The French War Bride (29 page)

“How was your flight over?” I asked. I knew from our conversations in Paris that it would be his first time on an airplane.

“It was very pleasant, thank you. Very exciting. It's a wonderful way to travel.”

“And did you muster out?”

“Yes—finally. I was discharged last week.”

“Have you talked to your fiancée?”

“Just briefly. I will call her again tonight, then head to Louisiana as soon as I get you and Elise settled.” He twisted toward me and cleared his throat. “I have done some checking. We must be established residents in a state in order to get an annulment.”

“Oh?”

“I'm a resident in Louisiana. It will take six months there.”

“Oh, la!”

“It will take less time in Reno or Las Vegas, Nevada. Only six weeks.”

“I see. Is that near to New York?”

“No. It's not near Louisiana, either.”

My chest tightened. “I am sorry if this is a problem.”

He lifted his shoulders. “Six weeks is not long in the course of a lifetime. All in all, it is a small price for bringing Doug's child to America.”

“I hope your fiancée sees things that way.”

“I do, as well.”

“So you haven't told her about . . .” I started to say
our marriage
, then thought better of using those words. “. . . about the way you're helping us?”

“No. It is the sort of thing I need to tell her in person.”

“So what do you write to her about?”

He lifted his shoulders. “Ordinary things.”

“Such as?”

“The weather. Medical cases.”

“And what does she write to you?”

“News about what she's doing, about the town . . . but mainly questions about the wedding. She is dying to set a date. Apparently her mother has reserved three different dates at the church and the country club.”

“Oh, la.”

“I have tried to explain, in vague terms, that I want do additional medical training in Reno before we marry. I can do that while I wait for the annulment. She suggested we get married first, so she can come with me to Nevada. I must see her to explain.”

“I understand. “

“Here we are,” the cab driver said.

The cab had stopped beside an empty lot filled with rubble.

“Where?” Jack asked.

“Right there.” The cabdriver pointed to what looked like the remains of a demolished building. “That's the address you gave me—1926 Fairster.”

My stomach lurched. “This can't be right.”

“Please wait for us,” Jack said to the driver.

I got out of the cab, holding Elise. My knees felt like pudding.

“This is the only address you have?” Jack asked.

“Yes.” I handed him a piece of paper with the names and address of Yvette's aunt and her husband. “This is it.”

Jack took my elbow and led me across the street, into a small grocery store. “Is that 1926 Fairster Street across the street?” he asked the man behind the counter, who wore a butcher-style apron.

“Yep,” the man replied.

“Can you tell us what happened?”

“The building burned down about six, seven months ago.”

“Do you know where the residents went?”

“Oh, pretty much all over.”

He glanced at the paper. “We're looking for Angelique and John Brown.”

“Oh, yes. We knew them.” A short woman wearing a white apron over a bright floral dress walked up from the back of the store. “She was French, right?”

“Yes.”

“They moved out west.”

“The west side of the city?” Jack asked.

“No. To California or Washington or Oregon or somewhere.”

“Do you know what city?”

“City?” the man laughed. “Hell, we don't know what state.”

“Do you know anyone who could tell us?”

The woman frowned thoughtfully, then shook her head. “All of their close friends were in the building, and they've all moved way.”

“Do you know if the Browns belonged to a local church? Did the children go to school?”

“They had a boy and a girl, both grown and married. They didn't live here,” the woman said. “I believe the Browns were Catholic, though.”

Jack turned to me and translated.

“We can ask at the local church,” I ventured in French.

“Do you know which church they went to?” Jack asked the couple.

“There's a Catholic church down the street,” the woman volunteered.

“Thank you. We'll try there.”

We got back in the cab. Jack looked as if he were working hard to control a rising tide of anger. His voice was controlled, but his eyes flashed as he turned to me. “When did you last hear from your aunt and uncle?”

“It was . . . during the war.”

“How long ago?”

My insides felt as if they were shrinking. “A year . . . or two.”

His gaze was incredulous. “They didn't know you were coming?”

“Oh, yes! I wrote to them!”

“And they wrote back?”

I felt seasick all over again. “The mail—it wasn't reliable. Especially the incoming mail. We were told that mail posted out, however.”

He stared straight ahead, as if he couldn't bear to look at me. “You told me they were expecting you.” His voice was flat and cold.

“Yes. Because I wrote them.”

“But you didn't hear back,” he repeated.

“N-no. I couldn't imagine . . . I had no way of knowing . . . I never dreamed they would move.”

“You didn't send them a telegram when you learned your departure date?”

“I—I did not think of it.”

He gazed at me, his expression one of disbelief and icy fury.

“It—It just didn't occur to me,” I said.

“I see.”

“No, I think you do not. From the angry look on your face, it appears the only thing you see is that I am an idiot or that I am somehow trying to trick you.”

His eyes snapped. “I just can't believe you would cross an ocean—and marry a stranger!—on the off chance that your aunt and uncle had received your letter.”

“You are right. It was very stupid of me.” It was not an act for tears to course down my face.

“I'm trying to understand, to give you every benefit of the doubt, but it doesn't make any sense. Why wouldn't you send a telegram?”

All of my Resistance training came back to me, especially the words of Mme Dupard:
Stick as close to the truth as possible. Tell the truth whenever you can.

“A telegraph was like a . . . a big steak, or an airplane ride. So beyond my reach or everyday thinking that it wasn't in my frame of reference. During the war, telegrams only came for Germans. The French people—at least the ones I knew—never received them. Not when someone died, or was arriving . . . Never.” I met his eyes, though mine were blurred with
tears. “The last I heard, my aunt loved her home and neighborhood. I never dreamed she would move. It never occurred to me that a tragedy such as a fire could happen here. Those were horrors that belonged to war. In my mind, America was paradise—a place where everything was always good.” Elise was asleep, and slipping down in my arms. I struggled to readjust her.

