Silent Bird Page 8

  I hadn’t given this woman a chance. She seemed nice enough; maybe she was the key to getting to know the family? And what about the uncle, the one with the vineyard? He wasn’t here but he could be nice too.

  With a flurry of polite congratulations, Madame Courbois kissed Jeannot and me, and everyone followed her lead. It was a near orgy of kisses, so many I lost count.

  “I adore sapphire,” declared Carole.

  “I want to be in the wedding,” cried one of the twins. The other went back to eating.

  As the rest of the family offered a toast, wishing us a long life together with lots of children, Jeannot’s father continued to eye me instead of the ring. His expression was unreadable but I thought I caught him studying my dress. For goodness sake, I thought. In the flush of our news, Jeannot seemed oblivious.

  After the toast, we all turned back to the rabbit.

  “Too bad Uncle Charles was not able to join us,” Carole said. “He has missed Jeannot’s announcement!”

  “Yes, too bad,” said Monsieur Courbois, voice flat. “He has work to do, yes? You don’t expect him to just leave it undone.”

  “I did not say that.” Carole’s voice remained cheerful. “Pilar, you will love the vineyard, I promise. It is lovely. And you will meet Benoit too--”

  “—our cousin,” one of the twins said.

  “Maybe next time,” Jeannot said. “Pilar will meet everyone, as soon as possible.”

  I looked at him, stricken, but managed to nod, and the conversation wobbled off in another direction. I zoned out, picking at my food, ignoring the sounds of French. Remembering that poor girl’s face when that teenager threw her kerchief into the dirt.

  “You are quiet, Mademoiselle,” Madame Courbois observed after we’d been eating for as long as, say, your average Passover Seder. “Ca va bien? Are you well?”

  “Oui, Madame. Merci.”

  “You do not like rabbit stew?”

  “Uh, yes, I do.” The sauce had some kind of sheen over it. Grease? Or merely sauce? I decided it was grease on top of sauce. The meat wasn’t bad, though; that old cliché “tastes like chicken” really did apply. I just wasn’t used to eating this stuff. And I’d once owned a stuffed rabbit named Snowball, corny as that sounds. Brought it everywhere: my security blanket—or bunny.

  “But you do not eat,” Madame Courbois said reproachfully. She looked at her son, who looked at me, alarm evident.

  Please eat the food, he seemed to say. Above all, eat our food.

  I said, “I apologize, I’m not very hungry. It does taste wonderful, though.” And just to show her, I attempted another bite.

  His mother watched warily, as if I might spit out what I tasted. I chewed a bunch of times and smiled and murmured yum. After a long pause, she seemed to make up her mind to believe me.

  “Jeannot tells me you are an artist?” she asked.

  “Yes. I want to make books for children.”

  “How interesting. And unusual. You are trained for this?”

  “Not exactly. I studied Liberal Arts.”

  She frowned, so I rushed to clarify.

  “I studied, ah, psychology and sociology and development of…children. I took art as a…specialty, with a…focus in drawing. I also studied painting. I prefer to work with…like a pencil”—charcoal!—“and color….”

  Madame Courbois put down her fork, face perplexed.

  “Maman,” Jeannot said, his voice pleading. Like: Give Pilar a break!

  “I am trying to understand,” she said, her tone miffed. “Pilar’s French is difficult to comprehend, you know.”

  Monsieur Velcro Lips, who had been listening to all this with increasing interest, winked at me. And I stared at the rabbit on my plate, wishing I could crawl underneath.

  “I understood her perfectly,” my fiancé was saying. “She majored in art at university and wants to create children’s books. Pilar is gifted in many ways. She is also a photographer.”

  I looked up from my plate, struck with a realization. That little girl…maybe I have a picture of her! And maybe Jeannot will know who she is…?

  “Jeannot,” Monsieur Courbois said wearily. “Your mother just wants to get to know her better.”

  “We all do,” put in Carole. “And we have plenty of time, yes?”

  Thankfully, on that note, our rabbit lunch ended. The head of the family returned to the balcony, carting his liquor glass with him, this time filled with something brown.

