Amy Bloom - Lucky Us

M. Croiset was having a great time. He talked to himself as we walked along and he hummed. He pulled together some wildflowers and handed them to me. When my hands were full, he put a few in his buttonhole. He chuckled at the rabbits and squirrels. He waved his hands at the butterflies. When he spoke, the interpreter shouted out the translations as we walked. One time, M. Croiset called out “Sally Lou Ritz,” and laughed. Sally Lou Ritz was the showgirl Judge Crater was dallying with hours before his disappearance. “O-hi-o,” M. Croiset said. The FBI men looked at each other. One of them said he’d interviewed Sally Lou Ritz about six years ago. She took care of her aging mother in Youngstown now and she looked like hell, he said. M. Croiset said “Sally Lou Ritz” a couple of more times, just because he liked the sound of it, and he pointed toward a stand of trees.

Under the biggest tree was a circle of flat, mossy stones. M. Croiset told us, through the interpreter, that there were some bones under the largest stone. While the men took off their jackets to pull up the stones, the interpreter said that M. Croiset was sorry but the bones didn’t belong to the judge.

The men kept pulling. We all stood around. M. Croiset leaned against the tree, wiping his face with a handkerchief. “C’est dommage,” he said a few times. “ C’est une femme. Ce n’est pas Sally Lou Ritz.” We both watched the digging with interest. The FBI agents got excited and the FBI photographer started snapping. There was a medium-size skeleton under the rocks, and M. Croiset crossed himself and went over to look. He talked and the interpreter told us that this was the skeleton of a dead girl from about sixty years ago. M. Croiset had tears in his eyes. The interpreter said that the girl was a servant, that she had told her lover that she was pregnant and he had killed her. Then he went to sea. Ted Ronson told the two youngest men to stay with the skeleton and the rest of us walked back to the FBI cars. They dropped me and M. Croiset and the interpreter at a diner and said they’d be back in an hour.

“We’re probably going to stop for the day,” Ted Ronson said. “We have to check out this body.”

The diner was dark and sticky, hot air pushing at us from the big fan in the corner. The pies were sweating. I told the interpreter that we might just want to have lemonade and ham-and-cheese sandwiches and potato chips. I said I was sorry about the food, which would probably be awful. He told M. Croiset, who smiled and said, “ Limonade! Parfait. ” M. Croiset spoke to the interpreter for a little while and the interpreter said that while we waited, M. Croiset suggested that we could play a game. I said sure. The interpreter told me to picture anything in the world. Anything, he said. From anywhere, even outer space.

I was sweating like a pig. My skirt stuck to my legs and even my feet were sweating in my sneakers. I pictured the window of Holman’s toy store in Abingdon, when I was a little girl. My mother and I went every year, a couple of weeks before Christmas. We went to admire the windows, which were always beautifully decorated, and we went to pick out one toy that I really liked. My father would come the day after Christmas or the next day and the toy I wanted would be produced. Mr. Holman and my father and mother came through every year.

I pictured my favorite of all the Christmas windows. Mr. Holman had hung dozens of glittering snowflakes on a fishing line, so they seemed to float in the window. The window was framed in candy canes and there was a little village, all red and black, in front of a lake made out of a mirror. Around the lake, spreading out to the corners, was a miniature countryside of fields and forests, of green, snow-dusted pine trees, old-fashioned villagers, rushing by with packages, a couple of Model T’s and at the very edge, a barn, glowing from within, its doors flung open and a cow and calf lying down in the middle. And all of that, including the cow and the calf in the golden light, is what M. Croiset sketched on the back of the place mat. He smiled at me and put down his pen. He took my hand in both of his hands and he nodded to the interpreter. He was so intent and his face was so expressive, I felt I knew what he was saying before the interpreter spoke.

“Vous n’êtes pas fait pour ce travail.”

The interpreter spoke very quietly and kindly. “You are not cut out for this kind of work.”

“Ne vous inquiétez pas. Votre secret es dans de bonnes mains.”

“Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

M. Croiset pressed my hand. He handed me a napkin so I could wipe my eyes. M. Croiset spoke again, but this time I didn’t know what was coming.

The interpreter said, “M. Croiset feels that you have not found your gift.”

M. Croiset spoke again, and this time, he seemed a little annoyed with the interpreter.

“I beg your pardon. You have not yet found your professional calling. M. Croiset sees that you are a mother and a daughter.”

M. Croiset spoke.

“Like a mother and a daughter. He sees the little boy and the older man, from Spain. You are loved. He says that soon you will find your calling.” The interpreter paused. “He says do not lose your nerve when the time comes.”

M. Croiset kissed my hand.

Ted Ronson came through the door, sweating like the rest of us. I didn’t look at him twice. They bundled us into separate Oldsmobiles and took M. Croiset and the interpreter back to the city. The two junior G-men drove me home and told me not to talk about what I’d seen or repeat anything that’d been said. I told Danny and Francisco what happened. I included finding the skeleton, not finding the judge, and the amazing place mat. I left out the part about my being a complete fraud. I told them that M. Croiset had mentioned them both, but I didn’t say he said I was a mother and a daughter. Danny said that he might become a G-man and Francisco and I nodded, as though we would not strip naked and publicly declare ourselves Communists to keep that from happening.

Francisco slept over the whole week. It was so hot, I let Danny sleep on the living room floor, on top of a sheet. The crickets made a racket every night. We all woke up at dawn every morning because of the heat. On Saturday, at dawn, Francisco said we might as well have breakfast. He squeezed a dozen oranges and made scrambled eggs and sausage. I made cinnamon toast for Danny, who tore the crusts off and ate my sausage.

Francisco stamped his feet. He stood up suddenly. He pointed to his chest and pushed his fork and plate and the eggs and the rest of the sausage onto the floor. His face became deep, dark pink. Danny and I stared at him. I pushed Danny out of my way and dialed the operator. Danny was bouncing up and down in terror.

Oh, God, please, I said, I need a doctor. My father is choking.

The operator was smooth and friendly. Where do you live, she said, and I told her and she said, Well there’s nobody right near you — and I thought she meant white and I screamed, I don’t care who you get, get me a doctor on the phone, and she did.

This is Dr. Snyder, he said.

Oh, Doctor, oh, Doctor, I said.

Francisco was almost purple.

Oh, he’s choking, he’s choking. He can’t breathe.

The doctor’s voice was like silk. That’s all right. You take two deep breaths. Now, how old is he? And can you tell me what he was eating?

I said he was old and had been eating sausage.

All right. Hit him hard on the back a couple of times.

I stood behind Francisco and pounded him as hard as I could. He grabbed the back of his chair but nothing changed. Danny was crying in the corner.

It’s not helping, I said. Oh, God.

Okay, now, lie him down on his back. I made Danny help me get Francisco on the floor. He was rigid with fear and his face was getting even darker. His hands were fists.