The Paris Library Read online

“We’re sitting ducks.”

  I listened without listening—in the endless wariness of the Cold War, these grim conversations were the soundtrack of our Sundays. Busy piling doughnut holes on my plate, it took me a minute to realize that Mom was wheezing. Usually when she had a spell, she had a reason: “The farmers are harvesting, and the dust in the air brings on my asthma,” or “Father Maloney waves that incense around like he’s trying to fumigate.” But this time she clasped my upper arm, offering none. I steered her toward the closest table, to seats next to Mrs. Gustafson. Mom sank onto the metal chair, pulling me down beside her.

  I tried to catch Dad’s attention.

  “I’m fine. Don’t make a fuss,” Mom said in a tone that meant business.

  “Tragic, what happened to those people in the plane,” Mrs. Ivers said from across the table.

  “That’s why I stay put,” Mrs. Murdoch said. “Gallivanting about gets you in trouble.”

  “Lots of innocent people died,” I said. “President Reagan said a congressman was killed.”

  “One less freeloader.” Mrs. Murdoch shoved the last of her doughnut between her brown teeth.

  “That’s a rotten thing to say. Folks have a right to take a plane without getting shot down,” I said.

  Mrs. Gustafson’s eyes met mine. She nodded, like what I thought mattered. Though I’d made a hobby of observing her, this was the first time she’d noticed me.

  “It’s brave of you to take a stand,” she said.

  I shrugged. “People shouldn’t be mean.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” she said.

  Before I could respond, Mr. Ivers bellowed, “The Cold War’s gone on for nearly forty years. We’ll never win.”

  Heads bobbed in agreement.

  “They’re cold-blooded killers,” he continued.

  “Have you ever met a Russian?” Mrs. Gustafson asked him. “Worked with one? Well, I have, and can tell you they’re no different than you or me.”

  The whole hall went quiet. Where had she met the enemy, and how had she “worked” with one?

  In Froid, we knew everything about everyone. We knew who drank too much and why, we knew who cheated on their taxes and who cheated on their wives, we knew who was living in sin with some man in Minot. The only secret was Mrs. Gustafson. No one knew what her parents’ names were, or what her father did for a living. No one knew how she met Buck Gustafson during the war, or how she convinced him to jilt his high-school sweetheart and marry her instead. Rumors swirled around her but didn’t stick. There was sorrow in her eyes, but was it loss or regret? And after living in Paris, how could she settle for this dull dot on the plains?

  * * *

  I WAS A “front row, raise your hand” student. Mary Louise sat behind me and doodled on the desk. Today at the blackboard, Miss Hanson tried her best to interest our seventh-grade class in Ivanhoe; Mary Louise muttered, “Ivan-no.” Across the aisle, Robby’s tanned fingers curved around a pencil. His hair—brown like mine—was feathered. He could already drive, since he had to help his folks haul grain. He brought the pencil to his mouth, the pink eraser brushing his bottom lip. I could stare at the corner of his mouth forever.

  French kiss. French toast. French fries. All the good things were French. For all I knew, French green beans tasted better than American ones. French songs had to be better than the country music that played on the only radio station in town. “My life done broke down when that cud-smackin’ cow left me for a younger bull.” The French probably knew more about love, too.

  I wanted to sail down the runway of an airport, of a fashion show. I wanted to perform on Broadway, to peek behind the Iron Curtain. I wanted to know how French words would feel in my mouth. Only one person I knew had experienced the world beyond Froid—Mrs. Gustafson.

  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 t
he 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.”

  The edges of her mouth turned down. She didn’t respond.

  The silence made me nervous. “It looks like a library in here.” I gestured to her shelves, which were full of names I didn’t know—Madame de Staël, Madame Bovary, Simone de Beauvoir.

  Maybe this was a bad idea. I turned to go.

  “When?” she asked.

  I looked back. “How about now?”

  “I was in the middle of something.” She spoke the words briskly, as if she were president and needed to get back to running the domain of her bedroom.

  “I’m writing a report,” I reminded her, since school came right after God, country, and football.

  Mrs. Gustafson slipped into her high heels and grabbed her keys. I followed her onto the porch, where she locked the door. She was the only person in Froid who did.

  “Do you always barge into people’s homes?” she asked as we crossed the lawn.

  I shrugged. “They usually answer the door.”

  In our dining room, she clasped her hands, then let them go limp at her side. Her eyes flitted to the carpet, the window seat, the family photos on the wall. Her mouth moved to say something, possibly “Isn’t this nice?” like the other ladies would, then her jaw clamped shut.

  “Welcome,” Mom said as she set a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the table.

  I gestured for our neighbor to take a seat. Mom set mugs in front of her own plate and mine; in front of Mrs. Gustafson’s, she placed her teacup. I knew its story by heart. Years ago, when Mrs. Ivers had gone on a “castle tour” of England, Dad gave her money to buy a fancy tea set for Mom. But porcelain is pricey, and Mrs. Ivers returned with just one cup and saucer. Terrified the china would break, she kept it on her lap the entire transatlantic flight. In my mind, the slender cup covered in dainty blue flowers came from somewhere better. Finer. Like Mrs. Gustafson.

  Mom served the tea; I broke the silence. “What’s the best thing about Paris? Is it really the most beautiful city in the world? What was it like growing up there?”

  Mrs. Gustafson didn’t answer right away.

  “I hope we’re not bothering you,” Mom told her.

  “The last time I was interviewed like this was for a job back in France.”

  “Were you nervous?” I asked.

  “Yes, but I’d memorized entire books to prepare.”

  “Did it help?”

  She smiled ruefully. “There are always questions one is unprepared to answer.”

  “Lily won’t be asking those kinds of questions.” Mom addressed Mrs. Gustafson, but her warning was meant for me.

