The Girl in the Blue Beret - Bobbie Ann Mason [72]
I don’t remember that family’s name, but I never forgot his. Robert Lebeau was the one who took me—and about six others—on the train down to near the Spanish border and hooked me up with the guides who led me across the Pyrenees. In the time I was around Lebeau, I was fascinated by how committed he was. He was very devout, a loyal Catholic. He was polite. He was a dashing figure! He was a very courageous young man! Devoted to his country, his mother.
Marshall’s mind had been wandering during Ford’s long hideout in Ham, but he was jolted when he heard what had happened in Paris. Robert Lebeau! He had to be the Robert Marshall remembered. Who was his girlfriend? Annette? Marshall thought about Annette’s thin wrists, the limp lock of hair lying against her cheek as she poised her pencil above a problem.
He could hardly listen to Ford’s account of the arduous crossing of the Pyrenees (slow going, snow). He was thinking about Lebeau. Who was that family who hid Ford in Paris? Maybe Ford would remember. Marshall was eager to learn what else Ford knew, but he hesitated to impose on a dying man.
He paced along the small lake in the park, calculated the time in Kansas (still early), and then headed back to his apartment.
By the time he reached his place, he had decided it would be entirely natural to telephone the former flight engineer on his deathbed. Maybe Ford would be glad to hear from him. He should express his concern for Ford’s health, let him know the old crew was thinking of him. Marshall thought through his rationalizations. If he was sick himself, would he want the crew crowding around, watching him die, interrupting his reveries with small talk on the phone? Probably not. But most people would, he reasoned.
“HELLO. ARE YOU JAMES FORD’S daughter? Sonia? This is Marshall Stone. I got your letter and the tape. Gosh, I’m really sorry to hear about your dad. That’s terrible. I remember him so well. He was the best top-turret gunner a B-17 crew could have. And he could have flown the plane himself, he was such a good flight engineer.”
Sonia said, “He wanted you to have that tape. He made it some time ago, and then he was so surprised and happy to hear from you.”
“How is James doing?”
“Well, he has good days and bad days. Today’s not too bad.”
“Listen, do you suppose I could talk to him a minute? Say hello?”
“Let me see. Can you hold on?”
Waiting, Marshall rehearsed what to say to James as quickly and as efficiently as possible, so as not to tire him.
Sonia spoke again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stone. Could you call back later? We’re having thunderstorms, and I’m afraid we have to get prepared for tornados! You may not know how it is in Tornado Alley. Is that all right? Dad wants to talk to you. Call back tomorrow about this same time, O.K.?”
Marshall was left to imagine Ford lying ill, being hauled somehow out to a storm shelter and down a hatch. He remembered Ford tearing along on a bicycle from the barracks to the mess hall one cold, dark morning. Something about the way he aimed the front wheel of the bike, as if it was his ammunition and weapon and vehicle all in one, had struck Marshall that day. Marshall remembered having deep confidence in Ford at that moment.
31.
IN HIS INSOMNIAC STRETCHES, MARSHALL REPLAYED HIS ESCAPE-and-evasion adventure through France, dredged up new characters in his long-gone drama, and finally reached Paris, where the girl in the blue beret met his train. She was alone, the toss of her head leading him to her parents’ apartment, where her mother cranked out his false ID as simply and skillfully as if she were sewing costumes for a school pageant. Robert came and went—always purposeful, always mysterious.
Half-asleep, he let his mind wander over Ford’s taped memories—Ford hiding in Belgium, getting to Ham, then to Paris. At the Gare du Nord a girl and her boyfriend met him. Annette, no doubt, and Robert Jules Lebeau—one of those dashing, darkly handsome guys girls can’t resist.