The Shadows of Foxworth Read online

  “Don’t punish the earth. It’s not its fault,” Jean-Paul said, and smiled. It was something he often said after any of my outbursts that ended with pounding the floor. His smile didn’t calm me this time.

  “Why would we go?” I looked at Yvon. He was too silent.

  “You’re now their only family, too,” Jean-Paul said. “As I said, you two inherit everything someday.” He looked more at Yvon. “It’s considerable.”

  “I don’t care!” I screamed.

  I got up and rushed to my room, slamming the door behind me. And then threw myself on my bed and buried my face in my pillow. I wished I could suffocate myself and be with Mama and Papa. All these secrets were kept from me. I didn’t even have a real name.

  Minutes passed. I turned over and glared at the ceiling. Why hadn’t Yvon ever told me about those letters? Why didn’t he ask Papa about them in front of me? Why would he keep it a secret from me? Was this why he was often afraid? I should have known he had a reason for looking so dreadfully thoughtful so often. Why keep all this from me until now? Had he made Mama and Papa a promise that I never knew? I felt so alone, so apart from everyone.

  I was as angry at him right now as I was at anything or anyone.

  There was a light knock on my door. I tried to ignore it, but he knocked harder.

  “What is it?” I yelled. I could be just as pouty and annoying as any of my friends if I wanted to be, and right now, that’s all I wanted to be.

  Yvon opened the door and entered, closing it softly behind him. For a moment he just stared at me. I turned away, and he came to my bed and sat.

  “Recently, when I went for a ride with Papa, he referred to his sisters,” he said, “and he told me about his changing our name. He didn’t know I had read the letters.”

  I turned. “Then why wouldn’t he tell me as well?”

  “He would have eventually. He thought I was old enough to understand it, why he had deserted his family. He asked me to wait for you to be older.”

  “That’s a lie. He wouldn’t desert anyone.”

  “It was the way he put it. I think he was feeling badly about it. He didn’t get along with his father. His father had no respect for his artistic talent and dreams. His mother had, but she had died so early in his life, and his sister Effie was always on his father’s side. Everyone, even his mother’s old friends, was pressuring him to make art his hobby and take on more responsibility for his family business. Eventually, he ran away from home, and that was when he met Jean-Paul.”

  “It’s not fair that you knew everything and I didn’t.”

  “I don’t know everything, Marlena. I’m sure there is more, lots more.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t want to know it, any of it. I’m not going to America to live with them. I’ll run away, too, just like Papa did.”

  “He was older, and he was a man. A runaway young girl ends up on the streets. Papa would want us to have what he didn’t. That’s why he left those instructions with Jean-Paul.”

  I turned away. My lips quivered. I didn’t want to cry. Crying and wailing would prove he was right, that I was still too young to hear dreadful news and know how to handle it. Everything inside me twisted and knotted. It was harder to breathe. I had to be more like Yvon. I had to be strong and calm, but oh, how my heart ached. Like bitter frosting spread on a cake of agony, these secrets and revelations choked me. I was being force-fed so much misery that I would surely die. All the sunshine in our lives was being blocked. Without it, like flowers, I would wilt. Yvon would, too, despite his show of strength.

  “Why can’t we just stay with Jean-Paul and Anne? No one has to know any of this. No one will care.”

  “Jean-Paul is getting very old. He’s barely able to look after himself, but both of them really believe family is first, and fake name or not, they are our real family.”

  The truth of his words gave them more thunder.

  “Why do they want us? Why do they care about two children they’ve never met? Why would they come so far to get us?”

  He shrugged. “As Jean-Paul says, like us now, they have no one else to call family. Families like to leave their wealth to family and not to strangers, too.”

  His reasonable tone only made the pinpricks of pain and fear sharper.

  “Well, I’m not going to feel sorry for them and be their family just because of that,” I said, then folded my arms across my breasts and turned my back on him. He didn’t move. I spun around again. “You sound like you feel sorrier for them than you do for us.”

