Bonita Faye

by Margaret Moseley

  “And, Claude, I’m going to teach you English. And you can help me with my French.” We had a good system going what with the dictionary and the understanding looks, but who knew what I was missing out on?

  Monday morning when Claude went to Paris for school and work, I went with him, to collect the rest of my belongings and to check out of my hotel. The concierge and Thomas, the English speaking desk clerk were sorry to see me go. At the time, I didn’t have the sense to realize how lucky I had been to have Denis Denfert drive me to their hotel. It had been the right choice for me at the time, but now I needed to move on.

  With the understanding kindness I have come to expect from the French, they had done their best to make me comfortable and to enjoy their city. Thomas had probably saved my life by giving me food, friendship and booking me on every English speaking Paris tour the city had to offer so despite what had been a shabby beginning, I had probably had the best introduction to a foreign country that an ignorant stranger coulda hoped for.

  Every morning Denis had picked me up in his taxi and taken me to the tour office where I joined the English speaking group waiting there. I had boarded my bus, listened to every word the guide said and had followed his red umbrella through every major art museum inside and outside Paris, through the Palace of Versailles, and onto the boats that tour the Seine. I had climbed to the top of the Notre Dame Cathedral and to the bottom of the sewers of Paris.

  I had even begun to answer questions for other tourists when they didn’t hear or understand our guide. “What’d he say?” they’d ask.

  “He said Montmartre was where St. Denis was beheaded. The man who brought Christianity to Paris. And that’s his statue there, the one holding the head.” I’d made that tour three times.

  The guide acknowledged my help with a smile and a “very good, Bonita Faye.” By then I coulda probably got a job with his company if I’d wanted it.

  I went by the tour office to tell him I was moving, but that I’d be back to see all my favorite things again with him.

  “I will always be happy to see you, Bonita Faye, but I think you could find anyplace in Paris on your own now, especially those on the one o’clock tour.” We laughed as we remembered that I’d gone on the one o’clock five times before he’d thought to ask me if I knew there were other English speaking tours. At ten o’clock, four and two weekly day tours. I’d taken them all. “Good luck,” he said and I knew he meant it.

  Claude had written out in French where I was going and why and I gave this message to Denis in our taxi ride back to the hotel. I didn’t want him to show up the next morning and find me gone. He would worry about me, or worse, think I was awfully rude not to say good-bye. At the hotel, I tried to tip Denis extra, but he wouldn’t take it.

  “Nous avons fait un petit bout de chemin ensemble,” he said.

  I stopped him by holding up the palm of my hand, opened my car door and motioned him to follow me.

  Thomas was our interpreter. “Denis is happy to have traveled around with you. The two of you have covered a lot of miles. He wants you to know that he knows of Claude and Simone Vermeillon. When you come into the city, he can be reached at this number and perhaps, sometime he will come out to Bois de Boulogne, if that is agreeable with you.”

  Well, knock me over. If Denis Denfert knew the Vermeillons, maybe Paris wasn’t the big, impersonal city I thought it to be. Maybe underneath, everybody knew everybody else. Just like in Poteau. Come to think on it, I had certainly found my network of friends. For all I knew my taxi driver Denis Denfert might be related to the Vermeillons. Everyone else in Paris was.

  I took a long look at him, trying to see what I had missed.

  Denis stood patiently on the elegant but faded carpet of the hotel, enduring my once-over.

  He was short, shorter than Claude, and had a deceptively muscular build. Without his cap, which he held in both hands, his dark hair, with gray at the sides, sprang alive. This unruly effect made him appear younger. Lots older than me, but younger than the courtly gentleman I had previously thought him to be. Tiny wrinkles crinkled around his eyes as he smiled. He was actually a handsome man.

  Funny how you can see someone every day and never really see them.

  I thought of all the kindly things he had done for me. Bringing me to this hotel; he coulda just as easily have driven me to a fleabag or one of the outrageously expensive hotels around the Champs-Elysees. How he had shown up every day, to make sure I was okay, and to see that I arrived safely where ever my destination for the day had been. I had thought it was a coincidence that he was there waiting for me when my tours ended. But, now, I wasn’t so sure. Thomas had told me that it was Denis who had sent me the dictionary I’d found by my bed.

  I returned his smile.

  “Tell monsieur that I sure am thankful to him for helping me all these weeks and I would be proud as punch to see him in Boulogne any time.”

  Denis Denfert inclined his head in a little bow and whispered, “Au revoir, Bonita Faye.” And then, surely not, he added, “my little friend.” In English.

  He was gone before I could make sure.

  With Denis gone and my suitcase and extra baggage stored at the hotel desk, I wandered into the Tobac store next door to buy more postcards and stamps. I wanted to send Harmon and Patsy my new address and explain why I was moving out of Paris. Not that it would make them no never mind. Boulogne or Paris meant as little to them as where ever it was that Harmon was in Korea meant to me. You may have noticed that geography was not a strong point for people from Oklahoma. I coulda written that I was going to China and Patsy woulda thought it was next door to Paris.

  It was me she cared for, not where I was.

