The Paris Library(109)

We’d lost lovers, family, friends, our livelihoods. Many of us were picking up the pieces of our lives, though some pieces were lost forever. We had to re-create ourselves.

I had an acquaintance who dealt with this loss by destroying things. The crashing of plates hitting the floor was her solace. Perhaps she wanted to break things before they broke her, but the destruction bothered me. Those were lean years in Paris; rationing continued well after the war. We were hungry and tired.

I asked her maid to give me the shards, thinking that I could mend them, but they were beyond repair. I put fragments together to brighten my daughter’s worn clothing. Library subscribers admired the brooches. I started selling them, and Parisiennes wore my work. What is fashionable in Paris is soon worn the world over.



I was thrilled to glimpse Margaret, alive and well, and a real artiste. “Are you sure she lost custody of her daughter?”

“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.