Ellen Sussman - French Lessons

“Good for Emily,” Josie said, placing the toast in front of her dad.

“You and Emily used to be best friends. You couldn’t go anywhere without that girl.”

“That was a long time ago, Dad.”

“You call this coffee cake?”

“It’s all I have.”

“I should have told you I was coming. You could have bought me a cake.”

“I would have bought you a cake, Dad,” Josie said, smiling.

“I like a little surprise sometimes. But this is the price I pay.” He held up the whole wheat toast.

“Put jam on,” Josie urged him. “It needs a little something.”

“So what happened with you and Emily?”

“Nothing, Dad. Life. We grew up. I moved away, she stayed home. People change.”

“I don’t change.”

“Thank God for that.”

“You making fun of me?”

“Never.”

He smiled and she thought of her mother, sitting next to him, both of them short and a little fat, both of them fighting over every little thing, smacking each other’s arms like some married version of the Three Stooges. Josie was always embarrassed by them, embarrassed by her love for them, and then, when her mother died, she yearned for the noise of them.

“You could have a girlfriend,” Josie said gently. “It’s enough time.”

“Ha,” her father said. “You think there’s another Franny out there somewhere?”

“No.”

“One of a kind.”

“I know. Maybe the next one is a different kind.”

“There’s no next one.”

“You might try.”

“You want Emily to ask her nice boyfriend if he has any friends at the law firm for you?”

“No, Dad.”

The phone rang. She leapt at it.

“Hello.”

“I miss you.”

“My dad’s visiting. Can I call you later?”

“No. I’m headed into the meeting. I just wanted to tell you-”

He didn’t say anything. She waited. She watched her dad, who fiddled unhappily with his toast.

“Will he be there tonight?”

“No.”

“I’ll come by.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Hey, Whitney. My dad wants me to start dating. You know any eligible single guys to fix me up with?”

“Don’t.”

“Okay. Give it some thought. He’s right. I should have a boyfriend. I should fall in love with someone and bring him to meet my dad.”

Her dad nodded, smiling, his lips smeared with boysenberry jam.

“I wanted to tell you I’m falling in love with you,” Simon said.

“That’s crazy,” Josie said. “You must know some guys. The good ones can’t all be married.”

“Stop it.”

“My father would like you,” Josie tells Nico. They’re standing side by side, gazing at a photo of Marilyn, naked, a sheer scarf draped over her body.

“Not your mother? It’s usually the mothers I charm.”

“My mother’s dead.”

She moves to the next photograph on the gallery wall-Marilyn taking a long, lazy drag on her cigarette.

“Lung cancer. Eight years ago. She never smoked a cigarette in her life.”

“I’m sorry.”

“My father smoked. Quit the day she was diagnosed. A bit late, though.”

“You were so young.”

“I’ll tell you a story I’ve never told anyone. About my mother’s death.”

He looks pleased. This man is way too easy.

“That last winter my parents were in Palm Springs, staying with my aunt for a month. I flew down there a couple of days before my mom died and then flew back with my dad. They had my mother’s body flown up-Dad wanted her buried at a cemetery near their house. I had packed my mother’s clothes to have her buried in. When we were waiting for our luggage at SFO, standing in front of the…” Josie stops. She is suddenly there, waiting for the bags, no longer telling a story. It had been sweltering hot in Palm Springs and now it was frigid, even in the airport. Her coat was packed in her suitcase and she stood there, teeth chattering, waiting for the bags to arrive.

“Yes?”

“I don’t know the word.”

“What word?”

“For the thing that the suitcases drop onto. The-Oh my God, I can’t even remember the word in English.”

“Le carrousel de bagages?”

“Yes. ‘Carousel.’ That’s the word.”

“Tell me the story.”

Josie feels panic stirring inside her. She looks around. Marilyn; a cigarette, a martini, puckered lips, long, manicured fingernails. Marilyn, Marilyn. She is drunk on Marilyn.

“We were all standing there, at the baggage claim, and first a shoe dropped down-not a suitcase, but a single shoe. It circled the carousel once and everyone watched it. When it passed by me a second time I recognized it. My mother’s navy-blue shoe. Someone laughed. I grabbed it and tucked it under my arm, embarrassed somehow. And then a pair of underpants dropped from the chute-I’m not kidding-my mother’s flowered underpants. The ones I chose from her drawer to have her buried in. Then her blouse. A peach-colored silk blouse she wore for special occasions. It almost floated down, as if worn by a fucking ghost. I grabbed each item and tucked the clothes in my arms. Her bra. Imagine: everyone was watching. Her C-cup rose-colored bra tumbled down. My father walked away. Finally my suitcase dropped down the chute and it was partially open, the items spilling out. I grabbed the bag and started stuffing everything back.”

Josie’s crying, tears running down her face, and she can’t stop. Nico pulls her toward him and holds her. She lets him. She swipes tears from her face but there’s no stopping them.

Simon’s gone.

“I’ve been sitting in my car across the street. I waited until your father was gone.”

Josie reaches out and places her hand on Simon’s chest.

“I wanted to walk up to him and say, ‘I’m Josie’s boyfriend. She doesn’t need another boyfriend.’ ”

“But it’s not true. You’re not my boyfriend. You’re someone’s husband. You’re the man I sneak away to have sex with. You’re the reason I can’t even talk to my best friend anymore.”

“Don’t.”

“I can’t give my father the one pleasure he wants.”

“I know, Josie. That’s why I sat in my car for the past two hours.”

“You have Brady’s play tonight. It starts in an hour.”

“I can’t go.”

“This can wait. Brady can’t wait.”

“I can’t give you more than this.”

“I know that. I’m not asking for more.”

“You’re asking for a man to introduce to your father.”

“Why are you here? What do you want?”

“I want you.”

“It stopped raining,” Nico says. “Let’s go have lunch.”

Josie finds a Kleenex in her purse and wipes her face. She has stopped crying but she feels raw. When she first learned about Simon, when Whitney called that Saturday morning and told her to turn on the television, she couldn’t cry-or scream or rage. She sat stunned, in front of her computer, Googling news reports, trying to find out everything she could about the crash of a small plane in the mountains near Santa Barbara. The phone kept ringing and she never answered it. Later there were dozens of messages from other teachers, a couple of Brady’s classmates, even a long, sobbing message from Glynnis Gilmore. She had fallen in love with Brady on opening night, she said.

Now a ridiculous memory of her mother’s death has unmoored her. And the French tutor has galloped in on his white horse.

They leave the museum in a hurry, as if chased by Marilyn’s hungry eyes. The boy at the front desk doesn’t even look at them as they leave.

“I know a restaurant,” Nico says, and he takes her arm, moving her quickly along the slick city streets. The sun reflects off puddles and wet cars; Josie digs into her purse for her sunglasses. She’s disoriented, her mind swimming in too many dark holes: her mother, Simon, Marilyn. She needs to come up for air; her lungs are bursting with the effort.