A Pocket Full of Seeds (3 page)

Around three in the afternoon, she stood with her back against the living room wall, and said, “I want Hitler.”

“What?” said Maman. “You want what?”

“Hitler,” Jacqueline said. She began whining and stamping her foot. “I want Hitler! I want Hitler!”

Maman looked at her, very puzzled.

I started to laugh. “She wants our dog—I mean the dog we had at the Durands. She always played with him a lot, and M. Durand said he liked her the best.”

“I want Hitler,” Jacqueline shouted.

“Now,
chérie,
you know you can’t have a dog here. But we will go and visit the Durands very often, maybe even this Sunday.”

“I want him
now!
I want him
now!”
She was stamping her feet and really shouting.

“Now,” I told Maman, “it’s time for her nap. Jacqueline, go and lie down and take a nap.”

“No!”

“Well then, Maman will have to smack you or pinch you.”

“Nicole!” said Maman.

“Oh, but that’s the only way to handle her,” I told Maman. “You don’t know what she’s like when she’s tired. Mme. Durand always gave her a little pinch or smack when she didn’t listen, and you’ll see, once she has her nap she will be much nicer.”

Maman was looking at Jacqueline helplessly. By now Jacqueline was jumping up and down and screaming.

“Just do what I tell you, Maman. I really know her better than you.”

“Do you?” Maman said. She moved forward and reached out for Jacqueline, who put up her hands to protect herself. Maman picked Jacqueline up, kicking and struggling, and spoke softly to her. “Now, now,
ma poupée,
now, now.”

She sat down, and held her in her lap, and Jacqueline sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.

“Maman,” I insisted, “if you would only
...
”

“Be still, Nicole, you don’t
always
know everything.”

After a while Jacqueline stopped sobbing, and struggling. She put her finger in her mouth, and lay her head against Maman’s shoulder, and fell asleep.

Maman smiled at me and whispered, “You see.”

I felt foolish and went out onto the
veranda.
We had raised the windows because the day was warm, I leaned out, and looked at Mont Revard off in the distance, the train track up the street, and all the little houses with plane trees in front of them. I could hear the train approaching and concentrated on the sound of its wheels coming closer and closer, its whistle blasting in the air. Across the street, a man looked out of a window and smiled at me. I waved at him and he waved back. I could see some children coming up the street now on their way home from school.* Tomorrow was Sunday, and on Monday I would start school too.

* French children go to school on Saturday, and stay home on Thursday.

Maybe one of those children would be my friend. I watched them walking up the street. There was a boy walking by himself. Behind him came two boys together, and behind them, four or five girls. One of the girls
—she was wearing a blue coat and a blue and white beret—ran into one of the houses across the street. She looked about my age, and she had dark hair like me. As she was just about to go through the door of her house, she turned and looked right up at me. I wanted to smile or wave, but I felt shy, and turned in the direction of the train tracks. Soon the train came jugging by, and when I turned back she was gone.

I watched as other children came up the street, and as some of them were absorbed into the houses. Then I thought about the girl in the blue and white beret. I leaned on the partition and I watched the street. Sure enough, there they came
—two girls, walking together, arms around each other. One was the girl across the street in her blue and white beret, and the other—was me—wearing a new beret. It was blue and white too. I had to lean all the way out because they stopped downstairs in front of my house. They laughed, and pushed each other, and then they both came running into the house. I could hear their footsteps coming up the stairs, their laughter, the door to the apartment opening. I wheeled around to watch them come in.

There was only me, leaning against the window wall, and smiling at myself for being such a silly daydreamer. But perhaps on Monday
...
Now that I was with my parents, anything could happen.

I walked back into the apartment. Maman was still sitting in the chair holding Jacqueline, fast asleep, her thumb still in her mouth.

“Why don’t you put her down on the bed, Maman? She might sleep an hour and a half or even two hours.”

Maman shook her head, smiled at me, and then looked down, smiling at Jacqueline. Around her lay the boxes of belongings still to be put away. I shook my head, gathered up an armful of towels and walked toward the cupboard.
Somebody
had to see that things got done.

