The French Girl (2 page)

Maman pushed past her, jammed her cigarette between her teeth, grabbed me by the shoulders and shoved me forward. For a few seconds, I thought she was going to say, “Here, take her,” the way she was pushing me out.  My heart began to pound and I felt that funny feeling in my stomach like I’m on the ground, but my stomach is up in the air.  I tried to look back at Maman to see what she was doing, but she just pushed me forward.

“
C’est ridicule
,” Maman said pulling me back by the shoulders. She had her hand balled up in a fist and shoved into the small of my back.  I arched away from the pain.  “Look at this one,” she said, “she’s got a belly on her like a little stuffed pig from eating so much.”

I thought for a minute that I had not heard her correctly.  “Real French women do not get fat,” Maman had said.  I was sure of it.  I looked down at my protruding belly and waited for the county woman to say, “Don’t be silly. The child looks thin to me,” or “I don’t see any extra fat on her at all,” but instead, she looked at me up and down very slowly, her eyes settling on my belly, and all she did was raise her eyebrows.

Un porc bourré peu
.  A little stuffed pig.  The words rolled over and over in my head. Maman finally released her grip on me and I shrank back into the corner.

Reaching into her big white purse, the county woman took out a wad of green slips of paper.

“These are grocery vouchers,” she said waving them in the air like money won at the bingo tables. “Take them to the market and get your girls some fresh produce and milk.”

Maman stepped out from behind me, snatched the pile of vouchers from the county woman’s hand and with a fiery look in her eyes, reached into the front pocket of her dress, took out her lighter and set it to the corner.  She glared at the county woman as the flames crept up the green tickets until they got so close to her hand, she nearly got burnt.  She turned and tossed them into the sink.

I could see a flush of red going up the county woman’s neck and her chest seemed to rise and fall even more than when she’d first come in.

“We do not accept charity,” Maman said as she took one final drag of her cigarette and tossed it on the floor at the woman’s feet.

The county woman shook her head and walked back out to the living room. We followed her.  She paused at the door and touched the big hole in it that was covered by silvery tape with her fingers.

Turning back, she said in perfect French, “I will file my report with the county by the end of the day and will be back in two weeks expecting to find edible food for these children, Madame Toussaint.”

I looked anxiously at Anais, then to Maman.  Maman’s eyes narrowed a bit, but then she tilted her head back and started to laugh. The county woman shook her head and walked out.

Maman waited until she left before going back into the kitchen. We followed her.  She opened the refrigerator, bent down, and then slammed it shut.  She flung the cabinets open one by one and banged them with such force that they bounced back open.  She looked around and even pulled the trash bag from the barrel to inspect underneath it. Whipping around on her heels, she faced Anais and me.

“
Où sont-ils
? Where are they?” she demanded.

I glanced anxiously at Anais and then without realizing it, looked over for just a second at the window.  She caught my glance, strode over, flung up the sash and leaned way over.  I was afraid she’d pitch forward and fall right through.

Maman surveyed the contents below, pulled herself back in and without even bothering to shut the window, drew back her hand and slapped Anais across the face.

“
Zut alors
!” she said as she headed back to her room.

I watched the red welt rising across Anais’ cheek. She shut her dark brown eyes as I grabbed a towel that was hanging from the stove handle, wet it and handed it to her.  She placed it gingerly against her swollen cheek.

Maman suddenly reappeared in the kitchen with an unopened bottle in her hand that must have been in her room. Ignoring us, she rummaged through several of the drawers flinging them open until Anais walked over to a cabinet, took out a corkscrew and dropped it loudly on the table in front of her. As Anais walked by, Maman tried to grab her by the arm, but Anais yanked it back and threw the wet towel down on the floor at Maman’s feet.  I heard the front door slam as she walked out.

CHAPTER TWO

I tried hard not to think about the county woman coming back and was extra careful from then on to always shut and lock the front door, despite the blue haze of smoke that clung to the ceiling.  Two days later, I came home from school to find Maman’s door locked.

“Maman,” I called banging on the door. “Maman, please!”

I heard rustling and finally the door opened up.  Maman’s friend, Luc Paul, came out.  I did not like him much.  He was a thin, bony man with slick black hair, a very long face and a chin that stuck out far from the rest of his face and was always full of stubble.  He smelled like fish.

***

Everyone knew that Luc Paul was supposed to be aboard
La Dominique
that Christmas morning but he never showed up and the crew, who were anxious to make their morning run and get back to celebrate the holiday with their families, couldn’t wait any longer.  Later on, Luc Paul told everyone that he woke up with a bad stomach, but I once overheard Monsieur Segal tell Madame Fried Dough that Luc Paul was only sick from too much celebrating the night before and what a shame it was that he hadn’t been on board.

***

Luc Paul stood in the doorway wearing only trouser pants. Maman was sitting up in her bed, trying to light a cigarette between very shaky hands.  Several bottles sat on the table beside her along with two empty glasses.  Luc Paul reached down into his pants pocket and took out a wad of bills held together with a scrimshaw clip, peeled off two dollars and waved them at me.

“Why don’t you be a good girl and go get yourself some ice cream?” he said patting my head.

