The Girl in the Blue Beret - Bobbie Ann Mason [9]
“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “Is there anything I can do?”
“What?”
“Is there anything you need?”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“Well, Albert and I are both worried.”
“Why?”
“Well, if you don’t have flying—”
“Afraid I’ll go off the deep end?”
“Listen to me,” she said sternly. He could hear her talking to her dolls—a scene from twenty years ago. “If you don’t have flying, what will you do?”
“I’m brushing up on my French,” he said.
“Say something to me in French.”
“Tu es une bonne fille.”
“A good girl?” She sighed.
“A good daughter.”
He waited for her to say he was a good father. He told himself she was trying to think of the French word and had drawn a blank.
Marshall regarded his children with mingled awe, amusement, respect, and alarm. He knew young people were headstrong, and he had intentionally granted his children the freedom to go their own ways. He had been an arrogant youth himself—stubborn, always butting heads with authority. Mary worked on a newspaper in Boise, Idaho, and Albert was still unsettled, working part-time in Manhattan while studying for his second master’s degree—first math, now design. They never told him much.
He never told them much either, but now he told Mary about his visit to the crash site and his notion of going to live in Europe for a while.
“I’d like to retrace the trail I took through France in ’44,” he said.
“That’s neat, Dad. A little trip to the past. That could be fun.”
The conversation came to a standstill. Marshall realized he was kicking at the doorstop between the kitchen and the dining room—a weighted, fabric pioneer girl with a churn. He said to Mary, “Your mom would kick me across the room if she could see what sad shape her churn-girl is in.”
Mary laughed. “Throw that thing out, Dad. It’s probably breeding germs.”
ALBERT AGREED IMMEDIATELY to house-sit. He could come the first of June, when his rent was due, he said when Marshall telephoned. Marshall hadn’t been able to figure out how else to find an occupant, and he knew Albert had little money. As an inducement, he threw in use of the car as part of the deal. But when Marshall stressed the need to look after the place and make any necessary repairs, Albert hesitated.
“I’ll pay the expenses,” Marshall said.
Albert had a contrary streak. He always resisted if Marshall made any demands. Albert had been a rebellious kid, and by his college years he was, in Marshall’s view, a hippie protester. Marshall was always thankful that Albert had gotten a deferment during the Vietnam War. But it separated him further from his son. Their experiences had been so different.
“You O.K., Dad? Are you O.K. with the retirement?”
“I’m dandy,” Marshall said.
After they hung up, Marshall reflected that both Albert and Mary had expressed concern for him. He was annoyed but also grateful. They were good kids, really. Maybe he and Loretta hadn’t done such a bad job.
His mind zipped back to the year when Loretta was first pregnant. She had done up her hair in a wavy mass that was supposed to imitate Hedy Lamarr’s rolling tresses in White Cargo.
Loretta said, “You can name the boy, and I get to name the girl.”
That was the plan. A boy and a girl. And it worked out. Albert was first. Loretta liked the name Marshall chose.
“Is Albert a name in your family?” she asked.
“No. It’s just a name I’m fond of,” Marshall said. He added, “It’s a name for courage.”
When the girl came along, Loretta announced that the name would be Mary. “I’m naming her for you,” she said.
“I don’t know how you twisted Mary out of Marshall,” he said.
IN A PLACE NORTH OF PARIS, a man and his wife dressed in dark, loose clothing were hovering over a radio, listening for a coded message from the BBC. In a corner, the boy was reading his lessons.
The message came, and the boy translated it for him. Blue tit birds will be nesting at twilight. Marshall could not make sense of it.
But the couple raised their heads, triumphant