Джанет Скеслин Чарльз - The Paris Library

“Humans have families,” she continued, “but what about geese?”

I shrugged.

“We say a gaggle of geese.”

“How about sparrows?”

“A host of sparrows.”

“Hawks?”

“A cast.”

Like a bird TV show. I giggled.

“Do you know what they call a group of ravens? An unkindness of ravens.”

It sounded too silly to be true. I scoured her face for the truth, but she seemed serious. “What about crows?”

“A murder of crows.”

“A murder of crows,” I repeated.

It felt like the good old days, back when everything was okay. I hugged her tight, so tight, wishing everything could be like this always. Us, together on the big brass bed, warm inside.

IN THE MORNING, Dad and I lingered at the kitchen counter with Mom. He said it wouldn’t hurt me to miss a day of school.

“I don’t need babysitters!” Mom said.

“Stanch said you should still be in the hospital,” Dad replied.

We ate our bacon and eggs in silence. The minute we finished, she pushed us out the door. At school, all I could think of was her—at least in the hospital, she hadn’t been alone. In the middle of math, Tiffany Ivers kicked my chair. “Hey, spaz,” she said. “Mr. Goodan asked you a question.” I lifted my head, but he’d moved on. When the last bell rang, I rushed home. From outside, I could see my parents on the window seat. I went around to the back door, entering quietly through the kitchen.

“Stanch suggested getting a nurse’s aide,” I heard him say.

“For heaven’s sake! I’m fine.”

“Would it hurt to have some help around the house? I think Lily would breathe easier.”

He was right, I would.

“Who would you ask?” Mom asked.

“Sue Bob?”

My ears perked up even more when I heard Mary Louise’s mother’s name.

“I don’t want friends to see me like this,” Mom said.

“Just an idea,” Dad backtracked.

Maybe Mrs. Gustafson could help. I knocked on her door. This time I waited for her to answer.

“Mom’s still sick,” I told her.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“And we need some help around the house, so she doesn’t overdo. Could you—”

“Lil?” I heard Dad say behind me. “What are you doing? We should get back to your mom.”

“I suppose I could help out,” Mrs. Gustafson said.

“No need,” Dad said. “We’ll manage.”

She looked from him to me. “Let me make dinner. I’ll just gather a few ingredients.” She went inside and came back with an armful of vegetables and a carton of cream.

At our kitchen counter, she peeled potatoes so finely that the skins were see-through.

“What are you making?”

“Leek-and-potato soup.”

“What’s a leek?”

“In eastern Montana, a most neglected vegetable.”

She cut off the curly roots before splitting its slender white body. It smelled like a meek onion. She sliced the leek and scraped the pieces into the pan, where they basked in bubbling butter while the potatoes boiled. Then she pureed the leeks and potatoes in the blender before adding a dollop of cream and pouring the white soup into bowls.

“Supper’s ready,” I called.

Dad walked beside Mom, his hands hovering near her waist like a hospital orderly. Before, I’d rolled my eyes when my parents kissed, but now I wished they could go back to the touchy-feely way they used to be.

After we said grace, I hunched over my bowl and shoved a spoonful into my mouth. The soup felt silky good. I wanted to eat fast, but it was hot.

“Soup teaches patience,” Mrs. Gustafson said. Her back was straight as she brought the spoon to her mouth. I stretched my spine taller.

“Delicious,” Mom said.

“It was my son’s favorite.” The light in Mrs. Gustafson’s eyes momentarily dimmed. “It takes just a few ingredients to make a healthy meal, yet industrial food companies have Americans convinced there’s no time to cook. You eat bland soup from a can, even though leeks browned with butter taste like heaven.

“Going without has made me more appreciative. During the war, my mother missed sugar more than anything, but I missed butter.”

“So food was hard to come by?” Dad said.

“Good food was. I’m not sure which ‘war delicacy’ was worse—baguettes baked with wood chips because there was a shortage of flour, or a tasteless soup made of only water and rutabagas. Endless lines for meat, dairy, fruits, and most vegetables, but vendors couldn’t give rutabagas away. And when I came to Montana, do you know what my mother-in-law put in every one of her stews? Rutabagas!”

We laughed. She made us laugh as she talked about this and that, giving us a break from the unnatural quiet that had descended on our family. When she rose to leave, Mom said, “Thank you, Odile.”

Our neighbor looked surprised. I wondered if it was because she wasn’t used to hearing her given name. Finally, she said, “My pleasure.”

WHEN MARY LOUISE and I got home from school, we could hear laughter coming from my parents’ bedroom. Odile had kicked off her high heels and moved the rocking chair closer to the bed. Mom’s hair had been freshly washed and curled, and she wore the same brick-red lipstick as Odile. She was beautiful.

“What’s so funny?” Mary Louise asked Mom.

“Odile was telling me her in-laws had trouble pronouncing her name.”

“They called me ‘Ordeal’!”

“Marriage: for better or worse, and however loony the in-laws are,” Mom said, and they both laughed.

As Mary Louise and I went to my room to study, we heard Mom ask, “If you don’t mind my asking, where did you and your husband meet?”

“At a hospital in Paris. In those days, an enlisted man had to ask his superior’s permission to marry. When Buck’s said no, he challenged the major to a game of cribbage—if he won, we could marry, if he lost, he had to clean bedpans for a month.”

“He was determined!”

Their words became whispers, so Mary Louise and I moved closer to the door.

“He didn’t tell me,” Odile continued, “and when I arrived, there was a scandal. I wanted to return to France but had no money for a return ticket. I thought people would forgive… Not that I needed their forgiveness!”

“What scandal?” Mary Louise whispered. “Was she one of those cancan dancers? Is that why people don’t talk to her?”

“ She doesn’t talk to them,” I huffed.

MOM HIBERNATED THE winter away. After school, I lay down beside her and told her about my day. She nodded but didn’t open her eyes. Dad stayed close, ready with chamomile in her favorite china cup. Dr. Stanchfield prescribed more pills, but Mom didn’t feel better.

“Why can’t she get up?” Dad asked him. We three lingered at the front door. “Even the smallest effort tires her.”

“There’s been too much damage to the heart,” Stanch said. “She doesn’t have much time left.”

“Months?” Dad asked.

“Weeks,” Stanch replied.

Dad put his arms around me as the truth closed in.

MY PARENTS INSISTED that school was too important to miss, but Dad took a leave of absence from work and watched over Mom, never leaving her side.

“You’re suffocating me!” I heard her tell him. They’d never fought, but now he couldn’t seem to do anything right. When she got riled, she had trouble catching her breath. Scared to make things worse, he went back to work, slipping out at sunrise and returning after dark. Not wanting to disturb her, he slept on the couch. At night, when the house was quiet, I heard Mom moan. Every scrape of her breath, every cough, every sigh scared me. Huddled in bed, I was afraid to go see if she was okay.

After I told Odile about Mom’s raspy breathing, I felt better. Odile knew what to do. She even moved a cot next to Mom’s bed so she could spend the night. When Mom protested, Odile assured her that it was no trouble. “I slept with dozens of soldiers.”