The French Girl

by Felicia Donovan

  “The Stone Cottage?” Mrs. Wickham asked. “I’ve always loved that place. It has such lovely gardens.”

  “Etoile has been helping me with them everyday,” Giselle began. “Of course we could weed the lilies everyday and there would still be more weeds, but the forsythia have already bloomed, so I am encouraged that we will have a good season.”

  “Do you have hydrangeas?” Mrs. Wickham asked. “I’ve been having the darndest time trying to get good blossoms from them,” she said.

  “Do you know about sticking rusted nails in their beds?” Giselle asked as the two women drifted off discussing deadheading and compost recipes.

  Winnie squeezed my arm.

  “Look,” Winnie said pointing to my mood ring and its blue stone. “It says you are calm and relaxed.”

  “I guess I am!” I said with great relief and we both laughed.

  Giselle wandered back over a short while later and gave me a small thumbs up.

  “Really?” I asked. “Really,” she said. “And Mrs. Wickham will come, too, to look at the gardens.”

  “Thank you, Giselle,” I said giving her a hug. “Thank you so much.”

  She kissed the top of my head. We both looked up to see Dale Batchelder, standing across the room beside his parents, staring at us. Giselle broke off and headed straight towards them with a very intent stride. I glanced anxiously around the room looking for Jean, but she was still talking to Mrs. Spenser, her head tilted to the side as it always was when she was deeply engrossed in something.

  I followed Giselle.

  “Hello Mrs. Batchelder,” Giselle said as she set her feet firmly in place and tossed her head back slightly.

  Mrs. Batchelder was wearing a blue and white checked seersucker shirtdress that was buttoned all the way up to her throat. I wondered if her dress collar was too tight because she looked very uncomfortable.

  I had never met Dr. Batchelder before. He was tall, but rather plump with thick, horn-rimmed glasses that made his brown eyes look very small. He wore a white shirt and a dark-colored, very thin black tie that reminded me of what the men at Maman’s funeral who carried her casket, had worn. He turned and his eyes held for just a second upon the v-neck of Giselle’s dress but he quickly shifted his gaze back to her face.

  “Miss Simone,” Mrs. Batchelder said as if she were sucking on something very sour. She, too, glanced up and down very quickly at Giselle’s dress. She did not offer her hand. Realizing she had no choice, she forced a smile and said, “Have you ever met my husband, Dr. Batchelder?”

  “I do not think so,” Giselle said as she extended her hand.

  Mr. Batchelder’s gaze again shifted ever so briefly downward as he shook Giselle’s hand.

  “This is Giselle Simone. You know, Jean Becker’s…friend.”

  “Ahhh,” he said making the connection, “and how is Jean these days? I barely see her at the University.”

  “You can ask her yourself,” Giselle said, “She is here.”

  “How quaint,” Mrs. Batchelder began.

  “I beg your pardon?” Giselle asked.

  “I mean it’s just…interesting… for the two of you to be here on Parent’s Night.”

  I was very relieved when Jean suddenly appeared by Giselle’s side.

  “Evening Frank,” Jean said waving to Dr. Batchelder, “I hardly ever see you around campus anymore.”

  “I was just saying the same thing, Jean.”

  “Mrs. Batchelder,” Giselle said turning to Jean, “was also just saying that she thought it was… quaint… that we were here together on Parent’s Night and I was curious as to what she meant by that.”

  Mrs. Batchelder immediately flushed, which seemed to give Giselle great satisfaction.

  “Yes, well, it’s obvious the children have worked hard on their projects,” Mr. Batchelder said clearing his throat.

  “I simply meant that it must be very awkward for you two be here when it’s clearly a night meant for mothers and fathers,” Mrs. Batchelder said, determined not to let Giselle get the upper hand.

  “Perhaps it is awkward for other people who are less open-minded,” Giselle replied succinctly.

  It was Jean’s turn to clear her throat as she said, “The students certainly have worked hard.”

  “Yes, they certainly have,” Frank Batchelder said as he placed his hand on his wife’s back and tried to steer her away.

