The Paris Library(13)

“Stanch suggested getting a nurse’s aide,” I heard him say.

“For heaven’s sake! I’m fine.”

“Would it hurt to have some help around the house? I think Lily would breathe easier.”

He was right, I would.

“Who would you ask?” Mom asked.

“Sue Bob?”

My ears perked up even more when I heard Mary Louise’s mother’s name.

“I don’t want friends to see me like this,” Mom said.

“Just an idea,” Dad backtracked.

Maybe Mrs. Gustafson could help. I knocked on her door. This time I waited for her to answer.

“Mom’s still sick,” I told her.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“And we need some help around the house, so she doesn’t overdo. Could you—”

“Lil?” I heard Dad say behind me. “What are you doing? We should get back to your mom.”

“I suppose I could help out,” Mrs. Gustafson said.

“No need,” Dad said. “We’ll manage.”

She looked from him to me. “Let me make dinner. I’ll just gather a few ingredients.” She went inside and came back with an armful of vegetables and a carton of cream.

At our kitchen counter, she peeled potatoes so finely that the skins were see-through.

“What are you making?”

“Leek-and-potato soup.”

“What’s a leek?”

“In eastern Montana, a most neglected vegetable.”

She cut off the curly roots before splitting its slender white body. It smelled like a meek onion. She sliced the leek and scraped the pieces into the pan, where they basked in bubbling butter while the potatoes boiled. Then she pureed the leeks and potatoes in the blender before adding a dollop of cream and pouring the white soup into bowls.

“Supper’s ready,” I called.

Dad walked beside Mom, his hands hovering near her waist like a hospital orderly. Before, I’d rolled my eyes when my parents kissed, but now I wished they could go back to the touchy-feely way they used to be.

After we said grace, I hunched over my bowl and shoved a spoonful into my mouth. The soup felt silky good. I wanted to eat fast, but it was hot.

“Soup teaches patience,” Mrs. Gustafson said. Her back was straight as she brought the spoon to her mouth. I stretched my spine taller.

“Delicious,” Mom said.

“It was my son’s favorite.” The light in Mrs. Gustafson’s eyes momentarily dimmed. “It takes just a few ingredients to make a healthy meal, yet industrial food companies have Americans convinced there’s no time to cook. You eat bland soup from a can, even though leeks browned with butter taste like heaven.

“Going without has made me more appreciative. During the war, my mother missed sugar more than anything, but I missed butter.”

“So food was hard to come by?” Dad said.

“Good food was. I’m not sure which ‘war delicacy’ was worse—baguettes baked with wood chips because there was a shortage of flour, or a tasteless soup made of only water and rutabagas. Endless lines for meat, dairy, fruits, and most vegetables, but vendors couldn’t give rutabagas away. And when I came to Montana, do you know what my mother-in-law put in every one of her stews? Rutabagas!”

We laughed. She made us laugh as she talked about this and that, giving us a break from the unnatural quiet that had descended on our family. When she rose to leave, Mom said, “Thank you, Odile.”

Our neighbor looked surprised. I wondered if it was because she wasn’t used to hearing her given name. Finally, she said, “My pleasure.”



* * *




WHEN MARY LOUISE and I got home from school, we could hear laughter coming from my parents’ bedroom. Odile had kicked off her high heels and moved the rocking chair closer to the bed. Mom’s hair had been freshly washed and curled, and she wore the same brick-red lipstick as Odile. She was beautiful.

“What’s so funny?” Mary Louise asked Mom.

“Odile was telling me her in-laws had trouble pronouncing her name.”

“They called me ‘Ordeal’!”

“Marriage: for better or worse, and however loony the in-laws are,” Mom said, and they both laughed.

As Mary Louise and I went to my room to study, we heard Mom ask, “If you don’t mind my asking, where did you and your husband meet?”

“At a hospital in Paris. In those days, an enlisted man had to ask his superior’s permission to marry. When Buck’s said no, he challenged the major to a game of cribbage—if he won, we could marry, if he lost, he had to clean bedpans for a month.”

“He was determined!”

Their words became whispers, so Mary Louise and I moved closer to the door.

“He didn’t tell me,” Odile continued, “and when I arrived, there was a scandal. I wanted to return to France but had no money for a return ticket. I thought people would forgive… Not that I needed their forgiveness!”

“What scandal?” Mary Louise whispered. “Was she one of those cancan dancers? Is that why people don’t talk to her?”

“She doesn’t talk to them,” I huffed.