Crossing on the Paris (24 page)

“No chance,” she said with a laugh, running up the stairs to steerage. “Till tonight!”

Compared to the engine rooms, the stale air and constant noise in third class were positively refreshing. But, again, Julie didn't notice a thing.

“Do you think I should cut it?” Constance asked the hairdresser, holding out a long lock of thick, honey-colored hair. “One of those new styles? A bob?” she added doubtfully.

“Oh, your hair is so pretty, it'd be a shame to just cut it off,” said the beautician. The relief in Constance's face was visible. “Mary Pickford was in here yesterday afternoon.
She
still wears hers long,
and yours is every bit as lovely! I'll just give it a trim. When that's done, perhaps we should try a Marcel wave.”

Constance sat back, contented, watching the hairdresser at work. How exciting that she was on the same ship as Mary Pickford! What if she met her tonight in first class? That might even impress Faith! She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining her sister's look of surprise, her envy. When she opened them, she saw in the mirror that Mrs. Thomas was entering the beauty salon. The squat woman in sensible shoes spied Constance at once and came right over.

“Good morning!” Mrs. Thomas said to Constance's reflection. “It's nice to meet outside of the dining room for a change. Tell me now, was it Miss or Mrs. Stone? I didn't quite catch it.”

“You can call me Constance,” she said, forcing a smile at the other face in her mirror.

“Oh, we are to become good friends, are we?” Her response was sugarcoated. “I'm Mildred.”

She took the chair next to her and a beautician began combing through her thinning hair with a doubtful frown. After giving directions for a dye and cut, Mildred Thomas turned again to Constance.

“That was a spirited discussion at dinner last night,” Mrs. Thomas said. “Very interesting, indeed. I was surprised, however, when Captain Fielding's doctor friend excused himself to go after you. I suppose he thought you might need looking after,” she said, with a studied look of concern.

“I was fine,” Constance said, almost amused at the notion that her opinions about universal suffrage should warrant a doctor's attention. “Dr. Chabron was kind enough to escort me to my cabin.”

“How charming!” she said. “Is he a friend of yours?”

“A very recent one. We've just met here on board,” Constance replied, then diverted her attention to the hairdresser. “Are you cutting it a bit too short?”

“So, did you two enjoy some dancing last night after dinner?” Mildred persisted. “Cocktails and cards?”

Constance threw a baffled look toward Mrs. Thomas. She didn't understand her keen interest in her acquaintance with the doctor. Indeed, what would she say if she knew he had invited her to dine that night at the captain's table?

“No, Mildred,” she said, suppressing the urge to call her dowdy companion “ma'am.” “He escorted me to my cabin, where I spent the rest of the evening reading. How about you? Did you and Mr. Thomas dance the night away?”

“No, my husband and I don't go in for carousing,” she said with a prim, self-satisfied expression that didn't quite go with her current appearance. The beautician was applying a gruel-colored glop onto her wet hair, which made her head look unnaturally small. “Now then, where did you say you were from?”

“I don't believe I did.” Constance refrained from adding that her conversation had never been solicited at the dining table. Thrown by the inordinate curiosity on Mrs. Thomas's face, she opted for generalities. “I'm from Massachusetts.”

“Boston, I presume? How nice!” she said, without waiting for confirmation. “Unfortunately, we don't know any New Englanders. We live in Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love. My husband is with the Biddle Motor Car Company. You've probably heard of it?”

Constance did have a vague recollection of the men discussing automobiles at one meal or another, but she hadn't been paying much attention.

She nodded and Mrs. Thomas rambled on about her husband's line of work. It was clear that, given a willing audience, this hitherto silent matron could talk as loud and as long as her husband. As Mrs. Thomas digressed, the sound of her voice faded into the hum of the salon and Constance enjoyed the privacy of her own thoughts. She couldn't help but replay the scene in the infirmary over in her mind. Serge's cologne, his voice, his touch. Gazing into
the mirror, she watched the stylist, who was now at work with the curling tongs, transforming Constance's straight hair into fashionable, watery waves. Would Serge like her new look?

“Constance, dear,” Mildred repeated, “I asked you what your husband did for a living.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I hadn't heard,” she said with a cough, uncomfortable that her girlish fancies were interrupted by the reality of a husband. She stifled the urge to invent a different life—it seemed terribly unfair to George to suddenly become a widow—and answered. “He's a college professor. He teaches geography.”

“Oh! I should have guessed!” Mildred exclaimed, triumphant. “Boston
is
known for its universities!”

With Constance's marital status now settled, Mrs. Thomas felt free to launch into a long anecdote about a distant cousin of hers who taught at Purdue. Constance had been on the brink of adding a few words about their children when Mrs. Thomas's talk had burst back in, and now—abandoning the pretense of listening entirely—she thought about them at her leisure. In just a few days, she would be able to hold them in her lap—together, all three!—and tell them about her adventures in France. What amusing tales could she tell them? Well—she smiled to herself—she would decidedly
not
mention that Auntie Faith's live-in lover had made roast bunny rabbit for dinner one night.

A manicurist came over to the styling chairs, offering a clipping, a buff, and the tiniest hint of pink enamel. Constance consented, Mildred declined. The manicurist alit on a stool next to her chair and began her work, gently holding Constance's hand to file her narrow nails. Mrs. Thomas, whose dye would have to set for another half hour, took her needlework out of her bag.

“What are you working on?” Constance asked politely.

Mildred held up a sampler with colorful numbers and letters embroidered into the fabric. In the center, she was stitching a large Christmas tree covered with candles, beads, and baubles.

“I know it may seem odd to work on a Christmas sampler in June, but I'm making twelve of them—all different!—for our church bazaar come December. My work is so very appreciated . . .”

