The Paris Library(104)
“Coward! If I can bare the scars, you can bear to look.”
She bristled with anger. Her spirit had been bruised but not broken.
“Lawrence photographed me, you know. If I dare make a fuss, he’ll use the pictures in court to prove I’m an unfit mother. Only sluts get their heads shaved, right? How am I ever going to get my little girl back?”
“I could telephone Lawrence, explain…”
“Telephone Lawrence, explain,” Margaret scoffed. “You should go.”
“I could stay and help. Make your meals, write to your family.”
“I don’t want any more of your ‘help.’ Please leave.”
I moved toward the door.
“Wait!” she said.
I turned. I’d do anything for another chance. Surely, she’d forgive me. We’d been through so much together.
“There’s a blue box on the shelf in the dressing room. Bring it to me.”
I tried to give her the package, but she said, “For you. I asked Felix to find it. When you wear it, I hope you’ll remember what you did, and realize what it means to be a true friend.”
Inside was a red belt. The leather was buttery smooth, long and slim as a whip.
“How can I make it up to you? Please give me a chance.”
Margaret turned her face to the wall. “Go. I never want to see you again.”
CHAPTER 44
Lily
FROID, MONTANA, DECEMBER 1987
DAD’S WIFE TOOK away Forever!” I told Odile as I slammed into her kitchen. “She said Judy Blume writes ‘smut.’ Censorship is wrong!”
“So is throwing a fit instead of sitting down to have a conversation.” Odile finished drying the last of her dishes. “You should ask Ellie what she fears.”
“Huh?”
“Reading is dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
“Ellie’s scared the book will put ideas in your head, scared you’ll want to experiment with sex.”
“I read Out of Africa and didn’t establish a coffee plantation in Kenya!”
Odile smiled a little smile that meant she thought I said something silly. “Not many people do. Sex is a natural part of life. But it’s a big step, and Ellie is worried.”
“I’ve never been on a date,” I said. “At this rate, I never will. Ellie’s trying to ruin my life.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“All she cares about are Dad and the boys.”
“Aren’t you tired of that refrain? Ellie does her best. Try to put yourself in her skin.”
“Yuck!”
“In her shoes. Have you ever considered how Ellie feels? In all these years, she and your father have never bought a new couch or lamp. She cooks in your Mom’s pans, she eats off her plates. How strange must that feel? Are you certain that you’re the outsider?”
She had a point.
“Love isn’t rationed. Ellie can care about all of you. You should talk to her.”
“What if—”
“Take the first step.”
On my way home, I watched the boys run around the backyard. Joe waved a leaky water pistol at Benjy, who wore his baby blanket like a cape. They scampered toward me, and each one grabbed a leg.
“Mine,” Benjy said.
“No,” Joe argued, “she’s mine.”
“You’re both mine.” I hugged them.
Inside, I ran my hand over Mom’s dining room table, the curtains she’d sewn, the pastel paintings of birds she’d chosen. Nothing here belonged to Ellie, the unpaid curator of the Brenda museum.
In the master bedroom, in my mother’s rocking chair, Ellie darned my father’s socks. “Finished with your hissy fit?” she asked.
“Sorry I ran off,” I said, the fight gone out of me. “It wasn’t very mature.”
“Hon, I just want the best for you.”
“I know.” I went to her, and she hugged me.
* * *
TO CELEBRATE MY driver’s license, Odile invited Ellie and me to the Husky House for a sundae. In the orange booth, Odile set a gift on the table. “Ordered from Chicago.” Gently I removed the velvet ribbon and opened the box. Inside was a beret, gray and downy like a dove.
“J’adore!” I lunged across the table to kiss her on either cheek. “I’ll never take it off!”
She straightened the beret over my brows.
“You look French,” Ellie said, the best possible compliment she could have paid me.
At home in my room, beret on my head, I took out the Josephine Baker record Odile had lent me and ran my fingers along Josephine’s face, jealous of her easy grin, her dewy skin, her confidence. I kicked off my shoes and yanked off my shirt and pants. In my white bra and panties, I stared at my scrawny reflection, wondering what it would be like to be a sex symbol in silk stockings. I grabbed a black marker and drew circles around my thighs, where I imagined the tops would reach. It wasn’t enough. I wanted to draw myself a whole new life.
* * *
THAT SUMMER BEFORE our senior year, Mary Louise and I worked at the O’Haire motel. We vacuumed and made beds, cleaned toilets and scrubbed tubs. It paid better than babysitting, and Mrs. Vandersloot gave us a Coke during our break.