Second Chance Sister

by Linda Kepner

  “Probably not,” she agreed. If they thought she was going to hyperventilate over an article about a woman professor, just wait until the Journal de l’Île broke the story of her marriage to Louis Dessant. This would be a drop in the bucket.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the expository lecture of Dr. Bishou Howard, candidate for Professor of Comparative Literature. Dr. Howard’s lecture this evening is titled ‘The Bible as Literature.’ Dr. Howard received her Master’s degree in Comparative Literature from Bowling Green University and her doctoral degree in Comparative Literature from East Virginia University, both in the United States of America. She received her doctorate earlier this year. Her teaching and lecturing experience includes several American and Canadian universities. She has moved recently to Saint-Denis and hopes to establish herself in our Humanities Department. I hope you will join me in welcoming Dr. Howard to UFOI.”

  Bishou ignored the slight applause. College professors didn’t expect applause. “Thank you, Dr. Rubin, it is an honor to be here. Now, I am going to make some assumptions regarding my audience, and the first is that you have at least a nodding acquaintance with some form of Christianity.”

  They laughed, but it was not an idle question. There were at least a couple of Oriental faces in this crowd, as well as Creole and Indian. She concentrated on her subject.

  Bishou talked about the Bible as a book. Tabling the question of whether or not the content was God-given, she focused on the editorial skills that went into various versions, and the talent and intentions of those editors. Her audience, familiar with the Douay and other French versions, actually took notes as she spoke of other versions found throughout the world. The Jerusalem Bible, for instance, followed a timeline, and aligned itself with the construction, existence, and destruction of the Temple, as clearly as a literary diagram. She mentioned versions that served as “crib notes” for readers confused by the more flowery language of other versions, and how they often went back to those versions once they understood the plot or characters.

  Also, according to her custom, Bishou did not hide behind a podium. She walked back and forth. Occasionally, she pointed into the audience, challenging someone to name the seven deadly sins or the Synoptic Gospels. She saw the library maven, Mme. Cantrell, and pointed to her, saying her name and challenging her to name the Seven Sacraments — which she did, laughing. Bishou shot out other questions, expecting answers, sometimes getting them, sometimes not, and then giving the answers herself.

  As she spoke, she realized that she saw priests among the students — probably the college chaplain and his friends. Yes, surely the Creole man was Père Reynaud. He was smiling, too.

  She talked about the insistence of the writers on Jesus’ persistent simple faith in God his father, and compared the Beatitudes to “Arjuna’s pep talk about Krishna” in the Mahabharata. Some Hindus and Sikhs in the audience brightened visibly. Again, people grabbed pencils and notebooks.

  Bishou realized her hour was almost up. She encouraged serious students of inspirational literature to sit down and read, with equal time spent in thought or in the reading of commentaries. She opened the floor for questions.

  Pierre’s hand. “Dr. Howard, you spoke of passion. Is that not what your dissertation covered?”

  “Passion in literature, yes. My dissertation was mainly a summary and compilation of the role that passion plays in major works of literature.”

  “Not in real life?”

  “Real life is very difficult to footnote in a dissertation,” she replied, amid more laughter.

  A student’s hand, male. “As a woman in the academic field, do you feel you are handicapped by your sex when it comes to such topics as passion and monasticism?”

  “No, because I am dealing with fellow academics, not writing a populist book.”

  “Would it be a handicap writing a populist book?”

  “I don’t know, I haven’t tried.”

  Another student asked if she had read the Mahabharata in the original. She replied no, and mentioned the translation she read. She was asked if she read Hebrew. Not enough to hold a conversation, she replied. Had she memorized the Koran? No. She read Anglicized versions, and knew the most famous quotes, but not the Koran in its entirety. There were more questions along these lines, really to see if she was a professor, she thought.

  Then she said, “I think that about wraps up the lecture and the questions. If anyone has any other questions, please write them down and pass them on to the Humanities department here, and I will do my best to answer them. Thank you for being an excellent audience. I appreciate your sympathy and attention.”

