Chapter 4 February 1995 Lily Jacobsen—Program Manager #2
The French publisher and author arrived.
In a tony three-piece suit, the publisher was all smiles as he introduced Cal Gaige, a twenty-something American in jeans and plaid flannel.
His eyes darted about, unable to take in everything.
I could empathize—Mary Louise and I had experienced the same sensory overload when we first got to Paris.
Meg and I whisked our guests to the director’s office, where he shook their hands and offered them a drink.
While my boss praised Cal’s work, I poured wine into plastic cups.
Mr. Hayes scowled and dismissed me with a curt “That will be all.”
At the entry, I greeted people who strolled in. Lorenzo approached with two cups filled to the brim. Handing me one, he said, “See, there are some perks! Be grateful you can drink on the job.”
I asked him what I’d done wrong in the director’s office.
“Just like in airplanes, first-class donors and authors are served with wineglasses, while folks in economy are disposable—I mean, use disposable cups.”
Orientation continued. He gestured to a group he called “the Faithful,” longtime residents who appreciated the fellowship of bread, wine, and books, then to a handful of young women with backpacks slung over their shoulders.
Like Bambi, these were “Yearlings” from the junior year abroad program.
From September to June, the reading room was their second home.
“You’re looking at future Supreme Court justices,” Lorenzo finished.
At exactly 7:00, Mr. Hayes escorted the author and his publisher to reserved chairs in front.
Gripping the podium, the director scowled at the empty rows of seats, then at me. I’d misjudged how many attendees there would be. To bolster the numbers, I gestured for Meg, David, and Lorenzo to join me in the back.
Mr. Hayes presented Cal Gaige, “the literary Wunderkind of the West,” before adding, “The Entre Nous literary series is free and open to the public. If you appreciate fine events like these, please consider supporting the ALP by purchasing a membership. If you’re already a member, consider donating. ”
The author adjusted the mic. His gravelly voice broke through the silence, and it seemed as though the lights dimmed.
Audience members stopped fidgeting. Cal said he didn’t write in the summer because he worked as a fishing guide for uptight East Coast anglers.
He said that when he did write, he wrote slowly, taking his time to understand life.
Glancing around, I could see we all found his words heartening.
He read an excerpt set on the Going-to-the-Sun Road, which switchbacks its way to Hidden Lake.
Joe, the main character, struggled with booze and solitude, but thanks to his neighbor Lacy, there was a moment of grace—both in his story and here in the reading room.
The author transported us to the Rocky Mountains, where July is cold.
Like Joe, we shiver and pull our denim jackets tighter.
When he climbs into the pickup and revs the engine, we join him in the passenger seat.
It’s been a long day at work, and we’re ready to go home.
He eases out of the parking lot, and we bounce over the “warshboard” bumps.
There is dirty snow in the ditches as we drive in the direction of the Garden Wall, a narrow ridge of rock that separates two valleys, two possible futures.
With the windows rolled down, the mist of the weeping wall hits our faces.
Joe confides that the spray of snowmelt reminds him of the way the priest anointed parishioners with holy water.
And don’t we all, somehow, want to be blessed?
Farther down the road, trees line both sides of the highway.
We breathe in deep. The cold air makes our lungs ache, but the smell of pine soothes us.
Joe pulls up to Lacy’s house. He takes a swig from his flask and passes it to us.
We down the whiskey, and taste the caramel notes of regret, followed by the salty undercurrent of longing.
As Joe summons the courage to talk to Lacy, we hear his lonesome heart beat.
All he wants is love. All we want is love.
When Cal finished, the audience remained silent.
We were mesmerized, still inside a fictional setting that felt real.
And now that the story was over, we were bereft.
This was what I wanted to do with my life—create worlds to give readers respite.
But in the meantime, I felt gratitude for my job as program manager, for being the one to foster this joy.
I clapped my hands together and other attendees joined in.
During the Q and A, they asked questions, from how nature inspires artists to tips on writing.
Meg then led him to the circ desk, where the bookseller had stacked Cal’s short story collections.
The Faithful chatted as they stood in line to purchase a book.
I bought one and asked Cal to make it out to Mary Louise.
She’d appreciate his work, with its nods to Mother Nature and human nature.
At 10:00 p.m., as I bid the audience members goodbye, David stacked thirty chairs before the wall of books.
In the morning, the carpet of crumbs would be vacuumed; the furniture put back in place.
When I tried to pitch in, David waved me off, saying he needed the exercise.
He was pretty thin. I thought he could use a good sandwich.
