Let me give you fair warning about the Christmas toilet paper in the downstairs bathroom: it is covered in holly and ivy print. No one is allowed to use this toilet paper. Ever. It is purely for decorative purposes. It sits on top of the toilet tank, and God protect the person who ever runs out of Charmin and puts it on the empty roller.
All of these things were safely packed in cardboard boxes in the garage, and the space I was sitting in was quiet and calm.
Looking like it had been transported out of a castle somewhere, the room didn’t resemble the rest of the suburban (maybe a little stuck in the Kennedy heyday) house. A gold-framed mirror hung above the fireplace, which made the room look a little larger. During the holidays, little elves with pointed noses and green felt bodies sat taped in all four corners. They looked creepy even without me making them all wave their arms in unison. Whenever I did that, my mother always shrieked at me to stop.
***
I sat on my crunchy throne and waited for someone to say something.
“Do you want some melon, Francesca?” Lulu asked, forever pushing that damned cantaloupe.
“No, thanks, I just ate.”
Finally, Lulu asked, “Are you ready for our trip, yet?”
“I can’t wait! I’m really excited!”
Grampy said, “Let’s decide who is going to take you to the airport.”
“Rich would like to take us,” I explained. My boyfriend really wanted to be there to see me off. He was afraid he would never see me again.
“We’ll be staying a the Hôtel de Lutèce. It’s near the Latin Quarter."
“Awesome,” I said. I would have to find a map and look up the Latin Quarter.
“You are going to have to watch your budget,” said Grampy
“But we’re going to do everything there is to do while we’re there,” assured Lulu.
I wondered what “watching your budget” meant. Grampy always said that Lulu had delusions of grandeur: meaning that she saw herself in a grander life than she was actually living.
She was what I would call A Lady Who Lunches. She had lunch out with her friends and went shopping almost every day, except for Saturdays, when she was a champion bridge player at the senior center.
The reality was that they lived off of my grandfather’s pension, which seemed to be a very suitable amount, but not enough for a terribly extravagant lifestyle. Lulu didn’t seem to notice and kind of just did whatever she felt like doing.
My mother once told me that my grandmother was so peeved when my grandfather retired that she decided that she would retire, too. She rarely did any housework or cooked ever again—although she still makes the most delicious rice dish I have ever tasted for Thanksgiving. I look forward to it every year, except when she substitutes with low-fat cheese. Then it's kind of gross. Grampy ran the vacuum, or “the sweeper,” as they called it, and dusted when necessary. I’m not sure who did laundry, although I did see it piled in the TV room from time to time: a heap of white socks and tighty whiteys stacked on a pink velvet La-Z-Boy.
When they were stationed in Japan (my mother was born at a military base there), they had nannies, cooks and housekeepers: The Help. I know that Lulu still wished in her heart of hearts that they still had The Help, but she was too afraid that a stranger might steal from her home—because everyone knows that toilet-paper-roll candles are hot items on eBay, right?
“When is our flight?” I asked
“Ten o’clock on July fifteenth. We’ll be leaving from SFO.”
I had never flown out from San Francisco, and I was excited to have the chance. “I’ll tell Rich,” I said.
“Okay, I guess that about covers it,” said Grampy, clapping his hands.
Well, that was quite a meeting. I got ready to leave.
Grampy stopped me and asked if I would sing something before I left. I was a theater major and amateur performer. I loved singing for my grandparents because they actually enjoyed watching me do it.
We moved into the family room, and I stood on the step to their kitchen, which had served as a stage for my performances since I was a kid. I sang "Memory" from Cats, making the dishtowels from the kitchen float in front of me as I conducted them with my pointer fingers. They swirled in circles and flew over my head like a canopy.
My grandparents were an attentive audience. The asked for another song, and I chose "There’s No Business Like Show Business," trying to belt like Ethel Merman. When I had completed my last note, they applauded and made me feel like I was on a Broadway stage. I made the little towels bow as well, then return to their hanging positions: one on the fridge handle and one on the counter. Lulu laughed with delight, sounding just like a little girl.
