The French Girl Page 2

  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 Wom
an.

  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.

  “What is this?” she asked as she picked up the plastic wrapper and dropped it back down on the table.

  “Madame Duvais was out of real bread,” I explained. “It was all she had.”

  “What about Monsieur Segal? Surely he was not out of fresh bread?”

  “I did not have the time…Please, Anais. There’s cheese, and apples and a Charleston Chew, too.”

  She unwrapped the cheese and sniffed at it. Setting the block on edge, she cut off a thin layer that was beginning to mold on each side and tossed them out the open window. Then she cut several thick slices for each of us and stared at the plastic-wrapped bread.

  Shrugging her shoulders, she said, “Go ahead and open it.”

  We had never eaten store bought bread before. Even the school baked fresh bread every morning.

  I opened the wrapper. Every slice looked exactly the same. I picked up a slice and it felt soft in my fingers. Anais took a slice too, and wrapped it around a big slice of cheese. She popped it in her mouth. I did the same. It was the strangest bread I had ever tasted, very light and airy compared to Monsieur Segal’s bread, which was crusty and heavy. As I chewed, the bread got stuck to the roof of my mouth. I rolled my tongue around to get it off and realized Anais was doing the same thing. We both laughed at the same time.


  Anais ate hers like a sandwich but I took one slice of cheese at a time and placed it on a small piece of bread.

  “Look,” I said as I pushed my thumb into a slice. A small thumbprint remained. I began to make shapes with my thumb in the bread. Holding up a heart shape, I began to sing, “Anais and Luc Paul sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S…”

  I suddenly realized Maman was standing in the doorway staring at me. She was wearing an old navy-blue skirt and flowered blouse. She held a bottle by the neck and was swaying.

  “What did you just say?” she asked, her eyes flaring.

  I looked at Anais, who tucked her head down.

  “Qu'avez-vous dit? What did you just say?” Maman asked again coming closer. She grabbed onto the back of a chair to steady herself.

  “I…I…” My stomach began to flip and growl.

  Anais looked up at me and gave me a small shake of her head.

  Maman clung to the back of each chair as she moved closer. She grabbed my cheeks with one hand and squeezed them. Her long red fingernails dug deep into my skin. “What did you say?” she said very slowly.

  “Why don’t you go back to bed?” Anais said quietly.

  I began to feel tears welling up from Maman’s fingers digging into my cheeks.

  “Leave her alone,” Anais said.

  Maman pushed my face away and spun towards Anais.

  “Putain! Whore!” she said. She swung her arm just as Anais shoved her chair back so Maman’s blow mostly caught the table. The glass of milk went sailing across and left a white blot on the wall before shattering to the floor. Maman clung tightly to the bottle as Anais stood up. I backed as far away as I could from Maman as she lifted her head up and spotted the loaf of bread. She picked it up.

  “Qu'est-ce que c'est? What is this?” she demanded with a sound of disgust in her voice.

  “Madame Duvais was out of real bread,” I explained as fast as I could.

  “The Fried Dough woman cannot even keep any decent bread?” Maman said as she took the entire loaf and heaved it, along with the block of cheese, out the open window.