Never Turn Back (32 page)

“Yessir! I mean,
yes ma’am.”

“Your battalion needs you more than I do. Get out now before I change my mind and call the police.”

“Thank you, kindly, ma’am,” he said as he ran down the stairs two at a time.

Meri came out of the bathroom with the most innocent look she could conjure. “What happened?” They had spoken English so her curiosity was genuine.

“Some man spent the night here. Actually, another man. I’ve thrown out several men this morning. It’s always this way on New Year’s Day and the morning after Bastille Day.”

“Do you know who he was…ah, visiting?”

“
Non,
and I don’t care as long as no one here makes a habit of it. Twice a year, eh! I remember being young.” She touched Meri on the shoulder. “Go back to bed. You look like shit.”

§

Le Bonaparte
closed only two days a year—New Year’s Day and the day after Bastille Day. Meri now understood why.
Thank you, Gratien! I have a wise and compassionate boss.
Perhaps he, too, needs a rest after these wicked nights of indulgences.
Meri stayed in bed for most of the day. First, she disposed of the hand towel with clumps of used condoms in a garbage bin several blocks away from her boarding home. It galled her to think she carried the disgusting waste when, indeed, she might not have had sex with Joe…from New York City. She chose to focus on him as her possible escape plan from Paris, making the task seem tolerable.

As she lay in bed, wafting in and out of sleep, questions and possible answers began to crystallize into a plan. Jeannine wanted to leave Paris. New York City was, by all accounts, a place where anyone’s dreams could come true. Joe lived in New York City. All Meri had to do was keep Joe interested enough in her to bring her to his home. Once she was there, Jeannine and she would live together and make a good life for themselves. Joe provided a way out of Paris and away from a life of serving others.
Surely people in New York City,
Meri reasoned,
need hard-working women with a talent for sewing and designing fashions.

How will I convince Joe to take a teenage girl and a forty-year old woman across the ocean? Americans all seemed to have plenty of money, but did he have enough money for both of us?
Meri knew of only one way to keep a man’s interest.
Will he still be interested in me without the glow of liquor to cloud his senses?
Women in Paris appeared healthier and prettier every day.
If I capture his heart, will he let me do as I please in New York City? Men are possessive with their women. Should I tell Jeannine? Non. Not until I’m sure about what our future holds.

Plotting the future exhilarated and exhausted Meri. She had to get some real rest. Tomorrow,
Le Bonaparte
would be open.
I’ll have to work and be ready to put my plan, such as it is, into action.
Will he even be there? I never saw him before last night. I can’t think about that now. He’ll come back. He must. Or perhaps another soldier from New York City….

§

Every night at work Meri looked for Joe-New-York-City (she could not remember his last name). She planned on being very nice to him if she ever saw him again. His unmistakable round head, big nose, protruding ears, and thick black glasses never appeared among the crowd of Americans having a good time. Meri’s disappointment deepened with each failed “chance” meeting.

Since she had no one to talk to about his apparent disappearance, she ruminated alone.
Did I scare him away? Did he find another place for relaxation and entertainment? Is he injured or dead, even though the war is officially over? Did he get reassigned to another place in Europe or, worse, did he return to America?

Meri had no answers to any of her questions, and her enemy became the idle time she had to consider the possible answers.
I’m sure something bad happened to him, he found another woman or he’s already gone back to New York City. Nothing ever goes my way.

Her roommates in the boarding house spoke about the American soldiers leaving Paris.
If I’m going to get to New York City with Joe or another soldier, I have to make it happen. But how? What if Joe-New-York-City vanished and I never hear the magic words I need to hear?
If only she had heard another soldier say “New York City,” she would have flirted with him and hoped he liked his French women “mature.”

On July 4, 1946, Meri saw Joe again, seven months after their first meeting. The Americans filled the bar, the scene just as boisterous as New Year’s Eve.

“What’s going on here today?” Meri asked Gratien as he frantically filled drink orders.

“
Mon Dieu!
It’s America’s Independence Day. They go crazy.”

“Independence Day?” She shrugged.

“July 4
th
is like our Bastille Day.”

Meri nodded.
Now it makes sense.

Joe came into
Le Bonaparte
dressed more formally than his friends: his uniform pressed, his cap on straight. Even his shiny shoes tried hard to be noticed. Meri spied him first. Her tepid reaction surprised her. After all these months of wondering and worrying, Joe-New-York-City had returned. She finally had her chance to woo him. Studying him briefly, however, she wondered why she fussed so much over him. “He hasn’t gotten any more attractive,” she said aloud.

“What did you say?” Gratien thought Meri had spoken to him.

“I’m sorry. Nothing.” She blushed. “More customers came in.” She weaved her way into the crowd.

Meri noticed immediately upon his arrival,
Joe is looking for someone
. He scanned the crowed bar, adjusting his glasses and paying more attention to the crowd than to the men he arrived with.
Joe is a homely little boy in a new school looking for a friend,
Meri mused. When Joe caught Meri’s eye, his look of serious concentration melted into a relieved, nervous smile.
It seems I’m not the only one who remembers our forgettable night together.
Good. He’s still interested in me. I wish he wasn’t so disagreeable to look at.

Joe waved to her.

Meri smiled at him.

Joe motioned for her to come to his table even though a younger waitress was already taking drink and food orders from the men.

Unsure what to do, Meri took another table’s drink orders and shrugged at Joe. She knew the rules about grabbing another waitress’s table and tips.
I need to be alone with him.
She forgot they did not understand each other, although she had learned a little more English in seven months.
Why must
the Americans speak so fast?