  “Some people may feel it is not a matter of open-mindedness, but heeding God’s word,” Mrs. Batchelder threw back.

  “Is this Dale’s project?” Jean asked as she grabbed Giselle by the arm and yanked her over. We all looked at Dale’s diorama, a crudely drawn picture of a gargantuan shark emerging from the water, mouth gaped open displaying severe-looking teeth as it sat poised to chomp down on a small fishing boat.

  “Nice job,” Jean said as she glanced over to see the “C” grade. Satisfied, she stood back up.

  Giselle, whose hands were clenched in a tight ball, leaned over to look at the project, then spun around on her heels and said, “Yes, and it proves my point.” She tossed her head back just as Maman would have and said, “It can be very dangerous to open your mouth” and walked off.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I had never had such a busy summer. Winnie and her mother came over the first time and Mrs. Wickham spent a great deal of time looking around the house, asking many questions about Giselle’s paintings before moving out to the gardens where the two women discussed ways to improve the quality of the soil to harvest the best crop of tomatoes and which varieties were the hardiest. Before they left, Mrs. Wickham took Giselle’s hand and said, “I’m a little nervous, but very excited. I can’t wait until next time.”

  They came back the next week. Mrs. Wickham was wearing a very pretty red dress and had a great deal more makeup on. Giselle set a huge covered pitcher of lemonade and butterscotch cookies out on a bench and very sternly said, “Winnie’s mother and I want to talk in private. You may not come back in until you are invited or unless someone is bleeding.”

  “But Giselle,” I began to protest, but she shushed us away with her hand and went inside. This went on several times when they visited and Winnie and I, who often took shelter under the cool shade of the crabapple trees, began to grow bored with playing outside.

  “What do you think they’re doing?” Winnie asked.

  “I do not know.”

  “You don’t suppose…” Winnie began.

  “Suppose what?” I asked.

  “You know. That your cousin and my mother…like each other?”

  “Of course they like each other,” I said. “She would not be here if they did not like each other.”

  “You’re such a spaz,” Winnie said. “You know what I mean…that they really dig each other.”

  I blinked several times. “You are a spaz,” I said back. “Giselle is with Jean.”

  “Then why do they kick us out of your pad each time?”

  “I…I do not know but I am sure there is a reason.”

  “Let’s find out,” Winnie said jumping up.

  “Winnie! Giselle said not to disturb them.”

  “Don’t you want to know?” Winnie asked and I had to admit that I did want to know very badly what it was that they did for hours on end inside Stone Cottage. “Come on,” Winnie said, “we’ll sneak under the windows.”

  Before I could stop her, she took off back towards Stone Cottage. We practically crawled on all fours as we slunk around the house, only popping our heads up enough to see what room they were in. As we neared the back porch, we heard voices. Winnie, who was ahead of me, turned and I grabbed her by the foot to get her to stop.

  “Right there,” I hear Giselle say. “That is perfect. That is exactly where I want it.”

  My mouth began to feel very dry and I almost wanted to grab Winnie and yank her and drag her back, but she crawled towards me and gestured for me to peek in the window.

  My stomach began to feel loose again,
but I did raise myself up on my knees and look in. There was Giselle, poised in front of a large canvas, painting a portrait of Mrs. Wickham, who sat on the old leather couch, her chin resting in her hand.

  “That is very nice,” Giselle said. “Hold it right there. The shadows of the light really emphasize the lovely bone structure of your face. George is a very lucky man.”

  Mrs. Wickham smiled. “I’m the one who is lucky, Giselle, to have found such a talented artist. I do hope George will be surprised. And you’re sure it will be done by Christmas?”

  “Because we have such cooperative girls,” Giselle said, her voice getting louder, “it will be done well before then. That is if…” she said throwing her head towards the window, “…they stay out of our hair and do not ruin the surprise.”

  ***

  Several times, I was invited over to Winnie’s house. Giselle did not stay other than to take me over and pick me back up because she said it gave her time to paint uninterrupted.

