The Paris Library(5)

Though we were neighbors, it was like she lived light-years away. Each Halloween, Mom had warned, “The War Bride’s porch light is off. That means she doesn’t want you kids banging on her door.” When Mary Louise and I sold Girl Scout Cookies, her mom said, “The old broad’s on a budget, so don’t hit her up.”

My encounter with Mrs. Gustafson made me bold. All I needed was the right school assignment, and I could interview her.

As expected, Miss H assigned a book report on Ivanhoe. After class, I approached her desk and asked if I could write about a country instead.

“Just this once,” she said. “I look forward to reading your report on France.”

I was so distracted with my plan that when I went to the bathroom, I forgot to check under the stalls and lock the main door. Sure enough, when I finished, Tiffany Ivers and her herd skulked near the sinks, where she teased her wheat-gold hair in front of the mirror.

“The flush didn’t work,” she said. “Here comes a turd.”

Hardly sophisticated but when I studied my reflection, all I saw was turd-brown hair. I remained near the stalls, knowing that if I washed my hands, Tiffany would shove me into the faucet and I’d get drenched. If I didn’t, they’d tell the school. They did that to Maisie—no one would sit by “Pee Hands” for a month. Arms crossed, the bathroom quartet waited.

The hinges of the door squeaked, and Miss H peeked in. “Are you in here again, Tiffany? You must have bladder problems.”

The girls strode out, eyes on me as if to say this isn’t over. That I knew.

Mom, the guerrilla optimist, would tell me to look on the bright side. At least old man Ivers had just one spawn. And it was Friday.

Usually on Fridays, my parents hosted dinner club (Mom roasted spare ribs, Kay brought a salad, and Sue Bob baked an upside-down pineapple cake), so I spent the night at Mary Louise’s. Tonight, though, I stayed in my room and came up with questions for Mrs. Gustafson. As the adults ate, laughter spilled out of the dining room. When it got quiet, I knew that like lords and ladies in England, the women took themselves off so the men could settle into their chairs and say the things they couldn’t with their wives there.

While the women washed dishes, I listened to Mom’s other voice, the one she used with her friends. With them she seemed happier. Funny how the same person could be different people. This made me think that there were things about Mom I didn’t know, though she wasn’t mysterious like Mrs. Gustafson.

At my desk, I wrote down the questions as they came—When was the last time the guillotine sliced off someone’s head? Does France have Jehovah’s Witnesses, too? Why do folks say you stole your husband? Now that he’s dead, why do you stay?—concentrating so hard that I didn’t know Mom was behind me until I felt her hand warm my shoulder.

“You didn’t want to spend the night at Mary Louise’s?”

“I’m doing my homework.”

“On a Friday,” she said, unconvinced. “Rough day at school?”

Most days were rough. But I didn’t feel like talking about Tiffany Ivers. Mom pulled a present the size of a shoebox from behind her back. “I made you something.”

“Thanks!” I tore open the wrapping paper and found a crocheted sweater vest.

I pulled it on over my T-shirt, and Mom tugged at the waist, happy with the sizing. “You’re beautiful. The green brings out the flecks in your eyes.”

A glance in the mirror confirmed that I looked like a dork. If I wore the sweater to school, Tiffany Ivers would eat me alive.

“It’s… nice,” I told Mom, too late.

She smiled to hide her hurt. “So what are you working on?”

I explained that I had to do a report on France and that I needed to interview Mrs. Gustafson.

“Oh, hon, I’m not sure we should bother her.”

“I only have a few questions. Can’t we invite her over?”

“I suppose. What would you want to ask?”

I pointed to my paper.

Glancing at the list, Mom exhaled loudly. “You know, there might be a reason she’s never gone back.”



* * *




ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON, I hurried past Mrs. Gustafson’s old Chevy, up the rickety porch steps, and rang the doorbell. Ding-dang-dong. No answer. I rang the bell again. No one answered, so I tried the front door. It creaked open. “Hello?” I said, and walked in.

Silence.

“Anyone home?” I asked.

In the stillness of the living room, books covered the walls. Ferns lined a stand under the picture window. The stereo, the size of a deep freezer, could fit a body. I flipped through her record collection: Tchaikovsky, Bach, more Tchaikovsky.

Mrs. Gustafson shuffled down the hall as if she’d awoken from a nap. Even alone at home, she wore a dress with her red belt. In her stockinged feet, she seemed vulnerable. It occurred to me that I’d never seen a friend’s car in front of her house, never known her to host family. She was the definition of solitude.

Stopping a few feet from me, she glared like I was a robber come to steal her recording of Swan Lake. “What do you want?”

You know things, and I want to know them, too.

She crossed her arms. “Well?”

“I’m writing a report on you. I mean, on your country. Maybe you could come over so I can interview you.”