Approximately two hours of glances and smiles passed between Meri and Joe. He had also consumed a fair amount of alcohol, giving him courage to once again wave Meri over to him. He also had a full bladder. Joe got up to go to the men’s room. Meri noticed.
This is my chance to get friendly with him away from his friends.

Meri positioned herself near the entrance of the short hallway leading to both lavatories. She asked Gratien for a short break. With the atmosphere in the bar growing more riotous with every round served, Gratien had begun serving himself and the staff drinks—just like New Year’s Eve. Meri was grateful for her liquid courage and her boss’s lax attitude in the midst of the hubbub.

Joe and Meri met at the hallway leading to the lavatories. Joe’s voice slurred when he spoke. “Well, there you are, my li’ll French, um, Frenchie. Long time no see, Mary.” He gave her an awkward hug.

She patted his back and then pulled away. Regretting her stiff, unfriendly reaction, she admonished herself.
Be nice to him, Meri! He’s flirting with you.
“Ah. Hello. Nice to see you.” She spoke French-infused, stiff English as if a period punctuated each word.

Joe laughed. “Hey. I understand. I must be pickin’ up this here French language pertty good!”

Meri smiled and batted her eyes. She hoped he thought she was flirting and not wondering if she had something stuck in her eye. She could not think of anything more in English to say except, “New York City?”

“New York City?” He scratched his head. “Sure, Honey. I can’t believe you remembered I’m from New York. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re sweet on me.” Joe crossed one leg over the other and bowed his head. He nearly toppled over. “Oops. Guess I’m a li’ll loopy from the booze.”

Meri reached out and caught him by grabbing his shoulders. “Can I get you a drink?” This was an English phrase she used often.

“Sure! How about some more whiskey and supper with me some time?”

Meri nodded and smiled. “Coming right up!” She understood the whiskey part. The rest was gibberish.
Supper? I need Gratien. He understands more English than anyone else I know right now.

When Joe came back from the men’s room, Meri took him by the hand and led him through the melee of drunken customers and tipsy waitresses to the bar. “Gratien, this is Joe. He only speaks English. Help us talk to each other?” Meri asked with such desperation in her eyes, her boss agreed to be their translator but only when things calmed down.

“I can’t keep up with the drink orders right now. I don’t even have time to take a piss. Your love life can wait. If he’s still here after these crazy Americans go to their barracks or are sleeping on the floor, I’ll be happy to help you. That’s if I’m still alive….” Gratien rolled his eyes back and pretended to keel over. He caught himself on the bar and chuckled.

Meri did not find her employer’s antics funny. Snagging this American was serious business to her and Jeannine. “
Merci,
Gratien. Could you tell him to stay here? Tell him I asked him to stay.”

The old man rolled his eyes again. “You can tell him that much yourself. He’s not an idiot!”

Meri gently slapped her employer’s arm and turned to Joe. “Here. Sit.” She pointed to one of the few vacant barstools.

Joe plopped down.

“Have drink. I be back, ah…oh, I be back.”

“Sure thing! Just make sure you don’t git lost and forgit to come back for me, you hear?” He winked at her. “Could you git me a whiskey while I got you here?” He smiled so broadly, anyone could count all of his teeth from halfway across the bar.

Meri patted his arm, ordered his whiskey from Gratien, and then turned away to face the rowdy crowd demanding more drinks.

§

Night passed into dawn. Finally, the last of the soldiers left
Le Bonaparte
.

“How can they walk after drinking so much?” An exhausted Gratien sat beside Joe and Meri. Joe was slumped over the bar. The few waitresses still standing also sat, rubbing their feet, lower backs, or necks. Unlike New Year’s Eve, most of them would be back in several hours—no day off for them after this night of insanity.

Drained, Meri still had unfinished business with Joe–New-York-City.

“Gratien, can you help me talk to Joe?”

At the sound of his name, Joe picked up his head. “What?”

Gratien groaned. “I suppose. A short one.”

“What’s happenin’?”

“Joe, Meri wants to talk and I say I help. Okay?” Gratien’s English was rough.

“Okay. Yeah. Sure. Bombs away.” Joe slowly lifted his head, which was resting on the sticky bar. “But better talk slow. I’m beat.” He sat slouched on the bar stool, resting his right cheek in his right palm—the picture of alcohol-fueled exhaustion.

Meri noticed that Joe had stopped drinking hours ago.
Why? Is he out of money or does he want to be sober when he talks to me? He’s probably out of money.
Meri got down to business, suspecting none of them would last very long after the chaotic night they all had. “Ask him his last name and if he wants to see me again. I mean for a date.”

Her boss raised his eyebrows. He asked.

Joe answered. “Trottier. Joe Trottier. And, heck yeah, if Mary wants to go out with me, I’d be pickled tink.”

Gratien furrowed his bushy eyebrows into a hedgerow. “What is this ‘pickled tink? I no understand.”

Joe began laughing so hard he could barely speak. “I…I meant…um…tickled pink. You know, real happy.” He took off his glasses to rub laughter-induced tears from his eyes and turned to Meri. In a valiant effort to compose himself, he said, “I’d be honored to take you out sometime.” He rubbed his hands along his thighs and put his head down as he added, “But you gotta give me some time to pull some money together. I don’t make much, being a private pullin’ mess duty and havin’ to send most of my wages home to my dad.”

“Mess duty?” Gratien scratched his head.

“Um, workin’ in the kitchen. Not the cook or nothing.’ Just helpin’ out.”

Gratien did his best to explain all of this to Meri.

Meri paused.
He looks like a grown man, not a boy who lives with his father. Why is he giving his money to his papa? And why must he call me “Mary?” Not only is he unpleasant to look at, he’s annoying. But he lives in New York City…