  And watching him, I thought: No, he’s the one. He’s worse than Mama Bear and way, way worse than Auntie. Like it or not, acceptance into this family starts with him.

  VI

  While Jeannot and Carole helped Madame Courbois with the dishes, I geared up my courage to venture onto the balcony. For hunched in an old-fashioned bistro chair, Monsieur Courbois sat staring at the street, glass of poison propped against his bulging belly. His balding head looked as vulnerable as a baby’s.

  And no time like the present, right?

  So I headed farther into the cigar smoke. “That was a wonderful meal, Monsieur. And this is a beautiful village.”

  He looked sharply at me, and I noticed that his eyes were actually a shade darker than his son’s. Their pupils seemed lost.

  “You have villages like this in America?” he asked.

  “Not exactly. I am from a small town too, about ninety minutes from New York City. But nothing like this.”

  Childish laughter rang up from the lot. A girl and a boy were kicking a soccer ball. On the other side of the lot, a couple of middle-aged men rolled grapefruit-sized steel balls in the dirt.

  Monsieur Courbois gestured at the men. “In America you play pétanque?”

  “No, I don’t think so. We play softball or soccer or tennis or golf—really, anything. But I have not seen that.”

  “Pétanque is French,” he said proudly.

  A few more children appeared down below. I spied something white and then realized with a shock that it was the same kerchief on the same girl I’d seen earlier. As I watched, she wandered near the playground, head covered and looking down, untied sneakers shuffling under an unfashionable blue skirt.

  In other words, she seemed okay, thank God. A little stooped at the shoulders; her kerchief a little dirty. The other kids were obviously avoiding her. But the poor little thing just wanted to play. I wished I could run down and invite her to a game of hopscotch.

  “Is there a problem?” Monsieur Courbois asked from behind me.

  I hesitated then pointed. “I saw that little girl earlier, on the way here.”

  He lifted himself a tad to look. “Ah, her. Yes. Another Arab girl.”

  Another—? I felt a flush of anger. “She was walking, bothering no one, when these three boys were”—word?—“mean to her.”

  He eyed me evenly. “Well, I am not surprised. There is often trouble here, usually with the Arabs. They come to Villefranche sur Lez because it is cheaper than Montpellier. But they do not fit in. We will not stay a small village if this continues.”

  “She didn’t do anything wrong. A teenage boy pulled off her head scarf…and threw it. He was twice her size—and age.”

  “They bring trouble with them, the Arabs. But of course you cannot comprehend the difficulties France is facing—what kind of trouble foreigners bring. What is America but a country of foreigners?”

  In French, the word “foreigner”—”l'étranger”—also meant “stranger.” How convenient, I realized. Two birds with one stone.

  Monsieur’s forehead darkened, as if he’d overheard me thinking. He was angry too—but why?

  With deliberate effort, I continued to face him, my back against the railing, fidgeting with my dress to keep it down and smooth. I had to do something with my hands, with my nervous energy and with the anger that was ricocheting through me. I would be happy to leave the balcony, of course, if I could find a way to do so gracefully.

  Where was Jeannot? Hadn’t they finished the dishes yet
?

  Monsieur Courbois’ gaze dropped away from my face, flicked downward like a little bird, resting briefly here and there along the length of my body. Then his eyes moved up again, but not all the way to my face.

  Down again.

  That was when, with a shock, I saw it: another problem …

  More than my being engaged to this man’s son, more than my inopportune comments about the little Arab girl—and despite Jeannot’s best advice about this damn dress—I was wearing the wrong thing. For without having to look down at myself, I realized that the sun was directly behind me, pouring its furious Languedoc fire into and through my dress. In other words, the dress we’d chosen to impress his family—this loose un-ironed silk, my “Sunday best”—had turned as see-through as a gauze kerchief.

  I jolted away from the railing, arms crossed over my chest.

  The redness of the Monsieur’s forehead spread like a flame into his cheeks. He flashed me a knowing smirk and turned away, disgust trailing from his face—as if I, like the Arabs, had offended and threatened his home and country with my odd customs.