  I met Winnie’s seventeen-year old sister, Melissa “Missie” Wickham, who had her hair styled just like Farrah’s with many layers blown out that bounced around as she spoke or when the wind stirred. I was intrigued by her hair and wondered if I could ever get my hair to look like that, but knew there was no point given my curls got tighter and tighter the shorter it was cut. Melissa made no effort to hide the fact that we were bothering her.

  A few times, Winnie and I snuck into her room when she was out. Her room was covered in posters of shirtless boys torn from the covers of Teen Beat Magazine. I could not help but gaze with some fascination at the pinned up, half-naked bodies of Davy Jones, Greg Brady, Keith Partridge and The Hardy Boys. She had an entire drawer full of makeup and an impressive stack of LPs and cassettes including every Paul Simon album, The Beatles, The Bee Gees and Manfred Mann’s Earth Band. In one corner was a huge lava lamp that flowed upward in non-stop globs, and a big yellow smiley face beanbag chair.

  Once I stayed over quite late when Missie came home from a date with a boy Winnie described as a “total spaz, but kind of cute in a Shaun Cassidy sort of way.” We both waited expectantly at the top of the back stairs as Melissa snuck up wearing a red halter top and black hot pants. She saw us, gave us a glare that clearly indicated she would hurt us both badly if we said anything, and tiptoed up to her room before coming back down in a short-sleeved sweater and knee-length skirt to say goodnight to her parents. One day, when she was supposed to be keeping an eye on us while Mrs. Wickham was out picking up Mr. Wickham’s laundry, she retreated up to her room and reappeared wearing the tiniest, strapless bikini that barely covered her breasts, of which we were both quite envious, and proceeded to sunbathe in their backyard.

  Most of the summer, I worked with Giselle in the garden weeding and picking the many fruits and vegetables she grew and preparing them for freezing or canning. She would often bring a small portable radio with her out in the garden. One day, we picked fresh strawberries to the sound of Abba’s, Dancing Queen and Giselle began to dance right there in amongst the rows of strawberries while she sang at the top of her lungs. She was a good dancer, but not a very good singer, which made it all that much funnier. I soon joined her and she grabbed my hand as KC & the Sunshine Band’s, I’m Your Boogie Man, came on. She showed me some disco moves and we danced among the strawberries before collapsing down to the ground in laughter. It wasn’t until Janis Ian’s At Seventeen came on that she grew very quiet and gazed absentmindedly out at the gardens.

  Giselle also played the stereo while we shucked peapods, which was one of my favorite chores. Giselle set out three large bowls, one filled with the pods, one for the peas and one for the empty shells. We would race to see who could shuck them the fastest, sometimes sending peas skittering across the grooves of the old wooden table. I would catch them and pop them in my mouth, their sweetness erupting as soon as I bit into them. I never knew vegetables could taste that good.

  But my favorite vegetable of all was the sweet corn she grew in the tall, open field near the bulb garden. We shucked the husks into brown bags that were then added to the compost pile that Giselle turned so devoutly, every day. It was with great fascination that I watched the pile of trash turn into a rich, dense black soil that she would soon return to the garden.

  One night, I watched eagerly as Giselle boiled the first crop of early sweet corn in a large pot hung over the fireplace. She sliced fresh potatoes into very thin slices along with onion slices, butter and salt and wrapped them up tightly in tin foil and set them in the small openings of the fireplace. I took an ear of the golden corn and bathed it in melted butter, salt and pepper and using tiny little corn cob holders, bit into the hot cob. Never had I tasted anything so good before. The melted butter dripped down my chin as my mouth bit into the crisp sweetness. I ate three ears all by myself and barely touched the potatoes.

  Jean had fewer classes to teach during the summer and often came home early. She would settle into the chair in the back porch and read until it was time for dinner. Sometimes I joined her when Giselle did not need my help. Many evenings, Jean took me back to the University pool for a long swim and I would quickly fall asleep exhausted, but cooled off.

  It was on a lazy morning in late July, the kind where the sun is already bright in the sky and its heat felt as soon as it has made its rise, that I was awakened by the sounds of people calling my name.

  “Bon anniversaire, Etoile!” Giselle said as she sat down on the edge of my bed.

