The Hesitant Hero

by Gilbert, Morris

  In the meantime, she had accepted a post as a half-time staff physician and half-time secretary at the large orphanage in town. She found the work very satisfying as well as a welcome relief from the stress of working in the emergency room in New York. She still carried some of that stress with her.

  Opening the door, she stepped inside, took off her boots, and slipped her feet into warm house slippers. She took off her hat and coat, wet and heavy with sleet, hung them on the coat-tree, and took a deep breath. Good to be home. She went down the hall and into the kitchen. The good smell of food cooking was in the air, and her mother was standing by the stove.

  “Hello, Maman.”

  “Ah, you are back. Go stand in front of the fire and thaw yourself out. It’s cold enough to freeze an Eskimo.”

  “Yes, it is very cold.”

  Marvel Vernay did not look her forty-six years. Her hair was the same brown as that of her daughter, and her eyes were the same blue. She was small, but her posture was so erect she appeared taller. Her cheeks were flushed by the heat of the stove, and as she smiled at Jolie, she exposed perfect white teeth. “Did you have a good day?”

  “Very good. We’ve got the chicken pox epidemic brought to a standstill, I think.”

  “Chicken pox is difficult, but it’s not as bad as some other things that children can get.”

  “You’re right. Thank God.”

  As the two women shared the details of their days, and as Jolie thawed out, she began to set the table with the fine china. “We never use plain dishes,” she commented, “always this expensive china even for just the two of us. Why is that, Maman?”

  Marvel smiled. “There are so many things in this world that we can’t have, so the things we can have, I intend to use. They are only dishes. If we break one, it doesn’t matter. Now, you make the tea while I take the roast out of the oven.” A knock at the door interrupted her words.

  “Are you expecting someone, Maman?”

  “No. Not that I know of. It’s probably Madame Dalon from next door. She probably needs to borrow something for supper.”

  Walking to the door with quick steps, Madame Vernay opened it, but instead of finding her neighbor, she saw a tall man holding a large suitcase.

  “Madame Vernay?”

  “Oui, I am Madame Vernay.”

  “My name is Tyler Winslow.” He spoke French with a heavy accent and seemed to be searching for the words he needed. “I am a friend of your daughter. We met in New York. I wonder if she’s at home.”

  “Why, yes, indeed. Come in, Monsieur Winslow. Bring your things with you. They’ll freeze solid out here.” Marvel stepped back as the man entered. “I remember my daughter wrote me about you,” she said with a smile. “But she didn’t tell me you were coming.”

  “I didn’t really know myself, Madame Vernay.”

  “Well, put your things down, take off your coat, and we’ll surprise her.” Marvel waited until he had hung up his coat and stomped his feet on the mat before leading him down the hall. Turning into the kitchen, she said, “Jolie, a surprise for you. A visitor.”

  Jolie turned, and Marvel saw her eyes open wide and her lips part with astonishment. “Why—it’s you!”

  “It’s me,” Tyler said with a broad smile. He was shocked at how glad he was to see her again. “I have bad manners like all Americans. Just come rushing in without an invitation.”

  “Not at all.” Jolie came close to him and put her hand on his arm. “It’s good to see you, Tyler, but it is a surprise.”

  “I came to Paris to study painting. I didn’t expect I would get to see you, but things happened and here I am.”

  “Well, you came at an opportune moment,” Marvel said quickly, seeing that her daughter was apparently at a loss for words. “It’s very fortunate that I cooked enough for three. By all means you must have dinner with us.”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t—”

  “I insist. Come. I will show you where you can wash up and refresh yourself.”

  Marvel led the way out of the room and showed the American to the guest room. “I will bring you some hot water.”

  “Oh, please, Madame Vernay, don’t bother.”

  “It is no bother. I’m glad to have company, especially from America. And you even speak French.”

  “Not very well, but I’m learning.”

  “Wait here and I will get the water.”

