Where the God of Love Hangs Out - Amy Bloom [50]
Mirabelle told my mother the long story of the airplane meal and the spilled soda and the nice lady and the bad little boy from Texas and Monsieur Teddy’s difficult flight squashed in a suitcase with a hiking boot pressed against his nose for seven hours. My mother laughed and admired and clucked sympathetically in all the right places, passing the platter of chicken and bowls of cucumber salad and minted peas. She poured another grenadine and ginger ale for Mirabelle, who watched the bubbles rise through the fuchsia syrup. She had just reached for her glass when Claudine arranged her knife and fork on her plate and stood up.
Mirabelle sighed, tilting her head back to drain her drink, like one of my father’s old buddies at closing time. We all watched her swallow. My mother made very strong coffee for Claudine, filling an old silver thermos and putting together a plastic-wrapped mound of lemon squares for the road. She doted on Mirabelle and deferred to Claudine as if they were my lovable child and my formidable wife and she my fond and familiar mother. She refused to let us clear the table and amused Mirabelle while Claudine changed into comfortable driving clothes.
Mirabelle and my mother kissed good-bye French-style, and then Claudine did the same, walking out the kitchen door without waiting to see if I followed, which, of course, I did. I didn’t want to be, I wasn’t, rude or uninterested; I just didn’t want to leave yet. Mirabelle hugged me quickly and lay down on the backseat. I made a little sweater pillow for her, and she brushed her cheek against my hand. Claudine made a big production of adjusting the Crown Victoria’s side mirror, the rearview mirror, and the seat belt.
“Do you know how to get to the city?” I asked in French.
“Yes.”
“And then you stay on—”
“I have a map,” she said. “I can sleep by the side of the road until morning if I get lost.”
“That probably won’t be necessary. You have five hundred dollars in cash and seven credit cards. There’ll be a hundred motels in the next fifty miles.”
“We’ll be fine. I will take care of everything,” she said. In very fast English she added, “Do not call me, all right? We can speak to each other when you get back to Paris, perhaps.”
“Okay, Claudine. Take it easy. I’m sorry. I’ll call you in a few weeks. Mirabelle, dors bien, fais de beaux rêves, mon ange.”
I watched them drive off, and I watched the fat white moon hanging over my mother’s roof. I was scared to go back into the house. I called out, “Where’s Buster? I thought he was coming up.” I had threatened not to come back if my brother didn’t show up within twenty-four hours.
My mother stuck her head out the front door. “He’ll be here tomorrow. He’s jammed up in court. He said dinner at the latest.”
“With or without the Jewelle?”
“With. Very much with. It’s only June, you know.”
“You don’t think she gives Bus a little too much action?”
“I don’t think he’s looking for peace. He’s peaceful enough. I think he was looking for a wild ride and she gives it to him. And she does love him to death.”
“I know. She’s kind of a nut, Ma.”
And it didn’t matter what we said then, because my lips calling her mother, her heart hearing mother after so long, blew across the bright night sky and stirred the long branches of the willow tree.
“Are you coming in?” she said.
“In a few.”
“In a few I’ll be asleep. You can finish cleaning up.”
I heard her overhead, her heavy step on the stairs, the creak of her bedroom floor, the double thump of the bathroom door, which I had noticed needed fixing. I thought about changing the hinges on that door, and I thought of my mouth around her hard nipple, her wet nightgown