Then Grampy stood up and began to bellow one of his favorite Broadway tunes, "Master of the House," from Les Miserables. His substantial belly crowned the top of his denim shorts and his hair stood in a wild wave of silver. He was so entertaining that I didn’t feel the need to add anything extra to enhance his performance.
The lyrics in the song that he had chosen included the word “shit,” except that he always edited it out when he made that particular selection.
I think he felt like he needed to shield me from the profanity, even though he had taken me to see the musical and knew that I had heard the word “shit” a few times in my life. Just a few.
I was pretty sure that I had used the word more than I could count and would probably hear merde, too, while we were off being world travelers. Just to clarify: merde means “shit” in French.
My grandfather had a wonderful tenor voice, with fabulous vibrato. I appreciated his rendition and used my fingers to whistle once he was finished.
***
I drove home in the white Jeep that Grampy had given me to drive, on loan. The top was down, and the warm breeze whipped around the car, giving me a little buzz. I hummed a French song, but the tune blew away into the world around me.
***
My dad gifted me his old clunker when I got my license. It was a 1974 Toyota Corona. Not a Toyota Corolla. A Corona. Never heard of one? I'm not surprised.
Sounds like a dream, right? Dad teaches you to drive. He doesn’t even care when you put really loud punk music on the cassette player when you are trying to figure out how to parallel park in the high school parking lot, way after everyone on campus has called it a night. This is done in a car with a stick shift, no less! Then he gives you the very car in which you’ve learned to drive. What a guy! Just add the part where two of the tires need to be pumped up with air every morning and you’ve got to fill the clutch fluid every other day, or you’ll be really, really embarrassed when it runs out at a stop light near your school.
Now add the fact that the car was born one year before you were. The car was a piece of crap. Sorry, Dad. The thing had finally shuddered to a noisy death a month and a half earlier, and Dad sold it to some guy for two hundred bucks. It wasn’t clear to me whether the guy wanted to try to make the car road worthy or cannibalize it for parts.
I never saw the two hundred dollars, and I had been driving Grampy’s vehicle ever since.
I am going to Paris! I'm really going!
Probably.
***
My last shift at Above the Waist flew right by. Like a lead weight. Really, it felt like its own hellish twenty-four hours. Times ten.
Everyone asked me to bring a souvenir home for them, and I told them that I would. The assistant manager, Anne, was having boyfriend troubles and said that she wanted to hide in my suitcase and come with me. I advised her against it.
My coworker, Phuong, gave me withering looks from under her dark eyelashes as she worked the cash register. Her mom was making her tutor her little brother in math all summer when she wasn’t working at the mall. Paris sounded like heaven, and her jealousy led her to punish the machine in front of her with every violent button poke.
***
Ultimately, I managed to find some clothes to pack. Mostly black dresses with some
sort of pattern and spaghetti straps. I added a couple of skirts that looked like a European holiday to me, "hanging" them all near the ceiling in the middle of my bedroom and slowly twirling them around, trying to picture what they would all look like on me. Hoping they were French enough.
There was a small black velvet bag on clearance at Victoria's Secret, and I bought it for my toiletries. It was one of my lunch-break-purchases. The purple flowers on the fabric were très chic!
I polished and polished my Docs, sometimes in the normal way, sometimes zoning out to the rhythm of the cloth rubbing across thick black leather while I slumped on the living room couch watching TV. I wore the heavy boots with everything, even feminine dresses and skirts, so they would be the pair that I would bring on our trip.
***
The night before we left, I sat crying in Rich’s arms. I told him how much I would miss him and that I would write or call every day. He teased me and reminded me that I'd only be gone for a week.
He held my chin and said, “You’ll—kiss—be back—kiss—home with me—kiss—before you know it.” I almost believed him.