  Marvel went back to the kitchen and took the kettle off the stove. “You did not expect him?” she asked her daughter.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I remember what you said about him. But let me take the water.” She left the room while Jolie continued setting the table.

  When her mother returned, Jolie said, “I can’t imagine why he’s here.”

  “He said he came to study painting. You told me he was an artist.”

  “He didn’t mention a thing about coming to France when I knew him.”

  Marvel studied her daughter’s face. “You’re upset by his arrival?”

  “No, not exactly. I’m just shocked.”

  Marvel said no more, but she knew her daughter well enough to know that she was perturbed. After a moment Tyler appeared at the door, and she said, “Come and sit down. It’s all ready.”

  “I feel terrible barging in like this. I should have written.”

  “It’s no bother,” Marvel said. “I’ll ask the blessing.” She bowed her head and immediately Tyler glanced at Jolie and bowed his own.

  “Lord, we thank you for this food and for this visitor. We ask you to help us love you more. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”

  The meal consisted of beef roast flavored with Burgundy, new potatoes in a white cream sauce, tiny peas with pearl onions, and chunks of thick, hard bread slathered with sweet-tasting butter.

  “This is very good indeed, Madame Vernay,” Tyler said. “I’ve always heard about delicious French cooking, and if this is a sample, then what I’ve heard is correct.”

  After Jolie had told her mother about how the two of them had met, she started to question Tyler about why he had come to France and what his plans were.

  “I came into enough money to come to France and study painting,” Tyler told them, toying with his fragile teacup. It looked very small in his hands as he turned it around and around. “I might as well have stayed in America.”

  “Why do you say that, monsieur?” Marvel asked. She was interested in the young American and saw that he was embarrassed by her question. “But I do not mean to pry.”

  “I might as well tell you. My professor at the art school in Paris said that I don’t have any talent.”

  “And what do you think?” Marvel asked.

  The question seemed to trouble Tyler. “Well,” he said, “he’s the expert. He should know.”

  “The experts do not know everything, and they are often wrong. Isn’t that true, Jolie?”

  “I think Maman is right. You should not let someone else’s opinion decide your future.”

  “That is exactly right,” Marvel said with great determination. “I advise you to throw yourself into painting. Forget about that art instructor.”

  Tyler laughed. “I see where Jolie gets her direct ways.”

  “It’s always best to be direct.” Marvel smiled and added, “I don’t have a great deal of tact, and I’m afraid my daughter is the same way.”

  “I believe you’re right—I mean about letting someone else’s opinion determine my future—but on the other hand, some people who think they have talent are mistaken.” He herded some peas onto his fork. “What I had on my mind in coming here, aside from seeing you again, Jolie, was to rent a little place and try to see if I have any talent at all—and the determination to make it as an artist.”

  “Why, that’s a fine idea,” Jolie said, leaning forward, her eyes fixed on Tyler. “I had the impression your life was . . . shall I say cluttered in New York?”

  “You’re right about that. Cluttered about describes it. I tho
ught it might help me to come here and do nothing but paint. Perhaps you could advise me about a place to live. It doesn’t have to be much. Just a place to sleep.”

  “I’m sure we can find something. But tonight you must stay here in the guest room.”

  Tyler shook his head. “I won’t argue with you, but tomorrow I’ll make a new start.”

  “I think it would be good for you,” Marvel said. “I know little about painting, but Jolie here, she loves it. She can tell you when your work is good or bad.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that, Maman,” Jolie protested.

  “Why, of course you could.”

  Jolie laughed. “I think Tyler knows enough about my directness to believe that I’d be willing to do that. But this is a bad time of the year for painters. Many come here, but most come in the springtime.”

  “Well, I expected to be painting inside at the art institute, but now maybe I’ll learn to paint winter things.”

  “It’s very beautiful here, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. The mountains are beautiful in every season, and the river sometimes freezes over,” Jolie told him. “You should have plenty of subjects for your paintings.”