I ducked away from him and looked beyond him to Maman who sniffed loudly, wiped at her nose with the back of her hand and waved me away.

As soon as I turned my back, I heard the door shut and the lock turn.

I walked down to
Le Gateau
.

“
Bon jour, Etoile
,” Monsieur Segal said greeting me.  “I have a special treat for you today,” he said as I laid the two dollars down on the counter.  He quickly scooped them up and put them into the front pocket of his apron.

Monsieur Segal was quite bald, but wore his hair flipped from one side to the other.  His eyes were such a pale blue, almost gray, as if someone had forgotten to put the color in them.

“And how is Maman, today?” he asked as I took a stool.

“I have not spoken with her,” I said.

“But this money?” he said.  “She did not give it to you,
non
?”

“Her friend did.”

“Ahh…” he said as he reached behind him and took out a large glass bowl.  “And who is this friend?” he asked casually as he opened the front freezer and dipped the metal scoop into a tray of hot water.

I watched the muscles of his arm twitch as he dove into the frozen bins.

“Luc Paul.”

“Ahh…Luc Paul,” he said nodding.  “And where did you see Luc Paul?” he asked. I kept hoping if I didn’t answer him right away, he’d keep scooping.  I watched the white mound grow and tried to guess what flavor it was.

“He was at the apartment,” I said.

Monsieur Segal set the dish in front of me and watched as my eyes grew large. I could see the chocolate chips, but something else was in there, something red.

“Where in the apartment?” he asked.  He held a spoon out to me, waiting for my response.

“In Maman’s room,” I answered, though after I said it, I wasn’t sure I should have.

“I see,” he said as he set the spoon down.  “And was Maman in there, too?” he asked.  I picked up the spoon, but he scooped the bowl out from in front of me.  I could see the flare of his nostrils and he seemed to be breathing a little hard.

“Yes,” I said.

“What was she wearing?” he asked, his gray eyes narrowing.

I stared at the bowl as he reached out from underneath the counter and took out a bottle of his home-made whipped cream which was so good, and held it poised, over the bowl of ice cream.

“Please, Monsieur Segal.”

“What was she wearing, Etoile?” he asked again.

“I do not know. I did not notice.  Her black and white dress, I think,” I lied because in fact, Maman had the covers held all the way up to her chin and come to think of it, her shoulders were bare, though I hadn’t realized that before all of this.  My stomach began to toss around and I was afraid I might have just wasted two dollars on nothing.

Monsieur Segal put the tip of the whipped cream to the bowl and squeezed around and around in circles forming a peak of cream.

“Cherry chocolate chip,” he announced as he set the bowl back down in front of me.

“
Merci
,” I said as I picked up the spoon and dove in. The thick cream slid across my tongue and down the back of my throat, leaving only chunks of dark chocolate and cherries to chew.  Tart and sweet.

Monsieur Segal laughed in amusement as he pointed me out to our neighbor, Mrs. Lavasseur, the Pig Woman, who had just come in.

“This one, she can eat,
non
?” he said.

Mrs. Lavasseur leaned forward and said something to him that I could not hear.

Mrs. Lavasseur’s husband was aboard
La Catherine
, one of the other boats that went down during the Christmas storm.  She lived with her son, Frankie, who was in my grade, next door to us. I hated Frankie Lavasseur.  He was the meanest boy in the entire school. Just the other day, he’d stood in the middle of the playground as a gust of wind lifted Bett Chapelle’s jumper up and chanted, “Bett wears a diaper, Bett wears a diaper.”  All the other kids joined in and Bett ran back to the school in tears. Mrs. Gordon sent Frankie to Mrs. Varrone’s office, but it never seemed to do any good.  I thought of many things I could do to Frankie Lavasseur, and named him “
garcon de ballon
,” “the Balloon Boy,” because that is what he looked like, a filled balloon about to burst.  I dreamed of poking him in the side with a sharp needle to see what would happen.

Mrs. Lavasseur inspected each loaf, knocked on it and gave each one a little squeeze right in the middle. The skin on her arms flapped back and forth as she did so.  Her swollen ankles burst out of the sides of her thick black shoes.

As I watched Mrs. Lavasseur and looked down at the ice cream, I realized Maman was probably right. I was a little pig, a Pig Girl who would surely grow up to be a Pig Woman.

I suddenly had trouble swallowing and pushed the bowl away.

“Are you buying bread today, Madame, or just squeezing it?” Monsieur Segal asked watching her.

“I should not think you would mind my making sure the bread was fresh, Monsieur Segal,” Mrs. Lavasseur answered. I watched the roll of skin under her chin vibrate as she spoke.

“Have you ever bought bread from my shop that was not fresh?”

“Only because I check each loaf before I buy it,” Mrs. Lavasseur replied. Her thick hands squeezed yet another loaf.

“Humph.”

“For what you charge, Monsieur, I should think all of your customers would want to check the freshness of the bread,” Mrs. Lavasseur said as she turned and her ample bottom nearly knocked over a display of jellies that was stacked nearby.

“If all of my customers checked the bread the way you do, Madame, I would have to sell it at half price for being damaged merchandise.”