Lorenzo gestured to Meg and David. “Volunteers keep this sinking ship afloat. Imagine doing setup and takedown alone.”
It would have taken triple the time. Maybe I could ask Mr. Hayes about organizing a volunteer appreciation day, if there wasn’t one already. I peered down the hall and saw light seeping from under his office door. “Is he holed up at his desk? Doesn’t he mingle with patrons?”
Lorenzo looked at me with pity. “My na?ve little noodle. He’s long gone. Most people don’t realize it, but after his introduction, he slithers out.”
He didn’t stay? This seemed as sinful as a priest slipping away after communion.
“Hayes keeps the lamp on to give the impression he’s burning the midnight oil,” Lorenzo continued. “Probably learned the trick from his stockbroker days. Anyway, the last thing you want is Hayes trailing you, complaining that you wrapped the leftover cheese wrong.”
He helped me carry the empty bottles to the recycling bin outside. Meg was already there, throwing away tonight’s garbage, so the sour stench of cheese rinds and wine didn’t permeate the reading room.
“Did David leave?” I asked her. “I wanted to thank him.”
“He’s not one for goodbyes.”
Behind the circ desk, she flipped off the lights. In the dark, the stacks were eerie. I followed her and Lorenzo down the hall toward the back office exit. Above us, we heard a loud thump, like the boom of a hefty dictionary falling from a shelf and hitting the floor, our ceiling.
“What was that?” I clutched Meg’s arm.
“The ghost of the countess,” Lorenzo replied grimly.
“Whatever,” I said.
From Odile, I knew he was referring to Clara de Chambrun, the countess from Ohio. During World War II, though she was seventy years old, she directed the library and dealt with the Nazis.
Meg shot him a look. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“After the way she was treated, who can blame her for being disgruntled?” he said.
“I’m sure Clara has better things to do than haunt us,” Meg replied.
We three donned our coats and stepped into the pitch-black courtyard. While she locked the door, Lorenzo said, “In all seriousness, there is one patron you have to be careful of.”
Meg handed me the key. I took it, but she held tight.
“Yes,” she said. “Lorenzo’s right. Watch out for Mike Roth. He’s dangerous.”
A week later, it was moving day. Mary Louise had packed her clothes, paintings, and art supplies.
She bequeathed me her books—too heavy to carry—and her first watercolor of the Eiffel Tower, which had graced our wall since the day we moved in.
The painting was my prized possession. Growing up on the plains, often feeling like an outsider in my own family and longing for my life to begin, la Tour Eiffel had been my beacon, my lighthouse, a solemn promise that things could be different.
And things were different, just not in the way I’d expected.
Her life fit into two suitcases (one mine, one hers), which we lugged to the métro station, down the steps, and into the carriage. She was moving eight stops away, the farthest we’d ever lived from each other.
When we entered her new place, I stared at the marble fireplace, at the pristine white couch that I would swear no one had ever sat on, at the gold drapes that framed the windows, where an easel faced the Luxembourg Garden, my favorite park.
This was prime real estate. Faulkner had stayed in this neighborhood on a visit.
John Travolta and his wife had honeymooned here.
How could Mary Louise afford it on her own?
Earlier, I’d pressed for details, but she’d remained vague, saying it had good light and was closer to work.
In fact, her apartment was three times the size of ours.
Did she have a different, better roommate?
Was she shacking up with some guy? I thought she wanted to live alone so she could paint.
I didn’t understand. Anger simmered inside me and moved from my belly up my throat to my brain.
I could no longer think, no longer speak. I stared at her with my mouth open.
“I’m getting a deal on rent,” she rushed to say. “This apartment belongs to a patient. Well, a patient’s mother. She’s getting up in years and can’t travel, so it sits empty.”
The explanation reassured me. On evening strolls, we glimpsed many shuttered windows.
Tons of foreigners bought pieds-à-terre, used for two weeks per year.
It saddened us that the apartments went to waste.
Of course, we couldn’t help but think that their owners had so much while we were crammed into a studio.
At least now, one of those homes would be filled with life.
Mary Louise saw me to the door. I felt panicked at leaving her, at being alone.
“Can I treat you to dinner to celebrate?” I asked.
“I need to unpack.”
“How about a reading at the library? Every Wednesday. Promise you’ll come.”
She regarded me without blinking. In her Psych 101 class, she’d learned that liars don’t make eye contact, so when she fibbed, she met your gaze with a weird intensity.
“Soon.” She closed the door gently in my face.