Twenty-Three
I AM VERY GOOD FOR a very long time. I make new rules for myself. Just as I am not allowed near Ginny, I am not allowed to paint. I am not allowed to think about painting.
And then it’s summer—six months since my self-portrait—and Adele and I send the kids off on the train and I let go.
Allow myself late nights out with Elise.
Go back to the figure drawing class knowing exactly what to expect.
I take my paints down from the closet. Just opening the box lid is enough to make me weep.
All this color. I start with a series of laundry paintings, skirts and tops and dresses hanging from the line.
I begin tight and get looser. Move from bold colors toward pastels.
By the end of the summer, my work is almost abstract, the paint thick, brushstrokes lively.
I pack my supplies away before the kids get back.
Take them to Sunday Masses and the parties at Adele’s house afterward, where all the cousins descend upon me begging to be entertained.
One Sunday they want paper and glue and paint and a snack and glasses of apple juice and milk.
I set them up at the table and they demand me to draw a giraffe, so I do, and they want it bigger.
We tape together sheets of paper to make one giant sheet, and I sketch the outline for them to fill in.
This week, I come with supplies to make a camera obscura: a large piece of cardboard, a cutting blade, tracing paper, a magnifying glass, and instructions I found in a magazine.
The kids huddle around me as I measure and cut, fold and tape.
When it’s ready we move around the yard, taking turns with the box raised to our eyes, the world turned softer and upside down.
It’s the day before my birthday. We take a break to eat—burgers from the grill, green salad and potato salad and curved slices of melon—and my sisters appear over my shoulder with a wrapped gift.
“Shouldn’t we save it for tomorrow?” I ask. “We’ll have dinner together, won’t we?”
They glance at each other. “We have a Les Dames Amis event,” Claire says. “A baby shower for one of the girls.”
“But we could skip it?” Adele says. “We figured you’d have plans with your friends.”
Claire nods. “We haven’t seen very much of you lately. You’ve been so busy.”
“But we really can miss it,” Adele says.
“Yes, of course we can,” Claire says. “The shower is for Bea’s little sister. Her first baby. But we don’t even know her that well.”
“No, it’s okay. I understand,” I say. I want them to insist, to go right to the phone and call Bea and let her know they can’t come.
But they exchange another quick glance and Claire holds out the gift again.
I take it, slip off the bow, run my finger under the edges of the paper to undo the tape.
Inside is a box. I take off its lid and there are two objects wrapped in bright-green tissue paper.
I take the first out and unwrap it. It’s a gleaming saltshaker in the shape of a deer’s head with wide antlers.
“It’s so pretty,” I say. I set it gently on the table and open its match. The same, but for pepper.
“Do you like them?” Adele asks.
“They’re from Bullock’s,” Claire says. “Sterling silver.”
I’m holding the pepper shaker in my palm, deer eyes gazing up at me. “They must have cost a fortune.”
“We couldn’t resist,” Claire says. “You know how beautiful their displays are. These were sitting on their own little pedestal, and we stopped dead in front of them at the very same time and said, ‘Odette.’”
“Elegant and also surprising,” Adele says.
“So artistic,” Claire says. “Don’t you agree?”
“I’m going to fill them and set them out as soon as I get home,” I say. “I love them.”
The children are pulling at my arm, ushering me back to the fun.
I kiss Adele on the cheek and then Claire, and they say they’ll wrap the shakers back up for me, and the children keep me for ages—having me look through the camera obscura at the trees and the flowers and their faces.
Once they’ve tired of it, I gather some dishes and take them inside to the kitchen sink.
Nathalie follows me. “I want to go home,” she says. There’s an edge of panic in her voice. I’m familiar with it, know it means she’s had too much.
“Do you want to wait for me in the car? I have your paper dolls in my purse.”
“Nathalie’s tired,” Claire says from over my shoulder. “You’ve worked so hard today. Let me clean up, you go ahead home.”
“It’s a mess,” I say. “I couldn’t.”
“Don’t give it another thought,” she says. “Tomorrow’s your birthday.”
Adele meets us at the door, handing me my box, hugging me goodbye. “I’m sorry about the mixup,” she says. “We really thought you’d have plans. We can skip the shower, if you want us to.” Clément’s in the doorway, Nathalie’s walking out.