Jack inhaled a long slow breath. He seemed to be pulling something into himself, some something stronger than air. He took Elise from me and gently cradled her. She opened her eyes and looked at him. I thought she would cry, but she just closed her eyelids again.

“You have been through an ordeal that is hard for an outsider to understand,” he said at length, as the taxi stopped before a small church. “Come on. Let's see if the priest can tell us anything about your family.”

—

The church was deserted. At length a woman dressed all in black came in to light a candle.

“Do you know where we can find the priest?” Jack asked her.

“The rectory is around the back.”

Jack translated into French. I realized that I probably should have told him I spoke English when I first got off the ship, but I had thought I would only be with him for an hour or two, and an explanation would have involved more lies. Now, when he was already viewing me as either an idiot or a con artist, it seemed too awkward to tell him. For the time being, at least, I would let sleeping cats lie.

We knocked on the door, interrupting the priest's supper.

Jack explained our situation.

“Ah—the Browns. Such a tragedy, that apartment fire! So many parishioners lost everything, but everyone escaped with their lives, praise God.”

“Do you know where they went?”

“I know Mr. Brown had a married sister in California—or was it Texas? It was out west, I'm sure of that. Maybe Oregon or Arizona.”

“Do you know his sister's married name?”

“I'm sorry—no. I never met her. I only saw Mr. Brown on a couple of occasions. He seldom came to church. He was a Protestant, I believe. The missus, though—she was fairly devout.”

“Were the children christened here? Maybe the aunt was a godmother.”

“Sorry, no. They were older when they moved to the neighborhood.” The priest gave an apologetic smile. “I'm sorry I can't be of any real help.”

Jack turned to me once we were outside. “Do you happen to know what your uncle's occupation was? Perhaps we can track them down that way.”

“He—he was a construction worker,” I invented.

“Did he have a specialty? Iron work, perhaps?”

I shook my head. “He—he changed jobs quite often. It was a worry to my aunt.”

Jack marched to the taxi and yanked open the door for me, his face hard.

I couldn't help it. I cried. I tried not to, but tears rolled down my cheeks. He handed me a handkerchief. I wiped my face. Elise awoke and howled. I took her back from Jack and cradled her in my arms.

“What does she need?” Jack asked.

“She's hungry.”

“What does she eat at this age?”

“Formula and soft foods.”

“Let's go get dinner, then, and try to figure this out.”

—

We went to Schrafft's. It was large and modern and unlike any restaurant I'd seen in Paris. It had glass blocks on the outside, and mahogany on the interior. “This looks terribly expensive.”

“Oh, no, don't worry. The prices are very reasonable.”

“I—I still don't think I can afford this,” I said.

“I wouldn't dream of letting you pay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

A waitress with a thick accent—I think it was Irish, but my English
wasn't precise enough for me to tell—approached our table. I wasn't sure what to order, so Jack did it for me. He ordered a steak—maybe because I'd mentioned steak as one of the things that was beyond the scope of my world in France, like a telegram—with a baked potato, green beans, a salad, and warm rolls with butter.

“Oh, my—oh, this is enough for four people!” I said when a white-aproned waitress set a heaping plate in front of me.

“That's just for you and Elise.”

“Well, we must save the rest.”

“We have no place to keep it.”

All the same, I put a roll in my purse.

Jack ate a steak as well, and then he looked at me. “I've made a decision.”

“Yes?”

“I have a hotel room for the night. We'll get another room for you and Elise, then in the morning, we'll catch a train for Whitefish. Since we can't find your family, we'll take you to Doug's.”

My stomach suddenly felt as if I had just eaten a box of rocks. “But . . . I don't know them. And they're not expecting me! I bet they don't even know that Doug and I . . .”

He leaned forward. “I'm sure they'll be thrilled. But just to avoid anything like what we just encountered, I'm going to give them a telephone call.”

“Oh, la!”

“Don't worry, I'll do all the talking, since you don't speak English.”

Thank God I hadn't told him I spoke English! “I'll tell them that I'm coming to see them, and that I'm bringing them a surprise from Doug.”

I numbly nodded.

“Once they see you and Elise, why, there's no way they'll want to do anything but welcome you with open arms, don't you think?”

All I could do was once more, dumbly, nod my head. “I hope so,” I murmured.

“I'm sure they'll want their grandchild close,” Jack said. “Doug was an only child, so Elise will be their only close family.”

He helped me gather up my belongings. Yvette's camera fell from my shoulder tote.

He picked it up and looked at it. “Looks like you have one photo left.”

“Let me take a photo of you, then. But you'll have to hold the baby so I have my hands free.” I handed the baby to him.

“Would you like for me to take a picture of all of you together?” asked a gentleman at the next table.

“Why, that would be very nice,” Jack said.

We stood together and smiled as he raised the camera.

“Why don't you put your arm around your wife,” he said to Jack.

“Oh, she's . . .” Jack abruptly broke off. I could tell he'd been about to say that I was not his wife, and then he must have realized I was. His ears reddened. “Yes,” he conceded. “Good idea.”

His arm came around my shoulders, and I leaned in toward him.

We were in the middle of a brightly lit restaurant. It was a pose, that is all. There was nothing genuine about it—much less anything romantic or sentimental or sexual. And yet, my heart started to pound. I inhaled the scent of him—the warm, man-scented wool of his jacket, the clean starchiness of his shirt, that undernote of soap and shaving cream and testosterone—and I felt slightly woozy. My skin felt strangely vibrant and alive where we touched, as if those were the only places on my body where blood flowed freely. The warmth of his arm, the feel of his fingers, gave me goose bumps. Being close to him made me want to inch even nearer.