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“I GUESS HE’S NOT JOINING us for dinner,” I said, observing the steaming steak my father placed in front of me. It was smothered in some kind of brown-red sauce that he insisted on calling bar-be-que. I hoped it tasted good, but it smelled a little like mustard, which made my nose tingle.
He sighed and sat across from me with his own plate. “I guess not; he’s headed to the airfield.”
“Airfield?”
“Yeah, he’s a pilot,” he said, passing a bowl of green beans and bacon floating in peppered butter.
I was intrigued. “Like, flying the planes at the airport?”
He laughed. “No, he flies the prop planes, with a veteran’s group at a private landing strip outside town. He’s still got a few more hours to go before he can solo pilot.”
“Oh,” I said, dishing out the green beans. “So he sits around with a bunch of old guys all day?”
“Well, not all day, he’s so busy with school and work that it’s like once a week or so, now. Sometimes they fly, play poker, go out paintballing,” he poured some wine into his glass, but water into mine. “And they aren’t old guys, just vets.”
“Vets?” My English was pretty decent, but this word stumped me.
“Yes, like, guys who served in the military.”
“Oh,” I murmured. The steak was even better than the cheeseburger from last night. I hope my father wasn’t trying to fatten me up!
“I guess it reminds him of his dad,” he added, around a bite of creamy potatoes.
“Did he move away?”
“No, he...” when I saw his face pinch, I was sorry I had ever asked, “...died, before you were born.”
“Did...mother know him?”
“Yes.”
“What... what happened?” I asked, but quickly added, “I mean, you don’t have to tell me, but...”
“No, no, it’s okay,” he said putting his fork down for a moment. “He was in that war out east, oh, this was over twenty years ago. The train was attacked by insurgents. Their damn bombs didn’t leave much of him even to bury.”
“Michael must have been young.”
“Yes, he was five when Matt died.”
“Oh my god,” it horrified me even more. “That poor guy. That must be hard.”
“It was, but he was so young that I sort of replaced his dad,” he said and resumed eating. “I guess I’m kinda the dad now.”
I smiled but looked down at my half-eaten steak, my thoughts on Renee, his blond hair flying in the wind, and his blue eyes sparkling with excitement. He’d fallen once and skinned his knee when mother and her husband were on vacation. I was the only one there to kiss away the tears and bandage him up. He could really use a dad. “You got more kids than you know what to do with.”
He smiled back at me and took a sip of his wine. “I wouldn’t trade it for the world.” His blue eyes were shining, like Renee’s in the ice cream shop. Like I’m sure mine did from time to time.
After we finished, and he turned me down do the dishes a million and one times, I asked if I could fix some coffee. His response tickled my funny bone:
“Coffee, this late? Do you want to stay up all night?”
“Coffee is good to digest meat,” I said in French, moving towards the coffee maker anyway. He tilted his head at me, and I translated. “And decaf for you, I guess,” I finished in English.
He moved in between me and the counter. “First of all, little girl,” he shook his finger at me, “we don’t say heretical words in this house like decaf...”
I laughed.
“And secondly, don’t make it strong, like the French do, because that is disgusting.” He moved to allow me access. “Oh, and, cream and sugar in mine, please.”
I stuck my tongue out. Who drowned coffee in cream? How disgusting!
We sat at the table with our coffee. He told me stories of his travels to France, and about some crazy book signers he had encountered. I laughed so hard my sides hurt, and the coffee was sucked into my nostrils. A few times I had to excuse myself for fear of laughing so hard I would snort something embarrassing.
“... I swear, right there in front of the whole line of men, women, and children, she shoves her arm in my face, and goes, ‘Sign it! Imma get it tattooed as soon as I leave here!’”
I laughed my hand on my stomach. “Wow, tattoo fans, over a fantasy novel?”
He sipped his coffee and winked. “I’ve had moms ask me to sign their baby’s forehead.”
“Wow, oh my god.”
“Nothing was as bad as when we had an Arabic prince try to pick up your mother, though.”
I tensed, not getting his meaning. “Pick up?”
“Like, hit on. Flirt?”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, this was... hmmm... about a year ago, our recent signing tour. We were at that bookstore on the Seine, in Monmarte, you know it?” I nodded, it was one of my mother’s favorites. “Well, he was decked in a turban, white shirt and pants, and a purple sash with all sorts of gold pins. He came right up to our table, looked at me, and asked how much she was a night.”