“It’s fine. Really. Thank you again for my gift. I’ll use them every day.” I’m embarrassing in my gratitude, but I am grateful, and then I’m in the car with my children and Nathalie is dressing white cardstock women in plaid dresses and party skirts.
The next morning, I wake to my bedroom door opening, a shuffle of feet, a pair of giggles, the birthday song.
Clément carries a cup of tea, stepping carefully so as not to spill.
Nathalie holds a plate with sliced fruit and a piece of toast with butter and jam.
When the tea is safely on the bedside table, they pounce on me with hugs and kisses.
“Too bad Daddy can’t be here today,” Nathalie says.
“Yeah,” Clément says. “It’s your birthday.”
“Yes,” I say. “It is too bad. But I have you, and that’s the very best thing I could ask for.”
At work, a group of Finishing and Listening girls surprise me with a gift: a beaded clutch, white and gold, sparkling and substantial.
I stroll through Production, taking records off the stacks, pass by Ginny but she’s busy pressing and doesn’t notice me, lean back in my booth and listen to Jo Stafford singing “My Dearest, My Darling.” I find a flaw, race to the machine before too many more have been made.
I’ve caught it early, and it’s satisfying, and after work I pick the children up from Our Lady of Victory, all five of them, drop Rudy and Titter and Bobby in front of their house before heading home.
It’s been a good day. A perfectly fine day.
But the dinners at Adele’s and Claire’s, the elaborate meals, the special cocktails, the tables set just so.
Have I really been so busy with the girls at work and Elise?
So much so that they’d assume I wouldn’t want to spend my birthday with them, as I always have before?
Clément and Nathalie stand in front of the refrigerator, discussing something.
“You’re letting the cold out,” I say.
“There’s no cake,” Clément says.
“That’s true.”
Nathalie stares at me with reproach. “But it’s your birthday.”
Claire would have made me a cake. Spiced carrot with cream cheese frosting. But I’m wallowing. “I suppose I’ll need to make one, won’t I?”
“Chocolate!” Clément shouts.
Nathalie claps her hand over his mouth. “It’s her birthday. She gets to decide.”
“We might be out of powdered cocoa. I’ll have to make do with what’s here, but I’ll pull something together. You kids go out and play and let me have the kitchen.”
I put on Billie Holiday, change out of my work clothes, see what I have in the cabinets and fridge.
No cocoa, but plenty of flour and sugar and butter and eggs.
A little red food coloring left from Nathalie’s birthday, enough vanilla to flavor the cake and the frosting.
The scent of baking fills the house. I put some water on the stove.
We’ll have a simple egg salad for dinner; the cake will be the main event anyway.
While the cake cools, I make the frosting, adding drops of red until it turns into a pretty bright pink, perfectly smooth by the time I’m finished with it.
I’m feeling better, but it’s taking effort.
We eat dinner on the patio, just the children and me, and they play in the forest part while I wash up.
Every few minutes one of them runs up to ask if it’s time for cake.
“It’s still chilling,” I say, and they run back down.
When it’s finally ready, they stand by the kitchen table, staring at it with wide eyes, panting like puppies.
“We found candles!” Clément says. “Can we put them in?”
“Sure,” I say. “That’s a nice surprise.”
I watch as the birthday candles puncture the surface. Nathalie concentrates, strikes a match, lights them. They sing to me and I’m in another place, far away, not hearing. When it’s over, I ask, “Should we try it?”
They nod, vigorously, more and more as they wait for me to cut slices. “Look!” Clément says. “I’m getting a milkshake.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Sister Bethany,” Nathalie says. “When a student misbehaves, she makes them go to the front of the class, and then she takes them by the shoulders and shakes them as hard as she can.”
I look at her. She can’t be serious. “Not too hard, though,” I say. “Right?”
“Very, very hard,” Clément says.
“The point is to concuss,” says Nathalie. “At least that’s what the fifth graders say.”
“She’s never done it to either of you, has she?”
They shake their heads. “Cake please,” Clément says.
“Cake,” I say. “Yes.” I cut three slices, place them on three plates. We dig into them with our forks. Moist and sweet, with even sweeter frosting, but it’s like paste in my mouth.
“More?” Nathalie asks when she’s finished.
“We need to save some for Daddy,” I say. “He’ll be home on Wednesday.”