  His noble history, all the way back to the Romans…

  I excused myself from the balcony, fast, and rushed to le privet—“the private”—or toilette. And just managed to close the door just before I vomited.

  Run, rabbit, run…

  VII

  Afterward I rinsed my mouth and face at the sink and sat on the edge of the family’s bidet—that infamous French butt-washing device—to catch my breath.

  The bidet. I’d first sighted this mysterious porcelain toilet-looking thingie with its upward-pointing spout on the day I moved to Montpellier. Originally called the “small horse,” the French bidet had once been used to soak the private parts of 17th century cavalrymen who would’ve been better off de-lousing every inch of themselves. However, Monique used her bidet for rinsing underwear. I didn’t want to think about how Monsieur and Madame Courbois used theirs…

  There was a rap at the door. “Pilar, you in there? Are you sick?”

  I hauled myself up to open it. “Can we go home early, Jeannot? Please? I really don’t feel well.”

  “What is wrong? Did something happen?”

  “No, just an upset stomach. Maybe I ate too much. I’ll be fine.”

  He studied me, assessing. Finally he nodded, and held out his hand, and we returned to the dining room.

  His family was at the table eating again, making room for dessert, which included impromptu bits of sandwich with more fresh bread and cheese and even slabs of rich dark chocolate. In fact, a whole receiving line of cheeses and pies and chocolates had been laid out in center, the centerpiece slab of overripe Brie smelling like a basement on a rainy day.

  I gave Jeannot another pleading look. Please!

  He slung his arm over my shoulders and announced that I wasn’t feeling well, that we had to leave but would be back another day soon. And as paranoid as it sounds, I could swear that all members of the Courbois family glanced at my belly. I could almost hear them thinking: “Ah, so that explains the sudden engagement! How many months?”

  In the car I expected Jeannot to grill me about my sickness or how I felt about the day with his family. Instead he put on a tape of Vivaldi and said nothing. We didn’t talk much at home either and went to bed without making love. And as I lay staring at the dim moonlight filtering in from the balcony, I thought: I don’t want to live here forever.

  I don’t.

  And a moment later I’m standing on my mom’s doorstep, extending my hand to the man I adore.

  “Come with me,” I say. “Please? I want you to meet my family.”

  VIII

  Jeannot steps with me through a gap between the windswept dunes of Fire Island, down a slope into a forest that ducks under the sand. Knotted branches reach high into the sky for seagulls, and the trees lean together overhead as I giggle: my arms pinwheel.

  “This is Sunken Forest—I'm home! Can you believe it, Jeannot? I'm home!"

  My big old house in the Hamptons—it’s so close! How did it get so close? Shingles gray like fog, and huge picture windows that grab and trap the sun.

  But the front door is locked.

  Stranger Danger.

  “I’m not supposed to open the door,” I say urgently. “He couldn’t steal me if I didn’t open the door!”

  Suddenly we’re in the new house, in Mama's small kitchen where she stirs chicken and rice. She looks young and sad and oh so pretty, her hair black and glossy; her eyes so sweet and blue, I can’t stand to see her cry. I’ll do anything to help her not cry!

  “I never noticed,” she sobs. “Why would I? I’m a bad mother.”

  No. No. Don’t say that, Mama. I’m bad, not you. I’m the one who opened the door!

  “Hug me, Pilar. You are my sun and my moon.”

  Le soleil et la lune.

  “Grandma and Grandpa live here too,” I tell Jeannot, pulling him toward the old woman at the table. She is turning the pages of an old photo album that are stiff and brown as dead leaves. The TV is blasting so she can hear it. And Grandpa shuffles to his winged chair, where he beckons me close and talks about the insects outside and the rotation of the earth, and how you need to hold on to your dreams with both hands.

  “I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he says.

  His voice is so real. I feel what I haven’t dared hope—that it's all going to be okay as long as I stay in this room. I can smell Mama’s cooking and Grandma's mothballs and the pine trees outside. I am completely, breathlessly home. And Grandpa is alive! They are all here with me…keeping me safe.