Mrs. Thomas continued talking, but Constance had long stopped listening. She sat staring at that festive tree, trying to work out whether, after last year, their holidays could ever be the same again.

She and George had brought the children round to visit her parents on Christmas Eve. The girls were so excited. Elizabeth and Mary had helped bake gingerbread men for everyone and even prepared a few carols to sing. Dressed in ribbons and bows, the three little girls led the way into the parlor; Elizabeth proudly carried the tray stacked with cookies while Mary held a toddling Susan by the hand. Thrilled by the season, they entered the room grinning and singing: “We wish you a merry Christmas! We wish you a merry Christmas . . .”

Next to the unlit tree, their grandmother was crouched in front of the fireplace, barefoot. In her white nightgown, her long, graying hair loose, she was gazing intently into the fire, poking it with a thin branch. She didn't acknowledge their presence, as if she hadn't heard their entrance nor the girls' pealing song. Elizabeth stopped and called out.

“Gran!” She laughed. Could her grandmother—always rather quirky—be playing a game, pretending not to know they'd arrived, only to feign utter delight when she finally turned around? “We're here! It's Christmas!”

Lydia still didn't react. Constance brushed past her daughters, making her way to the fireplace in a few quick strides, as a smiling Gerald came on the scene. He had been locked away in his study as usual, but was lured out by the girls' cheerful song. His face paled as he saw his wife huddled there in her nightdress and he too rushed past the children.

“Mother?” Constance asked, reaching out to tap her shoulder. “Lydia?” exclaimed Gerald, right behind her.

Wild-eyed, she looked up at them, her pretty mouth twisted into a confused snarl. Brandishing the stick with its fiery-red tip, she scooted away on her backside, until she was safe behind the armchair. Once there, she held the branch close, then began to sear her forearm with the ember.

“I burn therefore I am,” she muttered sharply. “If I can burn, then I exist.”

Constance and her father stood in paralyzed shock, watching the welts rise on her arm as they caught a faint odor of charred skin and burnt hair. Gathering his wits, Gerald finally charged his wife, pushing the armchair aside and disarming her, throwing the maple branch into the fire. With one arm, he tightly held Lydia, who began uttering a long, ghostly moan, and with the other batted Constance away.

Panicking, she looked over at George and her children. The girls were sobbing, holding on to their father's pants legs, gingerbread men broken at their feet. Constance rushed over to her daughters, hugged them close, then whisked them all out of the room.

“What the hell was that?” George whispered in a huff, as if he himself had suffered a personal affront. “Good God!”

“Take the little ones home,” Constance said, ignoring his blustering comments and trying to keep her voice calm. “I'll be there as soon as possible. I can't leave them like this. I'm going to call Dr. Matthews.”

“It's Christmas, for heaven's sake, Constance!” he cried, still vexed.

“There's nothing I can do about that,” she said plainly, then kneeled down to talk to the girls. “Don't worry about Gran,” she breathed in a soothing voice, stroking their damp, puffy faces with her silk handkerchief. “She's sick and she needs a doctor. Now, you go on home to wait for Santa Claus. I'll be there directly.”

George took the girls home, and Constance stayed, as she always did, to help her parents. The family doctor finally came round
that evening. Lydia was still in her nightgown next to the fireplace, now cold. Dr. Matthews helped get her in bed—Lydia would listen to
him
—and gave her a sedative.

Christmas Eve . . . That was the beginning of this long episode, her worst ever. Had six months already passed since that night? For her mother—who hadn't spoken since—had any time passed at all? In her mind, did she still exist?

“The other
hand,
ma'am,” the manicurist said, obviously not for the first time.

“Oh, right, sorry.” The corners of Constance's mouth briefly rose into a makeshift smile as she exchanged one hand for the other.

“Aren't you the absentminded one today!” Mildred teased her in time with her stitches. “My, my!” She poked the needle in twice more.

Christmas, thought Constance, looking at the sampler's tree. This year, how would the girls react to the decorations, the carols, the sweets? Mildred peeked over at Constance, who was staring again at her work. Pleased, she held it up for admiration once more.

After another fifteen minutes, Constance was ready to go. Her hair was cut and styled and her nails shiny and trim. However, instead of feeling pampered and revitalized, she was utterly drained.

“Don't you look lovely!” Mildred Thomas said. “One might think you were getting all gussied up for someone special!”

She wrinkled her nose with a smirk. Constance gave her an uncomfortable little nod. This woman made her nervous. Perhaps it was a good thing that Mrs. Thomas was working under the erroneous notion that she was from Boston. Not only would she not relish a visit from the Thomases, but Worcester was a small town. Mildred seemed rather suspicious of her friendship with Serge. Constance wouldn't like to imagine her meeting one of her neighbors and saying . . . what exactly?

Constance was walking out as a beautician led Mrs. Thomas to the sink for her rinse.

“Good-bye, dear.” Mildred waved. “See you at luncheon!”

“Good-bye,” Constance said shortly, slipping through the salon door.

Once in the corridor, she took a deep breath. What a relief to be free of the close confines of the salon. The strong smell of the dyes—not to mention the noxious company of Mrs. Thomas—was making her dizzy. While sitting at her side, Constance had already decided to have lunch ordered to her room. But what she really needed now was some aspirin. She wanted to be able to enjoy herself tonight without any nagging pains hindering her mood.

Indeed, she mused, perhaps this evening would provide a sensational anecdote to tell her girls. How their very own mother rubbed elbows with the rich and famous—Mary Pickford herself!—while eating Crêpes Suzette with the captain under the domed cupola of the first-class dining room.