  The conversation flowed easily as they finished their meal, and afterward Jolie took Tyler into the parlor. Marvel joined them after the dishes were done and they talked for some time.

  Naturally the discussion turned to the war, and Tyler repeated the words of the old soldier he had encountered on the train. “He seemed very positive that the Germans would come, but I’m not sure,” Tyler said.

  “The journalists are calling it the Phony War,” Marvel said, “but they are wrong. The Germans are just waiting until spring. Then they will come.”

  “And what will you do then, Madame Vernay?”

  “I will survive.”

  “Yes, I believe you will.”

  “Long ago I put my life in God’s hands. Now whatever happens, it will be the will of God.”

  “You sound like my parents. They believe the same thing—and I wish I’d listened to them more while I was at home.”

  “You’re not too old,” Marvel said with a smile. “God is always faithful, and you need to learn that lesson well.”

  Tyler admired the woman’s determination. He saw the same beauty in Jolie’s mother that he found in her and the same strength and determination. “I don’t know much about politics,” he said finally.

  “I expect all of us will learn about life whether we know politics or not. I remember how hard it was in the Great War.” Marvel was silent for a moment and then said, “Well, it’s in God’s hands. You must be tired. I will prepare your room.”

  As soon as Marvel left the room, Jolie’s eyes sparkled. “You’re being told to go to bed, Tyler. Maman’s like that. Very firm.”

  “I see she is,” he said. “I like her. She’s very much like you—very attractive and very strong.”

  “Thank you, Tyler. That’s a nice thing to say.”

  Marvel came back and announced that his room was ready, and Tyler left at once. As soon as he was gone, Marvel looked at her daughter with a question in her eye. “Well, what are you thinking?”

  “About what?”

  “About what! About your guest.”

  “He’s our guest, Maman.”

  “Don’t be foolish! He didn’t come to see me. You know he is a good-looking man.”

  “Yes, but he’s weak.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “You’ll find it out soon enough. He has a charm about him that most Americans don’t have. He’s witty, and physically he’s strong and attractive, I’ll admit. But he doesn’t have whatever it is that makes people survive.”

  “It sounds like he’s never known a hard time.”

  “I think you’re right. He’s always had someone to take care of him.”

  “Well, sooner or later, times will be hard for him, as they eventually are for all of us.” Marvel nodded, as if agreeing with herself. “Then will be the time to say whether he’s weak or strong.”

  ****

  To Tyler’s surprise, his life became vastly different. Jolie’s mother found him an upstairs room to rent in the home of one of her friends. It had a skylight, which made it much easier for him to paint indoors. Jolie set aside one day and took him on a tour along the Allier River and up to the Puy de Sancy, the highest mountain in the area, both of which were close enough to Ambert to make the trip in one day. While they were on the mountain, a flock of geese flew overhead. He looked up in wonder until they were out of sight and then set up his easel and tried to capture the moment with paints.

  In this environment, he found himself able to paint freely, with none of the strain or fear he had sometimes experienced. Puzzling over this, he decided it was because no one would be judging his work. After his day at the Puy de Sancy, Tyler worked for hours at a time on the painting he had started there. There was a simplicity and a cleanness to it that his earlier paintings had lacked, and he found inordinate pleasure in looking at it. Usually when he finished a painting, he found himself wanting to alter it in endless ways. But he was satisfied with this one, which he called Geese Against the Sky. He liked it just as it was.

  ****

  One day about a week after he and Jolie had taken their day trip, they crossed paths in the village. She invited him to come to a birthday party the following day at the orphanage where she worked, and he readily agreed.

  “You don’t need to bring any presents,” she told him. “The children are always glad to have visitors. Anybody, really, who will give them a little attention. Some of them get very lonely.”

  “Is it just one birthday or several?”

  “It’s a party for everyone who will have a birthday in February. We’ll have a cake and play games. It means so much to them. They have so little.”