  “I don’t,” he said. “I feel sorrier for us.”

  “We’ll be just fine if we stay here.”

  “Will we? In Villefranche-sur-Mer? I haven’t woken up one morning without anticipating seeing Mama or hearing her voice. Sometimes I stare at the hill and wait to see Papa appear with his easel. I wake up listening for their laughter. Often, when they were in bed, I could hear that, hear their laughter and their love for each other.

  “Everything about and everyone in this place will keep us thinking of them, Marlena. Every street corner she stood on, every person he spoke to, and every scene he painted would keep us in mourning.”

  “So? We should be always thinking about them, right?”

  “But thinking with pain and sorrow? If I didn’t leave to be with our aunts, I’d eventually run off myself.”

  “And leave me?”

  “I’d worry about taking you to nothing but trouble.”

  I was silent. That was horrible to contemplate: Yvon leaving me, too? He saw how I shuddered with the thought and reached for my hand.

  “Maybe there’s a new life for us in America, Marlena. I know Papa would want that, even Mama, maybe especially Mama.”

  “But we’re leaving them if we go to America,” I said, the tears like drops of glue in my eyes.

  “They’re gone. We’re not leaving them. We’ll take them with us in our hearts, and someday we’ll return. Maybe to live here again, but we need to put time and distance between all this and then.”

  “When we see our aunts, we might hate them,” I warned. I hoped.

  He shrugged. “They might hate us when they see us. Jean-Paul is always telling us that you can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your relatives.”

  I turned away again. He put his hand on my shoulder for a moment and then got up and walked out. I could hear his muffled conversation with Jean-Paul and Anne, and I realized that good-byes were the longest and most painful words you ever speak, especially when you leave people you will most likely never see again.

  A little while later, I got up, scrubbed the resistance out of my face, and returned to the table.

  “You must never think that we didn’t want you to live with us,” Anne said as soon as I sat.

  “I don’t.”

  She smiled and then took out another envelope. “Your aunt Effie has sent us information and instructions. They will arrive tomorrow. They stopped in Nice for rest and are continuing here in the morning. They have booked passage for you and them out of Marseilles. Everything, the train to Marseilles, all of it, is organized. She’s a rather efficient person, down to the minute.”

  “What minute? They’re coming tomorrow? When does she expect us to leave?” I asked.

  “Tomorrow, an hour or so after they arrive, she hopes, expects. Your aunt doesn’t say ‘I hope.’ She says ‘I want’ or ‘We will.’ ”

  “Tomorrow?” I looked at Yvon. “But you’d have to tell Monsieur Dufloit you were leaving and—”

  “He’s already found someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “Louis.”

  “Your best friend has taken your job?”

  “Better he got it than someone I don’t care about,” Yvon said.

  I sat back. I felt like the whole world was closing in on me, collapsing around us, and so quickly. It was like putting your hands up against the rain.

  “In her letter of instructions,” Anne said, gazing at the paper, “your aunt advises you to pack very little. She will be buying you what she calls ‘more appropriate clothes,’ when you arrive in Richmond, Virginia.”

  “How does she know what we wear isn’t appropriate?” I asked. “Mama never bought us inappropriate things.”

  “Things are different in America,” Jean-Paul said. “The Americans always had strange ideas about the French.”

  “Well, what does she think we are, unsophisticated nincompoops?”

  He just smiled. “Let her spend money on you.”

  “Well, I’m going to pack the dress Mama bought me recently. I might even wear it tomorrow,” I said, my voice full of defiance.

  “Good idea,” Anne said. “Wear what is most precious to you.”

  “We have lots of people to say good-bye to. We can’t leave that quickly,” I insisted.

  “In a way, it will be easier for you if you don’t get to say good-bye,” Jean-Paul said. “You can leave letters or notes for anyone you want, anyone you don’t see. We’ll make sure they get them.”

