The Paris Library(66)

At the going-away party, the Countess had her servants proffer glasses of wine, but my habitués didn’t have the heart to partake.

“Who will step into the Directress’s shoes?” Mr. Pryce-Jones asked.

“Our Odile,” M. de Nerciat said.

“She’s too young,” Mme. Simon said, dentures clinking. “The board of trustees will never allow it.”

“Perhaps they’ll offer the job to Boris,” Mr. Pryce-Jones said.

“A Russian at the helm of the American Library?” Mme. Simon said. “Face facts. The Library will close.”

“Let’s have a toast,” the Countess said, to stop the mood from becoming morose.

We raised our glasses.

Though Miss Reeder was gaunt, her smile was radiant. “To all of you, it’s been an honor. The finest tribute would not begin to tell of my devotion, deep affection, and high regard.”

“May you only remember the brightest days,” Boris said as he presented our gift, a snow globe with an Eiffel Tower inside. When she shook it, bits of gold foil twirled about.

Standing off to the side, Margaret, Bitsi, and I watched subscribers bid the Directress farewell. Margaret pulled at her pearls. She hadn’t been able to contact her family in London and didn’t know how they fared in the Blitz. Bitsi clutched Emily Dickinson to her chest. With that German soldier billeted in her apartment, she couldn’t even escape the war at home.

Tomorrow, Miss Reeder would make her way out of the Occupied Zone, cross through the Free Zone to Spain, then Portugal, where an ocean liner would sail her back to America. I thought of Rémy, of Bitsi’s brother Julien, and the other prisoners of war. Of cheery Miss Wedd, whose crime was being born British. Our Canadian cataloger, stern Mrs. Turnbull; Helen-and-Peter; and now Miss Reeder, a world away. 823. And Then There Were None.





CHAPTER 26

Lily




FROID, MONTANA, AUGUST 1986

EACH TIME I perused Odile’s shelves, a different book spoke to me. Some days, a title in bright letters beckoned; other times, a thick tome cried out to be read. This afternoon, Emily Dickinson called my name. Mom had liked one of her poems. The line I remembered was: “Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.” Inside the slim volume, the “American Library in Paris Inc, 1920” bookplate showed the sun rising over an open book, a horizon as wide as the world. The book lay on a rifle, almost burying it—knowledge slaying violence. As I flipped through the pages, a black-and-white photo stashed between them floated to the floor.

Odile, back from getting the mail, picked it up. “That’s Maman, Papa, Rémy, and me.”

Her father’s mustache dominated his face and made him seem stern. Her mother practically stood behind him, and I wondered if she was shy. Odile and her mother wore dresses, the men wore suits.

“Was your dad a businessman?”

“No, a police commissioner.”

I grinned. “Does he know you stole a library book?”

She didn’t smile back. “He knows I’m a thief.”

I was dying to know what she meant, but just as I was going to ask, the phone rang. I knew it was Eleanor before I heard the shrill neediness. “Is Lily there? I sure could use some help…”

“So much for today’s French lesson,” I said. Slipping the photo back into the book, I noticed there were a few other pictures, and I wished I could stay.

“Is the baby still colicky?”

“Mais oui.”

For two months now, no one had been able to get any sleep. Worse, the baby wouldn’t suckle. The nurse said the tenser Eleanor was, the longer it would be for Benjy “to take.” With Dad always at work, I took care of Eleanor, patting her back, the way I did when I burped Joe.

Barely a year apart, both boys wore cloth diapers under rubber pants. Eleanor had shown me how to change a diaper, then plunge the poopy one into the toilet before throwing it into the wash. I didn’t know why she insisted on using cloth when everyone else chose disposable. Maybe she thought more work was more love.

I found Eleanor in the kitchen, which was ninety degrees. Sweat poured down her face, and Benjy was bawling in her arms.

“Why won’t he stop? Is it my fault?” Eleanor wailed. She cried almost as much as the baby.

“Have you eaten today?” I sniffed to see if I needed to change his diaper. He smelled fine. She didn’t. “Or showered?”

Eleanor gawked at me like I was speaking Farsi. I scrambled three eggs with one hand and cradled Benjy in the other. While she scarfed down the omelet, I wiped his nose with his bib.

When Dad got home, he did the only thing he could. He flipped on the fan and aimed it toward Eleanor. After listening to her fret, he called Grandma Pearl, who drove out the next day. “It stinks to high heaven in here,” she said, setting a cardboard box full of baby bottles and rubber nipples on the counter.

“Bottle feeding?” Eleanor protested. “What will people think?”

She told Eleanor to go rest. I hid my smile behind my book. When Grandma Pearl told you to rest, she needed a rest from you. Tightening the belt of her scruffy pink bathrobe, Eleanor shuffled into the living room. Grandma Pearl prepared the formula and screwed on a nipple. She marched in and thrust the bottle at Eleanor. “Now feed that child.”