Before we parted for the evening, he gave me a hundred dollar bill, in case of emergency, and told me to spend it if I needed to. I made the large bill float in front of Rich and folded it in half, making it clap as though the top corners were hands.
“Thank you, Rich.” I used my fingers to tuck the money into my purse and gave him another smooch.
After Richie dropped me off at home, I frantically looked through all of my old French textbooks and hoped I knew enough of the language to communicate once we were there.
Paris was a major tourist city. Most likely, I would speak English the entire time I was visiting. But I really hoped that I would be able to practice my French without totally embarrassing both myself and my grandmother. She said that she only remembered a few words of it, and she was going to be depending on me.
The day arrived, and any fears that I had were displaced by anticipation.
I was ready to travel.
3
Bon Voyage
Lulu and I sat in Rich’s car. Knowing it would be a bumpy ride, I let her have the front seat. Older VW Beetles are not known for their smooth carriage.
No one said a word. I guess we didn’t have anything to say. Or maybe we had too much to say. Keeping my hands in my lap, I turned the knob on the radio, trying to find some good traveling music. I found a throwback station and managed to relax a little bit, as Flock of Seagulls told us that they ran, they ran so far away. They had to get away.
Watching the world fly by, I regarded all of the random things that I always notice on the way to the city. I saw the little round white house, off of Northbound 280—you can’t miss it from the freeway. There was always some debate over whether it looks like it belonged to the Smurfs or the Barbapapas, but since the latter's popularity fizzled out in the 1970's, the Smurfs usually won. I also saw the “Pointing Padre” statue of Father Junípero Serra, California icon.
We had all said our goodbyes to the family and given them our itinerary that morning, and I promised to call when we got there. There would be a nine-hour time difference. Rich told me to call him if I needed him; no matter what time it was on either end.
Only eight thirty in the morning and it was already a warm, seventy degrees. I was glad that we’d be escaping the July heat for at least the thirteen hours of the plane ride.
In my carryon bag awaited a sketchpad and pens, a mix cassette of my favorite punk songs and the current issues of a bunch of fashion magazines.
We arrived at the airport, and Rich eased into a parking spot. He effortlessly lifted our bags from the trunk. Lulu’s had wheels on it, and she was able to pull it by the long handle on its side. Mine just had handles, and it was heavy with clothes that I hoped would be appropriate for our trip, but my handsome boyfriend easily threw it over his shoulder and locked the doors.
Entering the bustling airport, we found the correct counter and checked our bags. Potential passengers walked in a hurry all around us. Everyone was on his or her way to somewhere, and I felt excitement blossom within me because I was going somewhere, too.
***
My grandmother started to get the nervous edge that she gets when she’s doing something new. She gets a little twitchy. She looks around a lot and starts to get bossy.
“Richard!” she barked, “Why don’t you get us some pop?” That’s what she calls soda. As if it were still 1956. As in "Let’s go to the diner for a pop or a malted."
“You got it,” replied Rich, in his usual charming way. I could smell the leather from his motorcycle jacket when he lifted his arm to give her a thumbs up.
“Wait!” she yelled, sounding panicky, “Let me give you some money!”
She started pulling fifty dollar bills out of her pocket. One drifted to Rich’s boot, like an autumn leaf, and he bent over to pick it up. He warned me with his eyes, as if he knew how badly I wanted to float it back up into his hand, like film in reverse.
“Lulu, I have some money. Don’t worry about it.” Rich grinned his beautiful smile and looked over at me with humor in his glorious clear-sky-colored eyes. Good Lord, how was I going to live without him for seven days?
We stood in the middle of a stream of bodies and waited for our pop. Rich was quick and brought her a can of Sprite. Diet Pepsi for me.
“Thanks,” we said at the same time. I kept myself from saying “Jinx!”, like some immature kid.
After taking a couple of sips, she threw the can away, which was unlike her, as she is usually one of those people who will put an open soda can in the fridge and continue nursing it for several days until it is completely drained.