  I sat back. Both Anne and Jean-Paul had answers for everything. I felt terribly frustrated and still very angry. We were living all our lives with a false name. No wonder we had no relatives. Yvon was sitting quietly, not complaining about anything. I was growing annoyed with him, even though he was acting mature and I was acting more like a child.

  “I’m going for a walk,” I declared, and rose.

  “Good. Pick up some onions and tomatoes for me,” Anne said, and handed me some money.

  I looked at Yvon. “Do you want to come?”

  He shook his head. “I have some things to do here, a few things I was fixing.”

  “Yes. Yvon’s right,” I said, quickly jumping on that. “What about this house?”


  “Your aunt has asked us to handle all that for you,” Anne said.

  “What about Mama’s jewelry?”

  “You go through it tonight, and take whatever you want, of course. She’d have liked that,” Anne said.

  I looked at Yvon again. He was just staring, silent.

  “There are things of Papa’s you’ll want, right?”

  He looked at me and then looked down. Maybe he wouldn’t take anything. He was so afraid of memories.

  Without another word, I hurried out of the house and turned to walk down the hill. Yvon was right, I quickly thought, as I gazed out at the bay and the sea. Everything here will constantly remind us of Mama and Papa, and not one day would go by without us, especially me, crying. We’d grow to hate the world we once loved and thought was free of anything ugly and mean. The rain would never say Excusez-moi again. It would come hard and cold. I would begin every day at the graveyard, as if I hoped I could draw them up and out and bring them back to us with a miracle.

  I lowered my head. I avoided looking at anyone as much as I could. I knew what I would see in their faces: pity and sorrow. It would go on forever. Whenever I walked by, people would begin to whisper. My girlfriends would avoid me for fear I would ruin their fun. Who would want someone with so much grief written on her face? But I would never say good-bye to Mama and Papa. I would never put them aside or mourn them in shadows, especially just to please my friends.

  What I anticipated when I went to the fruit and vegetable man, Monsieur Trenet, happened. He quickly packed what I needed, as if I had some infectious disease, and then refused to take any money.

  “For your parents,” he kept saying. “For your parents.”

  How could it be for my parents? They were dead; they would never eat again. But I said nothing. I thanked him quickly and practically ran home, taking streets and roads that would keep me from seeing as many people as possible. The moment I arrived and Yvon saw my face, he knew.

  “You were right about people, about everything now,” I said. I gave Anne the vegetables and went to my room.

  Later, even though we all knew it was our last dinner together, none of us mentioned it. To help us think more hopefully about America, Jean-Paul told stories describing where he had lived and the amazing things he had seen and done.

  “It’s an exciting place for young people,” he claimed. “There is more opportunity, even for women. I heard there are even some women doctors, but nursing is a good career, too.”

  He looked to Anne to support him. She started to smirk but turned it into a smile quickly.

  “Marlena can be almost anything she wants,” she said. “You’ll have much, much more to do in Richmond. You’ll have all sorts of new friends. Other girls and especially the boys will be interested in a French girl.”

  I looked at Yvon, whose eyes narrowed.

  “Maybe not for the right reasons,” he warned.

  Jean-Paul laughed. “Your brother will take care of you. His father taught him well.”

  “As long as he’s not too bossy,” I said.

  “You’ll look after each other,” Anne said, smiling. “And when you’re ready, you’ll come visit us and be full of wonderful stories. And in the meantime, you’ll write frequently to tell us everything, won’t you?”

  “Oui,” I said softly.

  Yvon looked down and moved some food with his fork.

  “Special dessert tonight,” Anne said. “Marlena’s favorite, a custard tart. I made it at home and brought it secretly to surprise you.”

  I smiled, but the tears were filling my eyes. This was just too many good-byes. We were, in every sense of the words, leaving the only family we had ever known. But we had a false name. We had become like the gypsies, wanderers.

