Джанет Скеслин Чарльз - The Paris Library

“She was certain she would…”

“According to the article, her daughter lived with her.”

Odile studied the news clipping. “I never interpreted it like that.”

“Maybe things didn’t end so badly for Margaret. There’s the address of her boutique in Paris.” I pointed to the page. “You should write.”

“She might not want me to.”

“You should try.”

“I want to respect her feelings.”

“You’re afraid she won’t write back.”

“That, too.”

“Write to her!” Maybe this was how I was like my mother, a guerrilla optimist. I felt there could be a happy ending for Odile and Margaret, I felt it with my whole heart. Love will come and go and come again. Treasure a true friend. Don’t let her go.

“I’ll think about it.”

We’d gone down a dark road, fraught with ugly feelings, but she’d seen me at my worst, and still loved me. I kissed her on both cheeks and said good night. Once again, Odile had saved me.

CHAPTER 47

Odile

FROID, MONTANA, 1983

I SPENT ANOTHER BIRTHDAY alone, with track and field on the television, because Buck and Marc had liked sports. I remembered how we three had watched together on the couch, how Buck had hit the mute button (“Damn announcers never say anything good, anyway.”), so I could listen to Bach on the stereo.

Perhaps I lived too much in the past. It was easy, when many memories were sweet. I savored my wedding night with Buck, somewhat surprised to have found pleasure again. “Love is like the sea. It’s a moving thing, but still and all, it takes shape from the shore it meets, and it’s different with every shore.” 813, Their Eyes Were Watching God.

Of course, there were trying times. Meeting Buck’s parents, at their home, on what felt like their terms. “Ma, Pop, this is the surprise I was telling you about. Here’s my little gal, Odile,” Buck had said proudly, and pulled me to his side.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, enunciating clearly like the Countess.

“A deal?” his father said.

“Ordeal,” his mother corrected.

“ Oh-deal and I got hitched in France,” Buck said.

His father regarded me warily. His mother’s vague smile became a bitter pucker. “How can you be married if we weren’t there?” she asked.

“What about Jenny?” Mr. Gustafson said.

“She’s like a daughter to us,” Mrs. Gustafson said. “While you were… away, we spent the holidays together.”

Away? Buck wasn’t taking the waters in Europe; he was in combat.

“Everyone assumed you and Jenny had an understanding,” she continued.

I looked to Buck. “She was my high-school sweetheart,” he explained. “I never asked her to wait. I’m not a kid anymore. The war… She’ll never understand like you do. Of everybody, you’re the only one who knows.”

It was true, Buck and I had the war—his mother couldn’t even bring herself to say the word. But time moved forward, and he and I had so much more—a home and a son and happiness.

My in-laws never warmed to me, but Father Maloney was kind. He hired me as the church secretary, and I enjoyed writing the newsletter and assembling a small library in the vestibule. It took time for the villagers to forgive me for “stealing” Buck from his high-school girlfriend, but the tarter the townspeople, the sweeter he was. When I showed Buck a photo of the ALP courtyard, he planted a border of petunias like the Library’s. Through an army buddy back East, he found books in French, and my shelves were covered with Professor Cohen’s novels, set in Egypt after the war. Though the manuscript she’d entrusted to me had never been published, I liked to think that it was safe in the Library. Buck never complained about the expense of my subscription to the Paris edition of the Herald , never pointed out that the news came a week late. “Some women want jewels, you need paper,” he said. “I knew that when I married you.”

I read each ALP News column, which is how I knew that Miss Reeder had resumed work at the Library of Congress; Miss Wedd had been released from the internment camp and gone back to keeping the Library’s books; Bitsi had been promoted to assistant director; the Countess had published her memoir; and Boris had retired. It was a satisfaction to know that the Library continued. Over the years, I’d seen my father interviewed about the rise of drugs in the city, and Margaret featured in a profile piece. I missed them, especially Margaret.

Now I wandered about the house, a ghost with no one to haunt. I ate alone. I slept alone. I was sick of being alone. In the closet, I stared up at my jewelry box, where I’d stashed the letters I couldn’t bring myself to burn. I’d made mistakes. I’d learned, but never fast enough. If my life had been a novel, full of chapters both dull and exciting, painful and funny, tragic and romantic, it was now time to reflect on the final page. I was lonely. If only my story would end. If only I were brave enough to close the book once and for all.

Buck’s rifle was propped in the corner. Dust had gathered on the scope. I wondered if the gun was loaded. Knowing Buck, it was. You were the gun, Paul was the trigger. No, that’s not what Margaret said. He was the gun, but you pulled the trigger. You pull the trigger. Hold up the gun and pull the trigger. I picked it up.

The doorbell rang. I didn’t care. The doorbell rang. My finger inched toward the trigger. Someone walked in and said, “Hello?” I recognized the voice. It was the girl who lived next door. I shoved the rifle back into place.

“Anyone home?”

Dazed, I walked to the living room.

“I’m writing a report on you. I mean, on your country,” the girl said. “Maybe you could come over.”

It was strange to see someone else in my living room.

“It’s like a library in here,” she added.

The last time had been four years ago, when the undertaker took Buck’s body.

The girl turned to go.

“When?” I asked.

She looked back. “How about now?”

It seemed that life had offered me an epilogue.

CHAPTER 48

Lily

FROID, MONTANA, MAY 1988

COLLEGE WILL BE a new chapter in your life,” Odile told me as we exited Mass. “Up to you to make it an exciting one.” It would be. I’d been accepted at Columbia, Mary Louise the New York Institute of Art. Thank God, because I couldn’t imagine life without her. Keith had enrolled at the Vo-Tech in Butte but promised to write to her. Robby was staying put. Tiffany was headed to Northwestern, or maybe Northeastern. I felt an unexpected nostalgia for my classmates, even the ones I didn’t like.

In the hall, each table had been specially decorated with baskets of flowers in the senior-class colors, red and white. At the percolator, the men talked about wily President Reagan, in Moscow for a summit. We women waited in line for pastries.

“You must be so proud of Lily,” Mrs. Ivers told Odile.

“I suppose she’ll go off to college and come back smarter than the rest of us,” old Mrs. Murdoch said.

“She’s already smarter than some,” Odile replied, looking pointedly at the other ladies, who scurried off.

I remembered the phrase envoyer balader , which literally means to send someone for a walk, but really means to blow them off. “They always try to talk to you,” I told Odile.

“Who?”

“Those ladies. They say, ‘Nice weather,’ or ‘Lovely sermon,’ and you send them packing.”

“They were mean to me.”

The petulant tone surprised me. It surprised her, too—I saw a dawning in her eyes.

“They’ve tried to make up for it,” I said. “Isn’t it time you gave them a chance?”