This worried me. She was already losing it. Am I really going to the other side of the world with her today?
She started to walk really fast in the wrong direction and then stopped and looked at us. Rich gently took her arm and guided her toward the metal detectors, and we all made it through without any problems.
It was surprising that Lulu’s jewelry didn't set off an alarm: she wears between two and five rings on each finger, and in the sunlight, her hands sparkle like they are made of shattered crystal. I don’t know what we would have done if she needed to take them all off: it would have taken an hour, at least.
This was years before September 11, 2001, and the process was much simpler then.
“Where is our gate?” she asked in a shrill voice.
“Follow me,” Rich said calmly. We did. He got us there quickly and we sat down. Lulu went through her purse, making sure that she had not left anything behind.
She wouldn’t let me hold my ticket, which made me feel like a four-year-old.
I looked at my fingers, twisting the pearl ring that Rich had given me for Valentine’s Day the year before, and chewed on my cuticles: an enduring and disgusting habit that I can’t shake.
“Stop eating your hands,” Rich said, so I did.
Instead, I picked at an artfully placed hole in my jeans. I had chosen faded jeans and a tight black T-shirt for our trip. And my Docs. Always the boots: you can't go wrong with "Bouncing Soles"... I tried to erase the lipstick off of my nibbled fingers. With nothing to wipe it on, I rubbed the red smudge into my skin until it disappeared.
***
Looking around at the people who would be flying with us, I noted that there were all different types of people with whom we would be sharing thirteen hours of our lives. Some looked French to me. Others definitely had that tourism vibe. Not sure where I fit in, I wondered what they thought of me.
It doesn't matter.
Someone with a microphone started announcing our flight, and we stood up, Lulu practically falling over in her haste. Focusing on my beloved boyfriend, she asked, “How would you like to go with us, Richard?”
Incredulous, he looked back at her. “Oh my God! Really?”
My heart leapt about five feet.
“Just kidding,” she gi
ggled. “Let’s go!”
Holding Rich with a fierceness that I didn’t know I possessed, I gazed into his eyes. “I promise to use good judgment. I will call. I love you.”
He looked like he was about to cry. “I love you, too, Frankie.”
Walking backwards for a few steps, I finally turned around. I was about to go through the tunnel leading to the plane, and I peeked at him, one last time. I had a crazy feeling that it really could be the last time that I saw him.
My dear Richie was standing there with shoulders hunched, his eyes huge and solemn. I tentatively waved and then boarded the aircraft.
***
Our seats were in the middle of the plane: two in a long line of strangers. I was on the aisle, which I preferred because I could make a quick exit, if necessary.
I inhaled canned plane air. Thirteen hours. I settled in and was able to unwind a little. Lulu was already relaxed, with her feet dangling above the ground. Fat little toes wiggled, enjoying their freedom.
The pilot made an announcement, and the safety demonstration was performed by the flight attendants. We weren’t near a safety exit, so I didn’t have to obsess about it for the whole flight. That was good. Everything was said in English and French, and I recognized almost all of the French.
That was très bien.
It was a pretty uneventful flight. There was a movie and they fed us. The film was one that I had already seen with Alicia, so I began taking out my art supplies—lining colored pencils up like soldiers on the flimsy foldout table attached to the seat in front of me.
When the snack cart was brought around, Lulu purloined two extra packages of pretzels and tucked them into her purse. She poked me with her pointy elbow and whispered in my ear, “Grab some more pretzels, will you?”
The flight attendant was bent over a row next to us, but her cart was too far for me to pilfer another bag. “She’s too far for me to reach, Lulu!” I hissed back at her.
“Well, can’t you just... you know!” She moved her fingers as though she were doing an elaborate magic trick.
What? She's asking me to make airplane snacks float across the isle? No. Way. I shook my head vehemently and turned to my sketchbook. She sighed in disappointment and annoyance.
Frankie in Paris Page 3