  “Happy Birthday,” Jean said as she stood beside her.

  “What?” I asked as I rubbed my sleepy eyes.

  “You are twelve years old today, Cherie. It is your birthday. Come on, we want to celebrate.”

  In the midst of settling into all these new things, I had completely forgotten about my birthday. It had been a long time since anyone had celebrated my birthday although last year, Anais had brought me home a paper bag from Madame Duvais’ filled with candy buttons, Turkish Taffy and Bottle Caps.

  Giselle shook my knee.

  “We have a surprise for you, Birthday Girl. That is if you can drag your sleepy head out of bed.”

  I looked over and Jean was grinning at me and tilted her head to the side. I threw back the covers and followed them both down the stairs. Giselle went behind me and kept her hand over my eyes the whole way down while Jean guided me from the front.

  “You may open them now.”

  There, in the middle of the living room, was the most beautiful bicycle I had ever seen. It was a Schwinn StingRay, all purple with a long white banana seat with purple and green flowers on it, big monkey bars with a small silver bell and caps at the end that sprouted white fringe, and a white woven basket mounted in the front. I stood at it and just stared.

  “Do you like it?” Giselle asked.

  For a moment I could not speak.

  “I think she likes it,” I heard Jean say.

  “Happy Birthday, Cherie,” Giselle said as she put her arm around me and squeezed me tight. “You must promise to ride it very safely, okay?”

  Jean leaned over and kissed the top of my head. “Happy Birthday, Etoile.”

  I kept staring at the shiny new bike and without realizing what was happening, I began to cry. Jean glanced anxiously at Giselle, who drew me even closer as the tears slid down my cheeks.

  “It is all right, Cherie. It is okay to be happy and sad at the same time. This is just the first part of your surprise. The other one will take longer to get to you.”

  “But I…”

  “You what, Cherie?”

  “I love it, but… I do not even know how to ride.”

  I glanced anxiously at them both, afraid I had ruined everything. Giselle put her arms on my shoulders. “We wondered about that. I tell you what. If Jean can teach you how to swim, I think she can teach you how to ride a bike, non?”

  I glanced at Jean and she came over and put her arm on my shoulder. “I would be honored, Etoile.”

  I nodded an
d looked back at the pretty lavender bike.

  “When could we do that?” I asked anxiously.

  “Today, if you’d like.”

  “But don’t you have to go to work today, Jean?”

  “I have the day off,” Jean said.

  “But first,” Giselle interrupted, “you must eat a very good breakfast and then you may have your lessons. You two will be on your own today for lunch and then we will have a special birthday dinner.”

  “Where will you be for lunch?” I asked.

  “Sshh… It is all part of your birthday surprise,” she said placing her finger on my lips.

  I ate my breakfast of crepes, fresh blueberries and cream very quickly and ran back upstairs to get dressed and make my bed as fast as I could. Jean had already carried the bike outside and had a wrench and a few other tools in her hand when I got back downstairs. Giselle sat on the porch swing sipping her coffee as she watched us.

  “Please be very careful,” she yelled. “I do not want to have to bother Eppy today.”

  Jean had me sit on the bike while she adjusted the seat height and the tilt of the monkey bars. I wondered what all of the children from Cote Nouveau, many of whom did not have bicycles, would think if they could see me now.

  “Jean, please do not let go of her. She is new at this.”

  “Giselle, don’t you have somewhere to go?” Jean called back. Giselle scowled and waved her off.

  “Etoile, you must listen to Jean’s instructions very carefully.”

  “Giselle, aren’t there any dishes to clean?” Jean said as she turned and winked at me. Inside, the phone rang and we were both grateful when Giselle got up to go inside and answer it.

  “Okay, Etoile, this is all very simple. You’re bound to take a few spills once in a while, but if you start to tip over, which you will, just try and set your feet back on the ground. No one ever died of a skinned knee and believe me, I’ve had my share so don’t worry about falling, okay?”

  “Yes, Jean.”

  I liked the way Jean always told me the facts straight out, as if she understood that I was old enough to handle the truth.