  Patsy was a “blank check” friend. One of the ones you could give a signed blank check to and trust not to wipe out your bank account.

  We’d met each other at church in Poteau. As one of his public relations efforts, Billy Roy had insisted we join a church. Since I had gone to Glorieta and all, I always thought of myself as Baptist, so we wound up one Sunday morning joining the First Baptist Church in Poteau. That was the only time Billy Roy stepped foot in it, ‘cept when they carried him in feet first. But he made me go every time they opened them church doors.

  I kinda liked it though. Especially the Ladies’ Bible Study. We’d meet in different one’s homes and have a little prayer, and a little Bible verse study, and a little something to eat. The women would always try to outdo themselves and cook up their special desserts. Berta would fix her German chocolate cake which was different than Ethel’s American chocolate cake. I don’t need to tell you what Miss Dorothy made when we met at her house. And I took to fixing the Eagle Brand lemon pie my mama had taught me how to make.

  It got where I could say “howdy” to the Baptist women when I saw them at the market, or wave to them if I was swinging on my front porch and they passed by in their big cars. And since I could read so well, it got where they always asked me to read the Bible verse of the day at the monthly meetings.

  There was a kinda peckin’ order to church. The banker and the mayor and such and their wives sat right up front. Right under the preacher’s eyes so they could be sure to be counted on the rolls up yonder. No knowing where I fit in, I moved around a lot to the different pews. That’s how I found Patsy. She always sat perched on the very back pew, like at any minute, she might bolt and run out the door.

  I noticed her first ‘cause she seemed about my age. Maybe a bit older. Lord, ‘cept for Claude, it seemed everybody I knew was older than me.

  It was on a Sunday that I hadn’t wanted to go to church, but I hadn’t wanted to stay at home with Billy Roy more, so I slipped in late, and sat in the back by this woman who always was there in church, but I didn’t recall just who she was. I recognized her not only from her pew position, but also from the plain navy blue dress she always wore. She was sitting slumped forwar
d a bit, her eyes on the folded hands in her lap. Her long, straight black hair that was normally tied in a pony tail at her neck fell loosely around her face.

  She didn’t look up and greet me like most people did and I was glad of that. However, I could feel her looking at me when she didn’t think I was looking. When the music director signaled for the congregation to stand and sing Hymn Number 148, we stood up at the same time and our hips bumped. Instinctively, we both looked up to react and apologize, but what we saw caused us both to burst out laughing.

  We both had beauts of shiners; her on her left eye and me on my right. Our laughter was just barely covered up by the organ prelude to the hymn, and, in fact, a little boy in front of us turned around to stare, first ‘cause of the noise, then ‘cause of the black eyes.

  Have you ever started laughing at something and know you’re never going to be able to stop? Well, Patsy and I did that all the time, and the first time was that Sunday. Before the last verse of the song, we both pretty much had figured out what was happening to us and before the congregation sat down again, we had sneaked out of the church.

  Outside, it was Sunday morning calm. You could smell the fresh-cut churchyard grass and birds were everywhere, singing or searching for bugs in the newly disturbed yard. Patsy and I leaned up against the white columns of the church to catch our breaths.

  I regained my composure first and defensively said, “I got mine running into the clothesline.”

  Patsy simply said, “My husband hit me.”

  She was more honest than me and we both knew it.

  And then she laughed again, and I got my second glimpse of the humor with which she viewed the world. “But, I hit him back and he’s got two of these.”

  We never spent another day apart from that time on until I went to Paris, France.

  Patsy couldn’t read a word if her life depended on it. She wasn’t a dropout like me, she had never even been to school. I hadn’t seen her at the Ladies’ Bible Study ‘cause, to them, she didn’t exist ‘cept to come in their back doors to collect or return their ironing.

  She had lots of Indian blood in her, but somebody along the way had given her bright turquoise eyes. That was about the only truly beautiful physical feature she had, but someone, maybe God, had also given her the serene, easy-going attitude that enabled her to cope with her lot in life. She had married Jerry when she was thirteen and had six kids already. A naturally loving mother, she nurtured those kids like a bitch hound nurses its pups. They were free to roam and do whatever they wanted long as they showed up to be counted, hugged and fed every so often.

  And Jerry was the best no-account man I ever met.

  Not much better educated than Patsy, he did all the odd jobs around town, showing up in his clean, starched and ironed overalls to paint houses, fix shutters, the roof or the plumbing. He was the one who cut the grass at church.

  And he loved his Patsy. And their kids. When he hit her, he did ‘cause of the background and upbringing they were both used to and nothing personal was intended. And when he hit her, she just hauled off and socked him back twice as hard and twice as much. That didn’t make it right, but it worked for them.

  Patsy was so smart that she had memorized what she couldn’t read. She knew the whole Bible from cover to cover.

  One day, soon after we met, we were in my kitchen, drinking coffee, eating chocolate chip cookies and talking about religion, and I told her about Glorieta and about me speaking out from behind the bushes. It was the only Bible verse I had ever memorized, so I showed off a little, and recited it to her.

  “Well, now, ain’t that good, Bonita Faye. Only that ain’t all of it, you know.”