  “Look, my dress—wasn’t it beautiful?” Grandma asks, preening. “This crown of flowers—like a queen. For seven days there were celebrations. But I couldn’t join in because I was the bride; I never left the house.”

  She turns another page…and there I am with him in that other place.

  The room with wallpaper of children in dresses and suits. The toy-box in the corner, where Snowball is supposed to sleep. It is important to be good, really good, so Daddy doesn’t cry either.

  “You like cough medicine,” I tell Da-da.

  We are in a boat on a freezing sea, and it’s raining, and Bad Grandmother is waiting for me outside the fairy boat.

  Where’s Grandpa? He’ll help me, if I tell him!

  I look around in a panic—but I’m not on the boat anymore. Everyone has gone, all of them, including Jeannot. Why does everyone leave or die?

  With blind, bottomless rage, I throw my crayons and kick my feet. Take that—and that! And that! Good Grandma is angry too, shouting at Mama.

  “You can’t look at a man in his twenties! A man in his twenties is dressed for a party. Bah! It's like this American custom, grab bag. You don’t know what you have till you open it and you’re stuck with junk!"

  Then—with almost comical clarity—I realize: I haven’t thrown my crayons in years. I’m grown up now.

  I turn to Mama, to finally, finally, tell her everything—when I see that she has no mouth, and no face.

  Blank, an unfinished doll.

  I scream, but nothing comes out.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I

  Large hands on my shoulders squeezed gently.

  “Pilar? Wake up. You are dreaming!”

  Struggling to clear the cobwebs of time and place, I slowly opened my eyes.

  They felt grainy, sand caught under the lids. I blinked; cleared my vision.

  Jeannot’s fatigued face watched me closely. His sour sleep-breath on my face.

  But not cough medicine!

  His blond hair stood straight up: the hair of a stick figure drawn by a kid. The balcony doors in our bedroom stood wide open.

  “Thank God you are awake,” he said in rapid French. “You were walking around opening the doors and screaming. Did you know that?”

  I shook my head.

  “You scared me. What did you dream, Chérie?”

  “Water,
” I said. “Please? I’m thirsty.”

  He brought me a cold glass and I drank sitting on the edge of our bed. Outside, rain had begun to fall. It dripped from the roof, dribbled down the back of balcony chairs, pooled and pattered and tapped along the drainage pipe. Comforting sounds.

  “Feel better now?”

  “Yes.” I drained my glass and placed it on the nightstand.

  “You really did sound terrible, as if someone were murdering you. I can imagine what the neighbors think.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I am glad you are all right.” He flopped on the bed and stretched his arms. “Ah, the rain.” He titled his head to peer at me. “You look better. You look alive now.”

  “Thank you. I think.”

  “Tell me. What was it?”

  I glanced around the room searching for a beginning. How to explain the long thread of a life that I’d never shared with anyone? How on earth was I supposed to describe Night Terrors? I’d need a dictionary or paper and drawing pencils. Maybe it would be easier to talk to Monique and have her translate. Except explaining these things to any human being seemed so…unpleasant. Intrusive. Just thinking about it made me feel naked.

  I said, “I, uh, have strong dreams sometimes. And I don’t know I am dreaming.”

  Jeannot smiled faintly. “Most people do not know. We are asleep, yes?”

  “Of course, but…I really don’t know. I believe I’m in the past. Then—”

  He waited, smile frozen.

  “—and then I feel afraid.”

  “I hope the problem is not about yesterday. About meeting my family. You seemed tense, and then you got sick.”

  “No. No, I dreamed like this as a child, too. It can’t be them.”

  We listened to the rain: tap-tap-tap, like a knock on the door.

  Jeannot said, “My sister Carole loved you, you know. She told me that you are lovely and sweet and intelligent.” He paused. “I realize my parents are slow to warm. My father is…particulier,”—meaning peculiar?—“but everything will get better, Chérie, I promise.”