  Tyler thought it sounded like fun, as it had been a very long time since he’d been around any children at all.

  The next day Jolie met Tyler at the door of the orphanage. “I saw you coming,” she said. “You’re a bit early, but that doesn’t matter.”

  “Who are these children, Jolie?” he asked. He noted that the hall they were going through was whitewashed and clean, and the floors were polished. Children were passing and greeting Jolie. “How many do you have?”

  “We have only fifty-two now. The orphanage is sponsored by a church. A wealthy man left an endowment, and the church administers it. As for the children, it’s difficult to say. Some of them come from other countries. We have four from Poland. Their parents were all killed in the German invasion. They’re new, of course, and having a rather hard time of it.”

  “Does anyone here speak Polish?”

  “Not really.” Jolie shook her head. “And that’s a problem. They’re quickly learning French, though, and we try to make them feel loved.”

  They turned down a hall and then entered a large room. Three children were already chatting around a table. They all came running toward Jolie, greeting her with hugs.

  “Madame Lambert said we could come down here early,” the older girl said. “Is that okay?”

  “Of course it is, Rochelle,” Jolie said. “I brought a special guest today. This is Monsieur Tyler Winslow. He comes from America, and he very much wanted to come and help us celebrate the birthdays. You must speak slowly so he can understand you.”

  The smallest of the children, a darling girl with blond hair, stood in front of him. “Hello, my name is Yolande Marcil,” she said slowly and correctly. “I’ll be six years old in two days. How old are you?”

  Tyler grinned. “I’m twenty-two.”

  “That’s old! Do you like little girls?”

  Tyler winked at Jolie, who was smiling at him. “I like them very much,” he said, pronouncing his words carefully.

  “This is Damien Rivard,” Jolie said, putting her hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Damien is nine years old.”

  “How do you do?” The boy bowed slightly from the wa
ist. He had bright red hair and brown eyes. “We are happy to have you at our party.”

  “Thank you, Damien. Perhaps when I have a party, you’ll come to mine.”

  “And this is Rochelle Cohen. Rochelle, Monsieur Winslow.”

  Rochelle seemed to be somewhere between twelve and fourteen. She was a beautiful girl with curly black hair and dark eyes. She smiled shyly and asked very softly, “How do you do, sir?”

  “I am fine, Rochelle. It’s very nice to meet you.”

  “Did you bring any presents, monsieur?” Yolande asked, looking up at him seriously.

  “Yolande, that’s not polite,” Rochelle said.

  “I don’t see why,” Yolande retorted.

  “I don’t see either,” Tyler said quickly. “But you see, I didn’t know how many would be at the party and who would be celebrating a birthday. So I’ll make a list right now, and if Mademoiselle Vernay will allow me to come back, I will come loaded down with presents.”

  Damien grinned broadly. “Good,” he said. “I would like to have a toy airplane.”

  “You shall have it.”

  The other children started to arrive as Tyler made his list, and before long the room was filled with children of every age.

  “And what would you like, Rochelle?” Tyler asked over the increasing chatter.

  “Just anything,” she said shyly.

  Tyler went over to the table and picked up a piece of paper and a pencil. “ ‘Just anything,’“ he said as he wrote it down. “That will be easy.”

  “And you, Mademoiselle Marcil. What can I bring you?”

  “Lots of chocolates.”

  “Lots of chocolates. You know, I eat lots of chocolates myself. That’s why I’m so pretty.”

  “You’re not pretty,” the girl exclaimed.

  “Well, my mother thinks I am. And I’m sure that Rochelle does. Don’t you, Rochelle?”

  She giggled. “Men aren’t pretty. They’re handsome.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s true,” Tyler said, winking at Damien. “Maybe if you eat enough chocolates, you’ll be handsome like me.”

  Jolie had been observing from a distance, surprised at how easily Tyler made friends with the children. When everyone had arrived, she got the group started on a simple game and was pleased at Tyler’s willingness to join right in.