JEAN-LUC
Jean-Luc watches Sam spinning circles in the sand, his olive skin ripening gently under the California sun. “How about practicing your hundred meters?”
“It’s yards, Dad!” Sam leaps up, jiggling up and down with excitement as his father draws a line in the sand.
Jean-Luc raises his arm. “Ready, steady—go!” He drops it in one swift movement.
Sam flies forward, spindly limbs pumping away, forehead screwed up in determination. His new yellow swim shorts flap around his skinny knees, then his legs stretch out one last time to cross the finish line. Panting heavily, he bends over, his head hanging between his knees, gasping for breath—a mini version of a real athlete.
“Twenty-five seconds. Well done, son.”
“Wow! Yeah! That’s fast, isn’t it, Dad?”
“Sure is. Could be a record!” Unable to resist, Jean-Luc wraps his arms around him, soaking up his warmth. But then Sam jumps free, running down toward the ocean, stopping halfway to turn around, cocking his head to one side and putting his hands on his hips as he waits for his father to catch up.
Jean-Luc runs toward him as fast as his good leg will carry him. Standing in the surf, he inhales deeply, savoring the mingling smell of salt and cotton candy wafting over from the boardwalk. He gazes out at the huge expanse of turquoise stretching to meet the horizon. Millions of tiny diamonds twinkle back at him. It’s all so bright and beautiful, the lines so clean. This is America, its colors pure and clear—sky blue and gold. In contrast, when he remembers Paris, he sees dull colors running into each other, streaks of gray and black mingling, never mixing, lines vague and untrue. He’s in love with his adopted country.
And his son. Every minute he spends with Sam erases another minute of his life before. He opens his mouth and breathes in the taste of happiness. Then he holds his breath as he plunges into the ocean, diving through the waves.
Sam paddles after him, but is pushed back by the tide. Jean-Luc stops swimming, reaching out for his son. Their fingers meet and he pulls him into deeper water. With one hand under the child’s stomach, he holds him afloat so he can practice his front stroke.
“Let’s play sharks, Daddy.”
“What’s that?”
“You close your eyes and count to fifty, and I have to swim away, then you come after me and try to catch me.”
As instructed by his son, he closes his eyes, counting as Sam slithers off his hands. At fifty, he opens his eyes. Merde! Sam is too far out, way out of his depth now. He’s waving his arms around. Immediately Jean-Luc cuts through the waves toward him. When he reaches him, he pulls him to his chest, treading water as he holds him tight.
“Daddy, I was scared. It’s real deep!”
“You’re too far out. Let’s go back.”
“But now you’ve caught me, you have to eat me.”
“I don’t eat little boys. Let’s have a proper lunch instead.”
“I’m not hungry. Can’t we stay longer—please?”
“Please.”
“Don’t beg, Sam.”
When they wander back up the beach, Charlotte has a towel ready for Sam, which she puts around his shoulders, pulling him onto her lap and kissing him on the top of his head. “Was it cold?”
“No. It’s real warm. Are you gonna come in?” Sam turns to look up at her.
“After lunch.” Charlotte takes out a flask, pouring cups of homemade lemonade, clouds of pulp floating to the surface. She passes Jean-Luc his favorite sandwich—ham and tomato—and Sam his: peanut butter and jelly.
“Can we go camping next weekend?” Sam’s face shines with eagerness.
“There’s an idea. Where were you thinking of?”
“France.”
Jean-Luc nearly chokes on his lemonade. “France? But that’s the other side of the world.”
“What made you think of that all of a sudden?” Charlotte asks.
“Mrs. Armstrong said we should talk to our gran’parents and ask them what it was like when they were small, then we gotta write about it. Mine are in France. Right?”
Jean-Luc bites into his sandwich, looking out to sea.
“Yes,” Charlotte replies. “But it’s a long ways away. I could tell you what it was like for your grandparents, growing up in France.” She places her hand on Sam’s knee. Jean-Luc knows she’s trying to placate him.
“Can’t I write and ask them?”
“No, Sam. They’re too old.” She removes her hand, scratching her right shoulder.