“Perhaps you should sell it at half price to give your customers a break,” she said as she took not one, but three loaves and shoved them into her basket.

“But I see my prices do not stop you from buying it,” Monsieur Segal said.  He snickered and turned towards me to see if I had heard him.  He saw I was not eating and frowned.

“
Qu'est-ce que c'est
? What is it, Etoile?” he asked.  “You do not like?”

“I…I…” I tried to speak but no words came out. I just kept staring at Mrs. Lavasseur’s ankles hanging over the edge of her shoes.

I jumped off the stool and ran out the front door.

“Etoile!” I heard Monsieur Segal call.

***

Running through the back alleys, I stumbled over an empty box of Boston Baked Beans, a discarded copy of
The Thorn Birds
in French, fish wrap, a single clog, and the body of a dead seagull as I ran back towards the apartment.

The curtains were still drawn but I did not care.  I needed to ask Maman if she really thought I was a pig and not a real French woman.  Stumbling, I ran up the stairs trying not to lose my footing as my well-worn shoes hit the carpeted treads.  I unlocked the front door with the key I kept on a chain around my neck and banged on Maman’s bedroom door.

“Maman!” I said, “I need you.  Please, Maman.”

Anais bedroom door suddenly opened up and there was Luc Paul, sitting on the edge of Anais’ bed, shoving his big feet into his boots and lacing them up.

Anais fumbled with the buttons on her blouse as she grabbed me hard by the shoulder and dragged me out into the hall, shutting the door behind her.

“What are you doing?” she asked shaking me.

“I…I need to talk to Maman,” I said.

“She is sleeping.  Stop banging so on doors or you will wake up the dead.”

“What are you doing, Anais? Why is he in your room?”

“We were just…talking. Stop asking so many questions and
tais-toi
! Be quiet!”

“But Anais, please, I need to talk to Maman!” I said.  She folded her arms and it struck me that it could have been Maman standing there; they looked so much alike with the same dark curly hair and the brown, chestnut-shaped eyes.

“Go!” she said giving me a shove towards the door.

I turned.  “But Anais, please,” I begged.

She looked over her shoulder towards her bedroom door, reached into her front pocket and took out a wad of money wrapped in the same scrimshaw clip I’d seen Luc Paul take out of his pocket.

“Where did you get that?” I asked.  Anais peeled off a few dollars and shoved them in the palm of my hand.

“Ssshh.  Go buy us some milk and bread and stop asking so many questions,” she said, her eyes flaring.  I heard a shuffling movement by the bedroom door.  “
Rapidement
! Quickly!” Anais said, glancing back towards her bedroom door.

I left and headed back towards the markets, but I did not want to go into
Le Gateau
again.  I did not want Monsieur Segal staring at me with his gray eyes and asking me about what I’d seen or dangle anymore of his ice cream in front of my face.  Instead, I went to Madame Fried Dough’s market.

“
Bon jour
,
Etoile
,” Madame Duvais said as I entered.

“
Bon jour, Madame
.”

Madame Duvais kept a fryer in the backroom for dough and chips and fish.  Everyone knew that she rarely changed the grease, but that did not stop people from buying the food.  Maman had once let me buy a twist of fried dough, but I had an upset tummy for two days after.

I took a small container of milk out of the refrigerator.  Looking around in the bins, I could not find any bread other than the plastic-wrapped, store-bought kind that Maman would never let us buy.

“Do you have any real bread?” I asked.

Madame Duvais gestured with her head towards the door.  “Go see Monsieur Segal.  I am all out.”

But I knew I could not face Monsieur Segal again today, so I grabbed the pre-cut loaf of bread wrapped in plastic and put it on the counter.

“I said to go see Monsieur Segal. He has fresh loaves,” she said, appalled at my choice.

“I do not have the time,” I lied.

“Oh?” she asked.

“I…I have to… get back home and do homework.”

“Oh?” she asked again and all of a sudden my stomach began to swirl.

“Please, Madame,” I said rocking back and forth on the soles of my shoes.

“This…this is your supper?” she asked picking up the loaf as if it were a dead animal.

“
Oui
.”

She shook her head and sighed.  “You have something to go with it, yes?” she asked.

“No… yes.  I mean, I am sure Maman has something.”

She turned and slid open the glass door to the cheese bin and took out a block wrapped in wax paper.

“This is an end,” she said placing it on the counter.  “Tell your sister to be careful with the knife when she slices it for you.”

Madame Duvais tucked everything into a brown bag and tossed in two apples and a vanilla Charleston Chew.  I waited anxiously as she wrung the items up; hoping Anais had given me enough money.

Madame Duvais nodded.  “You are all set,” she said as she took the two dollars from me and slipped them into her register drawer.

When I got back, Luc Paul was gone.  Anais was sitting in the kitchen.  A lit cigarette burned in an ashtray next to her.  She quickly put it out as I came in.

“Good girl,” she said as I emptied out the contents of the bag onto the table.  She brought out two glasses from the cabinet, rinsed the dust out of them, then took out a couple of napkins and laid them out like place mats. She had already slipped the bread knife out of the drawer when she spotted the store-made bread.