“What... how much?” I was shocked. My mother?! She had nothing on the models that I had seen Jaqui with at her pageant shows. My mother wasn’t even... well, I mean, she wasn’t thin or attractive.
“Yeah, and your mom, she laughed at him. He was so mad, his face got all red, but he wouldn’t respond to her. He pushed a wad of bills at me, and said he could also pay in jewels for ‘such a golden woman.’”
I put my cup down and leaned over. “What did Mom do?”
“What she does best. She got up, grabbed him by the ear just under his turban, and dragged him to; I think it was Jaques that did security, that time.”
“Jaques is great.” I missed him a little. He was a pretty awesome guy, who carried a really big gun, a Baretta, he told me once. He also liked to drive fast and loved to hear our excited giggles from the back seat as we flew over speed bumps and careened around corners. He used to tell bullies he would shoot them if they didn’t stop teasing Renee and I.
“Well, Jaques, he was watching us, and your mom, she just nodded at him. He came right over, picked him up by the back of his starched collar, and said, ‘Mrs. Arnoult is not for sale, at any cost. You can take this up further with Mr. Arnoult if you wish, sir.’ And escorted him out of the building,” he chuckled at the memory. “Well, maybe threw him on his ass is more appropriate!”
I stifled a giggle. “Did he bounce?”
“No, but I’m sure I heard the jangle as he hit the pavement.”
We both chuckled at that. The silence closed in for a few minutes. I finally said, “Mom must have been a bad ass.”
“She was. When we worked the magazine together, she used to throw her gavel at her writers sometimes, for “extra motivation.” One time a tow company tried to take her car when she’d been in the 2-hour parking for too long, and she told the driver if he didn’t stop touching her car he wouldn’t have any fingers left to do his job.”
My quiet, demure mother. All these years, quiet dinners, rolling French, respect for her husband. It was hard to fathom her free spirit and quirkiness, the side my father had seen, compared to the silent matriarch that I had left behind in Paris.
“She’s so different now,” I said, my voice lowered and the smiles gone. “She goes to parties with her husband, she comes home early, and he comes home drunk. He yells, a lot, but always at her, never at us. He doesn’t even know we are around, half the time. He changed a lot, too. Before Darci was born, he used to take us places, to the country or out to dinner. But now he takes us nowhere, and he even lives in the city most of the time.”
My father reached out and grasped my hand, giving it a little squeeze. “I’m sorry, to hear that. I’m sure he loves your mother in there somewhere, but maybe he got a little lost along the way.” His eyes were glazed, spinning with shine. “I remember when we first saw you in that little bassinet, the day you were born. Marceau told me you were his daughter and how much he loved your mom.” He swallowed, hard. “I was so jealous of him that day.”
I didn’t know what to say. My mother’s husband had been nice to me when I was younger, and I knew he loved me. But it seemed as I grew up, he didn’t want much to do with me anymore. But as much as I hated him, I felt the bile rise in honor of my father, sitting right here at the table. He’d saw me when I was born, and just stood by?
“Why jealous? You could have taken mom and I and come here.” I looked down and spun my empty cup idly.
“Ah, Elise,” he said, and I looked up at him. “No one could ever convince your mother to go anywhere with them if she didn’t want to. She’s a woman of fire and spirit, morals and values. She wanted y’all to have the best, and she couldn’t do that with me.”
“But porquoi?” I struggled to understand why.
“She loved Marceau then, not me, and did what she thought was right.” He cleared his throat noisily. “Besides, we had some good times, right? Like your birthday, and when you came to visit?”
“Yes,” I said. “They were the best memories I had.” I suddenly had to choke back tears. God, I missed Jaqui and Renee. And Darci, climbing on all the furniture. And even Isabelle with her little cubby fingers, grasping at the spoon as I lifted it to her mouth.
“Good, I’m glad.” He stood then. “I have a present for you, just a second.”
He disappeared down the hallway and came back with a small red box; a black ribbon stuck sideways on top. “For you.”
It wasn’t wrapped, just taped shut. I slit the thin tape with my fingernail, and lifted the lid. Inside was a black box, stamped with a famous cell phone manufacturer. I gasped and pulled it out slowly, looking at my father to see if this was a joke.