  Afterward, I helped Anne clean up while Yvon and Jean-Paul talked about the new construction at the port, as if we were not leaving and we would see it all come to fruition. In fact, we all talked without any mention of tomorrow, of our leaving. I began to hope it wasn’t true. Tomorrow would come and go, and nothing would change. Yvon would return to work, and I would be back with my girlfriends.

  Jean-Paul, as usual, fell asleep sitting.

  Anne looked at me and nodded. “You two have a very big day tomorrow. You need to get your rest.”

  “I won’t sleep,” I said defiantly.

  “I will,” Yvon said. He looked at me. “You will, too.”

  Anne hugged us both. Before I went to bed, I paused in the doorway of Mama and Papa’s bedroom and looked at the picture of the swan. It seemed to be looking back at me, its beauty now in its sadness. I heard Anne come up behind me. She put her hands on my shoulders.

  “When you settle into your new home,” she said, “I’ll package the swan and have it sent to you. I promise.”

  I said nothing, just nodded and went to my room. Yvon was right, of course. I fought sleep, but it finally took control, and I opened my eyes when sunlight washed over my face and did what I had feared, announced that it was tomorrow.

  We had breakfast in relative silence, even though Anne tried her best to get us talking and not be sad. Jean-Paul looked so tired and old. He cupped his coffee with trembling hands. How could the curtain be coming down so soon on the only life we had ever known? Now I was grateful for Yvon’s stoic silence. He was my rock. He gave me what little confidence I had left.

  But he had to keep himself busy so he could avoid thinking about what was about to happen, too. He tinkered about the house, fixing a doorjamb, adjusting a window. Because we really hadn’t told friends we were leaving today, thankfully no one came around. Their good-byes would be salt on a wound, I thought.

  Most believed it was better for them and for us to leave us to finishing our mourning. I’m sure they all promised each other they would be there for us soon, hoping the time would come when they wouldn’t look at us and feel the need to cry. Who could blame them?

  Just before noon, Yvon, who had been watching even though he was doing everything to avoid it or not let us know he was, announced, “A carriage is approaching.”

  I think I felt my heart stop. I was holding my breath.

  Anne went to the front door to look. Jean-Paul, who had been dozing, opened his eyes and then struggled to stand. The four of us gathered in front and watched as the approaching carriage drawn by four strong-looking black horses was brought to a stop. The driver and his sideman, both bearded, smiled at us, and then the driver quickly got down and opened the door, dropping the steps quickly.

  Aunt Effie stepped out first, the driver reaching up to assist her. She looked older and in more control. She pulled her arm away from his hand sharply and paused to look out at us. I didn’t see any warmth at all in her eyes.

  Dressed in a long, black corduroy fitted jacket with high lapels, she looked prepared for much colder weather. The long sleeves had buttoned tabs at the cuffs. Her long matching skirt hid her black shoe boots. Standing at least five foot ten, with wide shoulders for a woman, she peered at us from under her rather plain-looking wide-brimmed hat. Maybe because her clothes were so jet-black, her face looked pale, her copper-brown eyes sinking under a wide forehead rippled with deep wrinkles, perhaps made deeper by her look of disapproval and unhappiness. The journey might have been more difficult than she had anticipated, even with a night’s rest.

  She pulled in the corners of her bluish pale, thin lips and cleared her throat before speaking. We were all just staring.

  “I’m Effie Dawson,” she said. “This is the right house, isn’t it? This is where my brother… resided?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Anne said. “I’m Anne Bise, a family friend, and this is your nephew, Yvon, and your niece, Marlena. Jean-Paul is their godfather.”

  “I know who Jean-Paul is,” she said sharply, and glanced at him with stern disapproval. For a moment, that confused me, and then I thought it was Jean-Paul, after all, who had the most to do with Papa becoming an artist and not part of his family business.

  Aunt Effie looked us over as if she was here to consider buying us like slaves.

  “You’re both too thin,” she said, “but I suppose that’s a French thing.”

  She took another step forward. Neither of us spoke. I was tempted to break into laughter. Our thinness a French thing?