  Another round of applause, much louder this time. She saw Louis in the back row, applauding too. The students left.

  The professors remained. Dr. Rubin said, “Thank you very much, Dr. Howard. I will be in touch with you or your friends tomorrow.”

  “The Campards will take a message for me if I am not there,” Bishou replied. She shook his hand. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to speak.”

  “Thank you for speaking,” he said, equally politely. His glance rested on the man who had moved to the front of the hall to join them, a man in dress clothes. “Ah! Dr. Howard’s guest, I presume.”

  “Oui, Monsieur le Doyen,” Louis replied with a smile.

  “Then we shall see you at the Rare Books reception in a little while,” said Dr. Rubin. “Monsieur — ?”

  “Dessant,” said Louis.

  “Ah. As in the cigarette?”

  Louis smiled at the time-worn question. “Oui, as in the cigarette.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Dessant,” said Dr. Rubin, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “À toute à l’heure.”

  “À toute à l’heure,” Louis replied, as he and Bishou left.

  In the corridor, Louis said, “They know the cigarette, that is all, isn’t it?”

  “You aren’t a major factor in their world,” Bishou replied.

  “And here you are, straddling both. Your dress-bag is in my car.”

  They walked out, together, to the university car park. Louis opened the trunk of the white Mercedes and pulled out Bishou’s dress-bag. They returned to the lecture building, where Bishou made her way to the ladies’ room. There, in the empty bathroom, she changed to the blue dress, put on her shoes, and applied evening makeup.

  Bishou stepped out of the bathroom and saw Louis’s eyes widen. She hadn’t realized how much the elegant dress transformed her. “Could you hook this for me?”

  “With pleasure.” His hands were sure as he fastened the dress hooks. She felt his fingers touch the bare skin of her back before he finished his task. He slid his arms around her waist, drawing her back against him, and murmured in her ear, “You are quite beautiful.”

  “Only in your eyes,” she said softly. She closed her eyes as he kissed her neck.

  Chapter 5

  They walked to the parking area. Bishou placed her clothing bag in the trunk of the open white car. She looked up in time to see Louis eyeing another car in the same lot. The car had government seals. “We might see people I know,” Louis said, his voice sounding restrained.

  “Such as?”

  “My parole officer.”

  “Oh, really.” What could she say to that?

  “Mm, oui. I will probably introduce you to him, you know. Be warned.”

  “Bien, we are ready,” Bishou replied. She took his arm as they re-entered university grounds and made their way to the library.

  The library doors were open. Well-dressed students were standing by, ushering or directing nicely dressed visitors to the Clemenceau Rare Books Room. Bishou clasped Louis’s elbow as if this were the most normal thing in the world, and they walked toward the Rare Books Room.

  It was a large room crowded with people, certainly more than a Rare Books librarian would see on an ordinary working day. They could see a refreshments table, with stewards pouring wine,
as they entered the door of the room. There were two or three groups of people, talking. Glass cases on tables displayed some of the library’s existing treasures. Thirty or forty people milled around in this room, elegantly dressed, a striking contrast to the usual student garb one expected to see.

  Bishou glanced at her companion, and thought: He’s perfect. Here’s where he would be under normal conditions, at an elite reception. Louis gazed at the people in the room, looking somehow inscrutable and urbane, the perfect escort.

  Louis murmured, “Shall we get some wine?”

  “Yes, let’s.”

  They walked together to the refreshment table, where a steward poured wine. Louis snagged a stem of red wine for himself, and gave her the white.

  On the other side of the room, Bishou noticed the Library Society chairwoman, Mme. Cantrell, making eye contact with her. “I think we need to speak to one of Denise’s friends.”

  “Certainly, if you say so.” Louis accompanied her to the little crowd around the assertive chairwoman.

  “Bishou,” said Mme. Cantrell, when they were close enough, “no wonder Mme. Campard was laughing at me when I asked if you were related to tonight’s speaker. It was nice of you not to be rude to me.”

