SPECIAL DELIVERY! Mother sings out, clutching a jar in each of her hands.
But the mayor opens his door no more than a crack.
Mother smiles at him shyly. It's pear, she says. Your favorite.
The crack widens by a hair.
Madame, the mayor begins, I am a supporter of local business—
Indeed you are! she cries. Last month you bought a dozen jars!
And presenting her gifts, she says, Do not think I have forgotten.
The door creeps farther open, then closes with a slam.
Mother stumbles backwards. She stares at the mayor's front door; she frowns at this most uncivic display.
The red door swings open once again. The mayor has been replaced by his sour-faced daughter, her jaw set, her feet planted. Old enough, Mother thinks, to be married by now, and bullying someone other than her father.
Good morning, Mother ventures.
What do you want? the daughter replies.
To leave a token, Mother says, of my appreciation for the mayor.
And she holds up each golden specimen for her to see.
Preserves! the daughter snorts. Just as I thought!
She folds her arms across her narrow chest: We are not interested. The things you make—they have a queer taste.
Mother, looking in dismay at her jars, cannot muster a reply.
The mayor's daughter takes advantage. She observes, as she closes for the last time the door, But why should you care whether we like your preserves? You have so many customers in Paris.