The Paris Library(110)

Now I wandered about the house, a ghost with no one to haunt. I ate alone. I slept alone. I was sick of being alone. In the closet, I stared up at my jewelry box, where I’d stashed the letters I couldn’t bring myself to burn. I’d made mistakes. I’d learned, but never fast enough. If my life had been a novel, full of chapters both dull and exciting, painful and funny, tragic and romantic, it was now time to reflect on the final page. I was lonely. If only my story would end. If only I were brave enough to close the book once and for all.

Buck’s rifle was propped in the corner. Dust had gathered on the scope. I wondered if the gun was loaded. Knowing Buck, it was. You were the gun, Paul was the trigger. No, that’s not what Margaret said. He was the gun, but you pulled the trigger. You pull the trigger. Hold up the gun and pull the trigger. I picked it up.

The doorbell rang. I didn’t care. The doorbell rang. My finger inched toward the trigger. Someone walked in and said, “Hello?” I recognized the voice. It was the girl who lived next door. I shoved the rifle back into place.

“Anyone home?”

Dazed, I walked to the living room.

“I’m writing a report on you. I mean, on your country,” the girl said. “Maybe you could come over.”

It was strange to see someone else in my living room.

“It’s like a library in here,” she added.

The last time had been four years ago, when the undertaker took Buck’s body.

The girl turned to go.

“When?” I asked.

She looked back. “How about now?”

It seemed that life had offered me an epilogue.





CHAPTER 48

Lily




FROID, MONTANA, MAY 1988

COLLEGE WILL BE a new chapter in your life,” Odile told me as we exited Mass. “Up to you to make it an exciting one.” It would be. I’d been accepted at Columbia, Mary Louise the New York Institute of Art. Thank God, because I couldn’t imagine life without her. Keith had enrolled at the Vo-Tech in Butte but promised to write to her. Robby was staying put. Tiffany was headed to Northwestern, or maybe Northeastern. I felt an unexpected nostalgia for my classmates, even the ones I didn’t like.

In the hall, each table had been specially decorated with baskets of flowers in the senior-class colors, red and white. At the percolator, the men talked about wily President Reagan, in Moscow for a summit. We women waited in line for pastries.

“You must be so proud of Lily,” Mrs. Ivers told Odile.

“I suppose she’ll go off to college and come back smarter than the rest of us,” old Mrs. Murdoch said.

“She’s already smarter than some,” Odile replied, looking pointedly at the other ladies, who scurried off.

I remembered the phrase envoyer balader, which literally means to send someone for a walk, but really means to blow them off. “They always try to talk to you,” I told Odile.

“Who?”

“Those ladies. They say, ‘Nice weather,’ or ‘Lovely sermon,’ and you send them packing.”

“They were mean to me.”

The petulant tone surprised me. It surprised her, too—I saw a dawning in her eyes.

“They’ve tried to make up for it,” I said. “Isn’t it time you gave them a chance?”

Odile regarded the ladies who were pouring themselves some coffee. She joined them at the percolator and picked up the pitcher of cream.

“Invigorating sermon today,” she told them.

Smiling tremulously, Mrs. Ivers said, “Indeed it was.”

“Father was inspired,” Mrs. Murdoch added, holding out her cup.

Odile poured the cream.



* * *




ON THE MORNING of graduation, I put on my beret and Gunne Sax dress, grabbed my speech, and went to Odile’s. On the lawn, robins were pecking at the ground. You were almost a Robin. Be brave. Oh, Mom, I’ve tried…

Odile was as excited as I was for graduation. She’d even replaced her tatty red belt with a stylish black one.

“Très belle,” I said.

She blushed. “Read me your speech.”

I pretended to be on the stage. “People say that teens don’t listen. Well, we do. We hear what you say and what you don’t. Sometimes we need advice, but not always. Don’t listen when someone tells you not to bother a person—reach out to make a friend. People don’t always know what to do or say. Try not to hold that against them; you never know what’s in their heart. Don’t be afraid to be different. Stand your ground. During bad times, remember that nothing lasts forever. Accept people for who they are, not for who you want them to be. Try to put yourself in their shoes. Or, as my friend Odile would say, ‘in their skin.’?”

She beamed at me. “You hold so many people in your heart.”

I hugged her. She felt little, like a hummingbird.

Ellie came with the camera, and Odile insisted on reapplying lipstick before posing with me. Then it was time. The boys wanted Odile to sit in the “way-back” of the station wagon with them. Ellie and Grandma Pearl sat in the middle. Dad let me drive. He didn’t even offer his usual advice à la Don’t run over the kids playing on the sidewalk.

At school, Mary Louise, already in her gown and mortarboard, put a black tassel on my beret. In the gym, our class of fifty was seated in the front rows. Like heavy heads of wheat whispering to each other right before harvest, our murmurs rippled. I glanced back, to friends and family who’d come to support us. The town was always behind us. They were already behind us. This was goodbye. This was hello. I was done, I could leave. This was what I had wanted for years: out. And yet…