  “I didn’t want to tease you, in a room full of people,” said Bishou.

  “Not much, you mean,” Mme. Cantrell replied good-humoredly. “Well, I enjoyed your talk very much, and it gave me a good idea how lively those American classrooms must be.”

  “There are good days and bad days, like teaching anywhere,” Bishou replied.

  “No doubt there must be,” said the gentleman next to Madame, who Bishou gathered to be Monsieur Cantrell. “It was a pleasure to hear you speak tonight, Docteur.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” said Mme. Cantrell, “you must be a Docteur, aren’t you — or a Professeur?”

  “Either, or both,” replied Bishou.

  “And your good husband!” Mme. Cantrell held out her hand to Louis. “I’m called Madame Cantrell — I’m the volunteer coordinator at the public library, in case Bishou didn’t tell you.”

  “Not yet her husband,” Louis contradicted with a smile. “We are to be married later this week. A pleasure to meet you, madame.”

  “Oh, my goodness!” Madame reproached Bishou, “all our idle talk, and you didn’t put in a word that you were planning to be married this week! When?”

  “Friday.”

  “Our good wishes,” said her husband jovially, “and congratulations, mademoiselle, monsieur.”

  “Merci,” Louis replied comfortably, patting Bishou’s hand on his arm and looking at her fondly. “I am most fortunate.”

  At that moment, a voice called across the room, “Louis!” They turned to see a hand reaching up from one of the greater groups of people.

  “Pardon, I am being summoned,” said Louis, turning away from the group and walking in the direction of the others. Louis’s parole officer? Bishou wondered.

  “That looked like — surely that wasn’t the Prefect himself who summoned him?” Mme. Cantrell asked with a frown. It certainly did look like Louis was speaking with the Prefect, the island’s equivalent of a governor. Her frown faded as she looked once again at Bishou. “Your young man is quite handsome, Bishou.”

  “Thank you for noticing,” Bishou agreed, “I think so, too.”

  “Are you excited about marriage?”

  “Definitely.”

  “This is a first marriage for both of you?”

  Good thing Denise wasn’t here, Bishou thought, she would be offended by now. “My first, his second. My fiancé is a widower.”

  “How sad for him, how happy for you both.”

  Bishou had kept Louis in the corner of her eye, and now saw him raise his hand to motion to her. She excused herself to Mme. Cantrell’s group, turned, and walked to him. For some reason, the gazes of the group she was approaching made her very conscious of her looks — her high-heeled shoes, her jewels, her body, her walk, the blue dress.

  Louis reached out to take her hand, and said, “Monsieur le Prefect, allow me to introduce my fiancée, Bishou Howard. Ma Bishou, this is the Prefect of Réunion Island, Monsieur Jean-Pierre Masson.” She had not imagined it. The island governor was Louis’s parole officer!

  Bishou’s eyes lit up with her smile. She held out her hand. “Monsieur le Prefect, it is a great honor to meet you. Thank you so much for all you have done for Louis.”

  The Prefect had the perfect little French goatee. Now, at closer quarters, she could also see his French governmental ribbons and badges of office. There was a twinkle in his eye. A slim woman beside him could only be his wife, and proved so upon introduction. She clung to Bishou’s hand, and released it gently.

  “Why, Louis, she’s lovely!” said Madame with a smile, then to Bishou, “You are American?”

  “Oui, Madame, from Boston, Massachusetts.”

  “Boston!” said the Prefect, “I have been there once. Shortly after the museum was robbed. Such a tragedy. Have they found the villains yet?”

  “No, Monsieur, not yet, but they are still looking.” That had been ten years ago.

  “What do you think of our island?” his wife asked.

  “I like it very much. I think I will be happy here,” Bishou replied. “It is very like Virginia, where I studied.”

  “That’s right,” said the Prefect sheepishly, “you gave a lecture tonight, which — ahem — I skipped.”

  Bishou laughed. “I imagine the opportunity to skip a meeting is a great luxury for you, Monsieur le Prefect, so you must enjoy this little vacation.”