  “I don’t follow you, Patsy. What ain’t all of it?”

  “The rest of that part you recited to me. The next part goes like this:

  “And he said unto me, ‘Write, for these words are true and faithful.’

  “And he said unto me, ‘It is done. I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life freely.

  “‘He that overcometh shall inherit all things; and I will be his God, and he shall be my son.

  “‘But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death.’ ”

  I was some impressed.

  SEVENTEEN

  My days at the Hotel Regina took on a pleasant sameness.

  I got up late every morning and enjoyed a continental breakfast in the basement dining room: a fresh croissant and watered-down coffee which, I don’t need to tell you, drew considerable contempt from the Europeans who ate there, but I felt justified when the few Americans who had found their way to the outskirts of Paris nonchalantly began to imitate my teapot habit. Like me, they had even started bringing the unused shaving mugs placed in each room for their “Americanized” coffee.

  “You just can’t expect Americans to drink thick, French roast coffee out of those little ol’ things,” I told Simone. “Yes, our coffee is watered down, but, look at it this way, we drink twice as much so you can charge twice as much for it.”

  “I’ll never understand,” she replied. But I did notice that the shaving mugs began appearing on the white-clothed breakfast buffet table next to the demitasse cups.

  Boulogne has attractive parks and its own interesting history and for awhile I enjoyed wandering around, finding my way through the town. The hotel was shaped like a flatiron with its pointy end spilling into a traffic circle that led off onto six different streets: one led to the post office, another to the Hotel de Ville and another to the park. I explored them all, stopping in to poke around the surrounding shops as I went.

  One day I came across a small bookstore that had an intriguing message printed in black letters in the corner of one its display windows. It said “American Literature.” I pushed open the door and entered.

  Inside, I found my fifth best friend.

  Mama was my first, Patsy, my second. Harmon counted as number three and Claude, fourth. Simone and I weren’t there yet, so Robert Sinclair got to be fifth before she did. Or Denis Denfert.

  In my best French, I said, “Pardon me, can you tell me the meaning of the sign on the window? American Literature?” My best obviously wasn’t good enough, ‘cause the tall one-armed man standing there didn’t respond. Frustrated, I repeated my question, louder this time.

  “Sure can. No need to shout. Means I’m the only one in Boulogne who sells books written in English.” Not only did he reply in English, but it was with an American accent. Different from mine, but still American.

  “Then why didn’t you say that the first time?” I asked irritably.

  “I was trying to decide what it was you were saying.”

  “Well, I know my French idn’t very good, but…”

  “Good! It’s atrocious. You shouldn’t be speaking it. You should be grateful that the French haven’t sent you to the guillotine.”

  “What’s wrong with the way I speak it?”

  He rubbed the side of his long nose with the stub of his left arm which ended at the elbow. “You speak French like an Arkie. Am I right?”

  “Okie,” I corrected and then admitted, “Well, maybe some Arkie. I’m Bonita Faye Burnett from Poteau, Oklahoma.”

  “I know who you are. You’re the young woman who’s staying with the Vermeillons at the Regina. I’m Robert Sinclair from Media, Pennsylvania. I was hoping I would have an opportunity to meet you.”

  I was flattered. “Oh, because we’re both Americans?”

  “No, because I want you to leave young Claude alone.”

  Now Claude and I were best friends and maybe, I suspicioned that he was courting me some, but I hadn’t thought our private
relationship had reached the level of street talk. I stammered, “What do you mean?”

  He pointed the index finger of his only hand at me. “You’re the one who has been teaching him English. I want you to stop it. You shouldn’t even be speaking English. Or French. Your ignorance will ruin him.”

  I flushed red. Tears stung my eyes. I ran out of the store. I don’t think I’ve ever been so embarrassed and so angry at the same time.

  The nerve of that man. The gall. Who in the hell did he think he was?

  I finally stopped my pell-mell rush though the streets. Taking my bearings, I headed for the park and walked through the marked paths until I came to the waterfall. Going as close to the edge as I could, I stopped and stared at the cascading water.

  I’d leave Boulogne today. I wouldn’t even say good-bye to Claude or Simone. I’d leave Paris. France. I’d go home where I belonged.

  How dare that man call me stupid.

  I hated being called stupid.

  As my breathing returned to normal, so did my thoughts. A small voice inside me said, Now hold on Bonita Faye. He called you ignorant, not stupid. There is a difference. And you are kinda ignorant. You didn’t graduate from no high school and you do talk like a hillbilly.

  It musta been about an hour later when I walked back into Robert Sinclair’s bookstore. I carried a box with two chocolate eclairs and two paper cups of coffee. French coffee. I waved my treat in front of him. “Can we start over?” I asked.

  This time Robert was the one with the red face. “I’m sorry. I get carried away. I didn’t mean to be so blunt. Is that supposed to be a peace offering? If so, I should be offering it to you. I would have come after you, but I couldn’t leave the store open. By the time I locked up, I couldn’t tell which way you had gone.” His words tumbled out, one steppin’ on the other. “In short, yes, let us start over, Bonita Faye Burnett from Poteau, Oklahoma.”