Jean-Luc recognizes the gesture; it’s what she does when she’s feeling awkward or playing for time.
“Too old to write?” Sam insists.
“Yes.” She turns around, fumbling in the cooler.
“But why do they never come to see us? All my friends have grandparents, and it’s like I don’t have any.”
“Sam,” Jean-Luc says, “remember how we told you the war in France was hard on everyone. We managed to escape with you, but the people who stayed, like your grandparents, they don’t like looking back. They want to forget.”
“What? Forget us?”
Jean-Luc exchanges a look with Charlotte. “No, not us, but they were sad when we left.” He pauses. “Maybe we’ll see them again one day. Planes are very expensive, you know.”
“Okay.” Sam nibbles the crust off his sandwich.
Jean-Luc turns around to look at Charlotte. She’s hunched over the cool box, her dark, silky hair loosely tied back with a purple silk scarf. He’s worried that the conversation is upsetting her.
“What else have you got in there, honey?” he asks.
She pulls out a brown paper bag and passes it to him, but doesn’t meet his eye. The atmosphere lies thick and heavy. So much unsaid.
Then Sam breaks it. “Are they cookies?”
Jean-Luc opens the bag. “Yes, your favorite. Chocolate chip.”
“Swell!” Sam reaches out his hand to take one.
Thank God for chocolate chip cookies, Jean-Luc thinks ironically.
Later when Sam has gone off to dig holes in the sand, Charlotte and Jean-Luc stretch out on the picnic rug. Jean-Luc turns onto his side, resting his head on his hand, gazing down at her.
A silence falls on them, and he wonders if she will broach the subject first. He looks at her loosely tied hair falling to the side. He likes the way she always carries scarves with her, draping them around her neck or wrapping her hair in them, sometimes tying one around her waist. She has style. Originality. It’s what attracted him to her in the first place. Never one to blend into the background, however hard she might try.
“Jean-Luc.”
“Yes?” He can feel it coming.
“Sam is asking questions again. All his friends have family—grandparents, uncles, aunts, all that. But he has none.”
“He has us.” Jean-Luc runs his finger over her cheek, tracing its curve. “We’ll just have to make sure we’re enough.” He wishes once again that they could have given Sam some siblings. A big happy family would have helped Charlotte cope with her homesickness, would have helped her to feel more settled, but it just didn’t happen. They even went to the doctor; he said it was certainly the deprivation Charlotte suffered during the occupation that made her periods stop, but he couldn’t say why they never came back. He wanted to run some tests, but Charlotte refused, saying they should just make the most of what they had. Jean-Luc didn’t like to insist; the subject felt fraught and fragile, so he dropped it.
When their bodies can’t take any more heat and they’re too tired to swim, they pack up and leave the beach. They pass a street sweeper in blue overalls leaning on a large broom, the bristles nestling a collection of the day’s used fun—ice-cream wrappers, cigarette butts, and broken cardboard boxes. He doesn’t appear to be in a hurry to get on with the job.
“Weather’s ’bout to change.” He points up at the fleecy clouds moving in. “Might be in for a storm.”
With their eyes they follow the line of his finger, looking up at the clouds gathering momentum. They hurry away to their car. The prominent hood and smooth lines of the dark blue Nash 600 always bring a sense of pride to Jean-Luc. He never imagined owning such a beautiful car, but here in America, anything is possible. He puts the key in the ignition and immediately the music comes on.
That evening, the warm air clings to them. A heavy stillness hangs from the leaves, which have ceased to flutter, and the cat lies stretched out, belly exposed, under the shade of the weeping willow. Jean-Luc and Sam are on the front porch, languidly rocking on the swinging seat, trying to catch a little breeze. Charlotte brings cold lemonade in tall glasses, ice cubes clinking. Jean-Luc takes an ice cube and holds it against the back of his neck. It quickly turns to water, trickling down his back, providing only a moment’s respite from the California summer heat.
Sounds of The Ed Sullivan Show drift over from the open windows of the neighbor’s house.
Jean-Luc looks up at the sky. “I wish this storm would hurry up and break.”