  “You are a good sport, Mademoiselle,” the Prefect grinned, “or should I say Docteur? Or Professeur?” He seemed like an alert and capable politician.

  “All are correct — for a few more days,” Bishou replied. “Then it will no longer be Mademoiselle.”

  “So will you be Docteur Dessant, then?” his wife asked.

  “There is paperwork to change, for my diploma and my contract, so it may be a while before I can use that name in my work,” Bishou replied, “but that is the name I intend.”

  “The contracts for the university system run through government channels,” said the Prefect. “Let me know if you need any help.”

  “Ah, Monsieur,” Louis demurred, “as long as the wheels of government are turning, we will not disturb you with our petty problems. I am grateful for the assistance you have already given me. I wouldn’t wish to pester you.” He patted Bishou’s hand.

  Other men and women had been standing nearby. Bishou had not focused on them, with her attention on Louis and the Prefect. Now she realized that the man standing beside Mme. Masson had the same comfortable presence as the Prefect himself. Dr. Serge Michelin, the President of this fledgling university system, said, “Jean-Pierre, there shouldn’t be any problem with Dr. Howard’s name change. We’re very excited about having her here.”

  “Merci, Monsieur le President,” Bishou replied, “you are kind.”

  Next to him was the Humanities department chairman, which also hadn’t registered. He wore a wry smile. “Nonetheless, I feel like the man who has had news broken to him by degrees, Professeur. First, I learned that you were not a man. Then, I learned that you were American. Now, I learn that you are to be married. And, I learn you plan to change your name! You have toyed with me.” Dr. Rubin was almost teasing.

  “I admit, I did toy with you a bit, Dr. Rubin,” she said, smiling up into his face. “But I knew when we both spoke at the same time, stood at the same time, and shook hands at the same time, that we would get along well. This will be a very enjoyable place to work.” Department heads lived for employees who spoke that way about them, so he was easily appeased.

  “You are a brave man, Louis,” said the Prefect seriously. “Many men would be unable to stagger back to their feet to fight again, as you have done.”

  “Vous êtes très gentil, Monsieur le Prefect.” Louis shook his head. “I have mad
e a profound number of mistakes in but a few years. I am very fortunate to have the chance to put things right.” Bishou, still holding his elbow, realized that he was very calm and realistic about the past. Their gazes met.

  The Prefect saw. “Perhaps a little love matters, too,” he observed. “You’ll come to dinner some night, Louis, and we’ll talk.”

  “I would be honored, Monsieur.” Louis turned to escort Bishou in another direction, as the Prefect turned his attention to another conversation.

  The head librarian introduced himself, and asked Bishou about getting a copy of her dissertation for their collection. She promised him one. They made small talk with various other people until, at last, Bishou said to Louis, “Are you ready to leave?”

  “Oui, if you are.”

  They paid their respects to the librarian, the host of this event, and departed.

  Outside, in the fresh air, Bishou said, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “Embrace-moi,” said Louis. She turned to him and put her arms around his neck. He wrapped his arms around her body. They kissed in the moonlight. “Non. This part, especially, is very good.”

  Gently, Bishou kissed him again. “You look so nice tonight.”

  “Moi! Regard her, this beauty, telling me I look nice. Moi!”

  “Well.” She kissed him again. “You do.”

  “Allons. Back to the car.” They walked to the parking area, holding hands. Louis saw her into the car, got into the driver’s seat, and drove out of the area.

  He drove past the turn for her street. “Louis, you’ve missed the pension.”

  “I am taking you home,” Louis said calmly and determinedly.

  She wasn’t ready to fight about his definition of “home.” Instead, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the ride.

  “You are not arguing with me,” Louis said.

  “I don’t want to argue with you,” Bishou replied.

  He reached over and stroked her leg. They were silent all the way to Rue Dessant. Louis was getting impatient, and she was weakening. Bishou didn’t know what she was going to say to him if he tried to take her upstairs, to bed. Probably yes.