The Paris Library(69)

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I dressed with the same care that I did for church. What would I say to Dad? It was eight blocks to the bank, and I practically ran, hoping no one would report me for skipping school. When Mr. Ivers saw me pacing outside Dad’s office, he guffawed and said it must be urgent if I had to make an appointment to see my own father.

When Dad came out, he was confused. “Why aren’t you in class?” Then scared. “Did something happen to the boys?”

Of course. The boys.

“Lily’s here for a father-daughter chat,” his boss chuckled, but Dad didn’t laugh. Embarrassed, he shoved me into a chair in his office.

“This better be important.” He folded his hands on his immense desk.

“I—I…”

“Well? What is it?”

His anger made it easier. “I miss learning French and seeing Mary Louise and doing homework and reading. I’m sick of dirty diapers.”

“Ellie needs your help.”

“Am I the only one who sees that all she does is cry? She needs more than I can give.”

“She’ll be fine.”

“She might need a psychologist.”

“Psychologists are for crazy people.”

“For depressed people.”

“You need to help out more.”

“What about you? They’re your kids.”

“I work here.”

“And you need to work at home.” I slapped my report card onto the desk. “Even when Mom died, I made the honor roll. You might be fine with me being a nanny, but it’s not what Mom would have wanted.”

His head jerked back as if my truth had walloped him.

“I’m happy to help out. I am. But I want French lessons. I want to go to college.”

He gestured to the door like I was someone who would never qualify for a loan. “I’ll drive you to school.”

We didn’t talk. I stared out the window, wishing it were the window of a plane, that Odile was right and that someday I’d fly away.

Dad always came home at ten to six, just before dinner. For the first time, he was late. Eleanor asked if I wanted to eat, but since she held off, I said I would, too. We kept the roast in the oven. At the dining room table, Joe bounced in my lap, and Eleanor held Benjy, who’d stopped crying, like magic. Usually we bathed the boys at 7:00, but tonight we were still waiting for Dad. In that brief moment of peace, Eleanor asked me the question she always asked him: “How was your day, dear?”

“I went to the bank.”

“The bank?” she said, all confused, like she’d forgotten Froid had one.

“I needed to…” What did I need? Eleanor regarded me intently, listening as never before. “I needed to get through to Dad. About college.”

She let out an odd kind of laugh and said, “At least one of us is brave enough to say what we want.”

I sniffed. “Do you smell smoke?”

She shoved Benjy into my arms and ran to the kitchen. I followed, Benjy balanced on my hip and Joe glued to my leg. Smoke billowed from the oven.

“I give up,” Eleanor wailed, taking out the scorched pan.

Dad walked in, briefcase in hand. It was 8:00 p.m., which was like midnight anywhere else in the world.

“Not even a phone call to say you’d be late?” she yelled, and chucked the charred roast at him. He held his briefcase in front of his face and ducked. The charred hunk hit the wall and fell to the floor, sliding to a stop at his feet.

I was proud of Eleanor.

“You leave me to do everything,” she told Dad.

I carried my brothers to their room.

“You’re never home,” she said. “Are you there with Brenda or here with me?”

Brenda. No one said her name anymore. “Oh, Mom,” I whispered. “I miss you.”

“Why you sad?” Joe asked. I caressed his hair, downy like the feathers of a baby chick.

My father murmured soft words, but Eleanor wasn’t having any of them. “What do you mean, I bite off more than I can chew?” she yelled. “When I bought disposable diapers, you said she used cloth. I never measure up to Saint Brenda!”

“There weren’t other options back then,” he yelled back. “I wasn’t saying you should use cloth. I was remembering things were different. There’s no need to do everything on your own. Folks have reached out. Stop swatting their hands away.”

Silence.

“The person I want help from is you.”

When I told Odile that Dad decided to take Saturdays off to help take care of the boys, and that Eleanor bought a truckload of Pampers, she said, “See how standing up for yourself feels? There’s not always a solution, but if you don’t try, you’ll never know.”

“I’m not sure it was the trip to Dad’s office.” I told her about Eleanor and the flying roast.

Odile clapped her hands together. “It sounds like you inspired Eleanor to speak up, too. Brava!”

Now that Odile and I had uninterrupted time, I got out the book with the photos again. On her couch, we looked at the picture of her family. “How I miss them,” she said as she moved to the next photo, which showed a dark-haired beauty in a polka-dot dress. Odile beamed as if she’d unexpectedly run into a friend. “It’s Miss Reeder. She was my boss at the Library, and the person I admired most.”