still in their flower girl dresses because their daddy had said they could wear them to Marcus’s house if they wouldn’t get them dirty, which they did anyway. And then there was Milan’s little niece and nephew, India and Travis Lanier, and Mae Ethel’s granddaughter, Elizabeth Brown, too. Right now, Cake and Elizabeth had stopped to catch their breath. Cake was bent over, panting, looking like a small jock wearing a formal. Elizabeth finally asked, “Who got married today?”