  “The best thing about Paris? It’s a city of readers,” our neighbor said.

  She said that in friends’ homes, books were as important as the furniture. She spent her summers reading in the city’s lush parks, then like the potted palmettos in the Tuileries Garden, sent to the greenhouse at the first sign of frost, she spent winters at the library, curled up near the window with a book in her lap.

  “You like to read?” For me, the classics assigned in English were a chore.

  “I live to read,” she replied. “Mostly books on history and current events.”

  That sounded about as fun as watching snow melt. “What about when you were my age?”

  “I loved novels like The Secret Garden. My twin brother was the one interested in the news.”

  A twin. I wanted to ask what his name was, but she’d moved on. Parisians revel in food almost as much as in literature, she said. It had been more than forty years, but she still remembered the pastry that her father brought her after her first day of work, a cake called a financier. Closing her eyes, she said the buttery almond powder made her mouth feel like heaven. Her mother adored opéras, swathes of deep, dark chocolate enveloped in layers of cake soaked in coffee… Fee-nahn-see-yay. Oh-pay-rah. I tasted the words and loved how they felt on my tongue.

  “Paris is a place that talks to you,” she continued. “A city that hums along to its own song. In the summer Parisians keep their windows open, and one hears the tinkling of a neighbor’s piano, the snap of playing cards being shuffled, static as someone fiddles with the radio knob. There’s always a child laughing, someone arguing, a clarinetist playing in the square.”

  “It sounds wonderful,” Mom said dreamily.

  Usually, on Sundays after church, Mrs. Gustafson’s shoulders slumped, and her eyes were like the neon sign of the Oasis bar on Monday—unplugged. But now, her eyes were bright. As she spoke of Paris, the angular lines of her face softened, and so did her voice. I wondered why she’d ever left.

  Mom surprised me by asking a question. “What was life like during the war?”

  “Hard.” Mrs. Gustafson’s fingers tightened around the teacup. When air-raid sirens screeched, her family hid in the cellar. With food rationing, each person received one egg per month. Everyone grew skinnier until she thought they’d just disappear. On the streets, Nazis forced Parisians through random checkpoints. Like wolves, they stayed in packs. People were arrested for no reason. Or small reasons, like staying out past curfew.

  Weren’t curfews for teenagers? Mary Louise’s sister, Angel, had one.

  “What do you miss most about Paris?” I asked.

  “Family and friends.” Mrs. Gustafson’s brown eyes grew wistful. “People who understand me. I miss speaking French. Feeling like I’m home.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Silence seeped into the room. It made Mom and me fidgety, but didn’t seem to bother our neighbor, who sipped the last of her tea.

  Noticing Mrs. Gustafson’s empty cup, Mom jumped up. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  Halfway to the kitchen, Mom stopped suddenly. She teetered, and one hand shot out, grasping for the cupboard. Before I even thought to move, Mrs. Gustafson leapt to her feet and slipped her arm around Mom’s waist to guide her back to the chair. I crouched beside Mom. Her cheeks were flushed, and she breathed in a slow and shallow way, like the air didn’t want to go into her lungs.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said. “I stood too quickly. I know better.”

  “Has this happened before?” Mrs. Gustafson asked.

  Mom looked at me, so I returned to my chair and pretended to brush away some crumbs.

  “A few times,” she admitted.

  Mrs. Gustafson called Dr. Stanchfield. In Froid, adults all said the same thing: “In the city, you call a doctor, and he won’t come, no matter how sick you get. Here, the secretary answers by the second ring, and Stanch is at your house in ten minutes flat.” He delivered babies in three counties—the first person to hold many of us in his warm, speckled hands.

  He knocked on the door and walked in with his black leather bag.

  “You needn’t have come,” Mom said, flustered. She took me to see Stanch if I so much as sneezed, but had never made an appointment for her asthma.

 
“You let me be the judge of that.” He gently moved her hair aside and held his stethoscope to her back. “Take a deep breath.”

  She inhaled.

  “If that’s a deep breath…” As Stanch took her blood pressure, he frowned. He said the numbers were high, and prescribed some pills.

  Maybe Mom had been wrong when she said it was asthma.

  * * *

  AFTER DINNER, MARY Louise and I sprawled on my carpet to do our reports. “What’d Mrs. Gustafson say?” she asked.

  “That the war was dangerous.”

  “Dangerous? Like how?”

  “The enemy everywhere.” I imagined Mrs. Gustafson on her way to work, the streets full of mangy wolves. Some would growl, some would nip at her high heels. And she kept going. Maybe she never went the same way twice.

  “So she had to sneak around?”

  “I guess.”

  “Wouldn’t it be cool if she was a secret agent?”

  “Totally.” I imagined her delivering messages in musty books.

  “Speaking of secrets.” She put down her pencil. “I smoked one of Angel’s cigarettes.”

  “You smoked by yourself? Did not.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Did not,” I repeated.

  “With Tiffany.”

  Her words hit me hard. “If you smoke, I’ll never talk to you again,” I said. And held my breath.

  We were both twelve, but Mary Louise knew everything first. Because of her sister, Angel, Mary Louise heard about rubbers and keggers. My parents didn’t let me wear makeup, so Mary Louise lent me hers. She was stronger and faster than me, and I felt her sprinting away.

  “Didn’t like it that much anyways,” she said.

  * * *

  IN THE COMING weeks, Mom lost her appetite, and her clothes hung loose. Her medicine wasn’t working. Dad took her to see a specialist, who said it was just stress. She was too tired to cook, so Dad made sandwiches. On Thanksgiving, he and I ate our grilled cheese at the kitchen counter. We glanced at the doorway, hoping Mom would feel well enough to join us.

  He cleared his throat. “How is school going?”