November 1938

“I am not,” I said out loud, but nobody heard me.

“
...
bossy, and lacking in respect toward grownups.” My mother was excited, and she was speaking very quickly, slurring some of her words.

“I am not,” I said, but this time I said it loud enough so they could hear.

“Be still!” Maman said. “You’ll wake up Jacqueline.”

I climbed out of bed, and padded into the living room where both of my parents were sitting, talking about me. My mother always spoke openly when she was angry. She never kept secrets, because she couldn’t keep secrets. All day long her annoyance had been buzzing around me, and tonight as soon as Papa came home she had let it all out completely.

“You have no idea how embarrassed I was,” said Maman. “Mme. Thibault was waiting for me to finish the hem on her skirt” — Maman now did sewing at home — “and began to talk very pleasantly with Nicole. When I was finished, she tried on the skirt, and Nicole said, ‘Mme. Thibault, I don’t think you should wear colors like red and white. You should wear dark blue because fat people look better in dark blue or black
,
’ “

“And it’s true,” I said.

“Yes, but nobody asked you for your opinion,” said Maman. “And if you keep on giving it, I will lose all my customers, and what will happen to us then?”

I shrugged my shoulders and put my face into the Who Cares look. I put my hands on my hips, and stood there with my legs spread apart.

“Well,” said Papa, “perhaps it only happened this one time. I’m sure that after this Nicole will try not to be so outspoken.”

“Oh?” said Maman. “If it was only this one time, I wouldn’t be so annoyed. But Nicole is very free with her mouth, and her opinions are numerous. She is continually telling me how to clean house, how to cook, how to take care of Jacqueline
...
”

“I’ve been with Jacqueline all these years so I know her best.”

“Be still,” Maman shouted. Her cheeks were very pink, and her eyes looked even darker than usual. She was angry. I looked down at my shoes and shut up.

“There is no subject on which she is not an authority. Even at school, Mlle. Legrand tells me there are problems. She does not read as well as the other children. As a matter of fact, she hardly read at all when she first started school. Mlle. Legrand says she cannot imagine what they taught her in the other school. And her handwriting—Mlle. Legrand says it is worse than all the other children, even the seven-year-olds, and Nicole is nearly nine. Mademoiselle says there are days when Nicole simply will not learn. Even when she raps her knuckles, Nicole will just look up at her with that face she’s wearing now, refusing to learn. And sometimes, she even tells Mlle. Legrand—”

“I hate Mlle. Legrand. She’s a
vieille vache.”

Maman slapped me, and I started crying. “You see, you see,” she said to Papa, and Papa was talking to both of us at the same time. “Don’t be so fresh
...
best thing is not to lose your temper
...
where did you ever learn such an expression
...
she’s very intelligent and independent. She can be reasoned with
...
stop crying like that
...
”

My father had a long face. His hair was red, but not bright and shiny like Jacqueline’s. It was a quiet red, and his face was a quiet, mournful face. Maman’s face always showed how she was feeling, but Papa’s thoughts lay inside him, hidden.

I was weeping noisily but watching him carefully from under my wet eyelashes.

Maman was watching him too. He looked at me, and then he looked at her. I sniffed loudly, and I watched as she wrinkled up her forehead and waited for him to say something.

“I’m hungry,” he said.

I stopped crying, and Maman repeated, “Hungry?”

“Yes, Henriette. Remember, I’ve just come back from Paris, and I didn’t have time to eat anything there what with buying all the new stock, and getting it to the station in time to make the train.”

“Oh, you poor man!” Maman said apologetically. “And as soon as you come in, I fill your ears with all sorts of silly little things. Ah—what’s the matter with me! But wait, just a minute—I’ll have some soup for you and cheese and fruit.”

Maman hurried into the kitchen and Papa beckoned for me to come to him. He put an arm around me, shook his head and said, “I cannot imagine where you get such a big mouth from.”

“I think from Maman,” I said. “I think I’m a lot like her.”