“Top of the line, they said,” he answered my unspoken question. “And it’s all yours. International calling, too, so you don’t get homesick.”
“Oh, this is too much.” I wish I could hug him, but I wasn’t ready for that yet. “Thank you...”
“I hope you’ll stay awhile, Elise,” he said, with a smile.
“Oh, I plan to.”
***
IN THE SAFETY OF THE spare bedroom – my bedroom, I corrected myself – I plopped across the purple bedspread on my stomach. My shoes fell off behind me, hitting the squat dresser that stood just perpendicular to the bed. I cradled my phone in my hands, fearful such a treasure to surely be smashed against the slate-colored carpet beneath. I twisted and turned the black device, my thumb running over the bright screen.
I knew just who to call first.
Reaching under the bed, I pulled out my suitcase, still stuffed with clothes and remnants of home. As I removed my purse, my father’s novel went tumbling to the floor, and I scooped it up. With a little smile, I put it on the nightstand next to the squared lamp, determined to read it, and turned to the black satchel that held all the numbers in the world that were important to me.
It was easy to punch in Giselle’s number, and I hoped it wasn’t too late to give her a call.
She answered on the second ring, her voice was a little sleepy, and I instantly regretted calling her at ten o’clock. I couldn’t tell if my body was still on Paris time or if I was still alert from the events of the last 24 hours. My head was still spinning from all the details my father had given me, and from meeting Michael.
“Giselle?” I said, “It’s Elise, we met on the plane yesterday?”
“Oh yeah!” Her voice perked up immediately. “I’m still adjusting from the time change; this jet lag can be a bitch. How are you?”
“Good,” I answered in French before I could think about it.
She responded in fluent French, and I could tell over the phone she was happy to have someone to converse with in the language. She told me how happy her dad had been to see her, and how different it was adjusting to America after being in Switzerland for a year. “What about you? How are you adjusting?”
“It’s definitely different,” I told her as we continued in French, “But so far, the food is great. I miss the coffee back home, though.”
She laughed. “I know what you mean, Folgers just isn’t the same.”
There was a lapse in the conversation then until she said: “You never really told me why you came to America, besides the university. Do you have somewhere to stay?”
“Yeah, I’m at...” I paused, not sure how to tell her my complicated story. “My father’s house.”
She was quiet for a minute, and then: “Wow, didn’t know Monsieur Arnolt had an American summer house.”
“He doesn’t,” I said. “Giselle, if I tell you something, you have to promise to keep it a secret.”
“Sure.”
“Marceau Arnolt is not my dad. My mom had me with another man, Elijah Baker.”
She gasped. “THE Elijah Baker? Like, author Elijah Baker?”
I chuckled. She’d never heard of France’s illustrious family, but out of all the thousands of authors in America, she had heard of my dad. What were the odds? “Yes, that’s the one.”
I could hear Giselle squeal. “You should get me an autograph.”
I laughed. “I don’t know, maybe. Don’t forget I met him just yesterday!”
“I knew I should have hung around the gate... what did I miss?”
I told her everything as briefly as I could, about the flowers and balloons, the smile on his face, his eyes lighting up. She laughed when I talked about the burger and fries, and even the steak and potatoes we had just a few hours ago. I lightly touched on Michael, deciding she didn’t need to know about him just yet.
But she had other plans.
“And who’s Michael? Like your step brother or something?”
“Cousin, actually.”
“Hmm. So no American men for you yet, ma ami?”
“No, but I think I’ll give it time,” I told her, “But I don’t think I actually want anyone right now.”
“Me either,” she said, “men, at least.”
“I’m just enjoying being here, with my father, and even my cousin... if he ever shows his face for more than a few seconds, that is.”
“You’re probably better off without him, anyways.”
I didn’t reply, because I didn’t know how to respond, exactly. I could feel my eyelids drooping, and the featherweight phone suddenly felt very bulky. “Giselle, I think that jetlag is catching up with me all of a sudden.”
“Hey, before you go, we should hang out sometime.”
“Sure,” I said, worried I might fall asleep before we could end the conversation. “I’m going to the zoo on Saturday with my dad, do you want to join us?”
“Sure! Sounds like fun!” Her voice was high, excited.
“Okay. Meet you there around ten?”
“Yup.”
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, sweet dreams,” she said to me in French.
I was already asleep.