The Paris Library(8)

“Let’s move to a big city.” Mary Louise glowered at Mrs. Murdoch. “Where no one knows our business.”

“Where we can do anything,” I added. “Like scream in church.”

“Or not even go to church.”

We paused at this, an idea so enormous it took time to sink in, and walked the last block to my house in silence. From the street, I could see Mom at the window. The reflection on the glass made her seem pale like a ghost.

Mary Louise headed home; I continued to the mailbox and held on to the weathered post, not ready to go inside. Mom used to make cookies and chat with friends at the kitchen counter. Sometimes, she’d pick me up from school and we’d drive to the Medicine Lake Refuge, her favorite place for bird-watching. In the station wagon, Mom and I faced the same direction; the road stretched before us, rich with possibilities. It was easy to confide in her about a run-in with Tiffany Ivers or a bad grade on a test. I could tell her the good things, too, like the time in PE class when Robby was team captain and he chose me first, even before he picked any of the boys. Each time I struck out, they complained bitterly, but he stayed at my side and told me, “You’ll get ’em next time.”

Mom knew everything about me.

At Medicine Lake, there were 270 species of birds. We moved through the knee-high needle-and-thread grass. Binoculars hung from the strap around Mom’s neck. “Maybe hawks are more majestic,” she said, “and piping plovers have the best name. Still, I like robins best.”

I teased her for driving all this way to observe birds that we could find on our front lawn.

“Robins are elegant,” she told me, “a good omen, a reminder of the special things we have right in front of us.” She hugged me tight.

But now, she stayed home alone and rarely had the energy to talk, even to me.

Just then, Mrs. Gustafson went to her mailbox, and I crossed the brown strip of grass that separated us. She held a letter to her chest.

“Who’s it from?”

“My friend Lucienne in Chicago. We’ve written to each other for decades. She and I came over on the ship together—three unforgettable weeks from Normandy to New York.” She regarded me. “Is everything all right?”

“I’m fine.” Everyone knew the rules: Don’t draw attention to yourself, no one likes a show-off. Don’t turn around in church, even if a bomb goes off behind you. When someone asks how you are, say “fine,” even if you’re sad and scared.

“Would you like to come over?” she asked.

I plunked my backpack in front of her shelves. There were books up and down, but only three photos, small as Polaroids. At my house, we had more pictures than books (the Bible, Mom’s field guides, and an encyclopedia set that we’d found at a garage sale).

The first photo was of a young Marine. He had Mrs. Gustafson’s eyes.

She moved to my side. “My son, Marc. He was killed in Vietnam.”

Once, when I was handing out bulletins at church, a flock of ladies landed near the basin of holy water. Just as Mrs. Gustafson entered, Mrs. Ivers whispered, “Tomorrow’s the anniversary of Marc’s death.” Shaking her head, old Mrs. Murdoch replied, “Losing a child, nothing worse. We should send flowers or—”

“You should stop gossiping,” Mrs. Gustafson snapped, “at least at Mass.”

The ladies dipped trembling fingers into the holy water, quickly made the sign of the cross, and slunk to their pews.

Running my hand over the top of the picture frame, I said, “I’m sorry.”

“As am I.”

The sorrow in her voice made me uneasy. No one ever came to visit her. Not her in-laws, not her French family. What if everyone she’d ever loved was dead? She probably didn’t want me here, dredging up her losses. I moved to pick up my backpack.

“Would you like a cookie?” she asked.

In the kitchen, I grabbed the biggest two on the plate and gobbled them down before she touched hers. Thin and crunchy, the sugar cookies were wrapped in the shape of a miniature spyglass.

She’d just finished the first batch, so over the next hour I helped roll out the rest. I appreciated that she didn’t say anything about Mom. Not, “We miss your mother at the PTA, tell her everyone has to pull their weight.” Or, “Nothing wrong with her that a pork roast couldn’t fix.” Silence had never felt so good.

“What are these cookies called?” I asked as I grabbed another.

“Cigarettes russes. Russian cigarettes.”

Communist cookies? I put it back on the plate. “Who taught you to make them?”

“I got the recipe from a friend who served them when I delivered books.”

“Why couldn’t she get her own books?”

“She wasn’t allowed in libraries during the war.”

Before I could ask why not, there was a pounding at the door. “Mrs. Gustafson?”

It was Dad, which meant it was six o’clock—dinnertime, and I was in trouble. Wiping the crumbs from my mouth, I prepared my case. Time slipped by, I had to stay to help finish…

Mrs. Gustafson opened the door, and I expected hurricane Dad to rain down.

His eyes were wide, his tie crooked. “I’m taking Brenda to the hospital,” he said to Mrs. Gustafson. “Can you look after Lily?”