“I think so too,” Papa said. “And that’s a good thing. But Maman never says anything that hurts anyone.”

“She hurts me.”

“And Maman never had your chance—and neither did I—at a good education. Both of us hope you will grow up to be an accomplished, educated woman but in order to do that you have to listen now more than you talk.”

“But, Papa, I have a lot to say.”

“It’s a problem, I admit,” he said.

“Come in now, David,” Maman soon called. “Everything is ready.”

Papa stood up.

“Please, Papa, can I come and sit with you while you eat?”

“If you think you can sit there and not make your mother angry.”

“I’ll try, Papa,”

Maman had the table set for Papa. She had a bowlful of soup, some bread, and a large piece of Camembert.

Papa began eating, and Maman said to me, “Are you hungry, Nicole? Would you like some cocoa?”

She was smiling. Maman never stayed angry once she had exploded. It was as if she had forgotten all about our argument.

“Yes, I am hungry,” I said. “And may I have some bread and cheese, too?”

I resolved not to be so free with my opinions, even though they were usually right. In the days that followed I found myself choking down most of the suggestions I wanted to make to my mother and swallowing all of the others. And still my mother complained that I had a big mouth.

My friend Françoise did not think I had a big mouth. She agreed that my mother was being unreasonable. Françoise said that even though my mother was unreasonable, hers was even more so. Francoise was rich. Her father was a doctor and her mother stayed at home, and didn’t have to do anything. There was a servant to take care of Françoise and her little sister, Monique, and another servant to clean the house and cook the meals. Françoise’s mother, Mme. Rosten, was the most beautiful woman I ever saw. All of her was always in place—her hair, her blouse, her stockings, her shoes. Nothing ever wrinkled or looked worn. In the summertime she was always cool, and seemed untouched by the heat.

I had visited Françoise’s house a number of times, and had occasionally eaten dinner or supper there. It was a great, big, rich house, and I never knew which spoon to use when we were eating, or how to answer the questions Dr. and Mme. Rosten asked me. They were very kind but I always felt clumsy and stupid. Mostly I giggled when I spoke to them.

Françoise loved coming to my house, and most of the time, when we were not out of doors, we spent on the
veranda,

“There,” I said, “Mme. Fiori is sweeping her steps again. Two times a day, Mme. Fiori sweeps her steps. Once in the morning, when Lucie and Antoine leave for school, and once in the afternoon, when they return.”

“Let’s play
Aux Dames,”
said Françoise, not even looking.

“Sometimes Lucie has to sweep, but she never does, I mean, she just pushes the broom down the steps, and watches the window in case her mother is looking out. But she never really sweeps anything up.”

Francoise was setting up the board. “I want black,” she said. “Will you take white?”

I was interested in everything that concerned Lucie and her family. Lucie was the girl in the blue and white beret whom I hoped would be my first friend. But she did not become my first friend. She hated me and I never knew why. To me, everything about her was fascinating—the way her dark hair curled toward her face on the right side, and away from it on the left, how she walked with strong, hard steps, her skirt slapping against her legs, and the strange way she had of laughing, with her lips parted but her teeth clenched.

She was admired by the other girls, but not as much as Marie or Françoise. And here was I, a newcomer to the school, lucky enough to be singled out by one of the most admired girls in my class for a friend. I knew I was lucky. I was happy and comfortable with Françoise, and always looked forward to our times together.

But I longed for Lucie’s friendship. I ached for it. Perhaps because she was the first girl I had noticed when we first came to stay with our parents, she seemed to mean something very special to me. When Lucie spoke to me (and she never did unless she had to), or passed me some paper in school, I was happier than if someone else had paid me a compliment.

I tried to please her. I laughed at her jokes, agreed with her opinions, and copied the way she walked. But she seemed to loathe me. She went out of her way to insult me and to point out to others how stupid I was, how clumsy, how old my clothes were. Some days when I tried particularly hard to win her favors, if I offered her a sweet, or admired something she was wearing, and she could not find any reason to be nasty, she would just turn away, but I could feel the anger inside her.