Bonita Faye Read online

  Personally, I thought everyone was always underestimating Claude and his ability to understand. But then I had the edge on Simone and the guys ‘cause Claude and me had a more intimate-like relationship. We told each other everything. ‘Cept I didn’t tell him about Billy Roy or Max and it turned out Claude was capable of keeping secrets, too.

  You’da thought we had signed a new treaty of Versailles the way everyone and their dogs carried on about Uncle Martin letting me give the party at the Cafe Roy. That was because of the menu I had selected. Fried chicken, dog-trot gravy over mashed potatoes and buttered corn-on-the-cob. Dessert was hot apple pie with vanilla ice-cream and good ol’ American coffee. Bless her sweet heart, Mrs. Blount had brought it to me from Harrod’s gourmet food department in London.

  Uncle Martin was a nervous wreck so I shooed him on out of the kitchen, and his little chefs and I got along just great. They thought the cream gravy was a white sauce, but otherwise they just oohed and ahhed over the aroma that filled the kitchen.

  “Why you can walk down the street in Poteau every Sunday at noon and smell this same food cooking in every kitchen from 1st Street clear down to Main,” I said proudly.

  Although it was a Sunday afternoon and the cafe was open only for the party, that didn’t stop passersby from stopping and trying to order lunch. A group of American tourists got downright huffy until they finally understood it was a private party.

  “Can we come back tomorrow and order the fried chicken?” they asked as they left.

  In addition to the pie, Simone had baked a big chocolate cake with one of them damned Eiffel Towers on it. Claude’s name was written around the bottom of the tower in yellow icing and in honor of our shared tribute to him, Simone had stuck a little paper American flag on top.

  “It was so thoughtful of you to bring the coffee,” I said to Mrs. Blount as we enjoyed a cup at a little table away from all the relatives who gathered around Claude.

  “I miss American coffee, too. Remember, I lived there for almost ten years. My husband went to America for the French government during the war and afterwards we just stayed on. When he died, I wanted to come home. To be with my family.” She waved her hand, indicating the crowd.

  “Don’t tell me you’re related to the Vermeillons, too?”

  “But of course, cherie.”

  But of course. How stupid of me to ask.

  “Do not be surprised if Martin asks you to teach his chef how to prepare your fried chicken. I heard him telling my cousin that he is thinking of adding some American cuisine to his menu. Today has made quite an impression on our family, Bonita Faye.” Inevitably she leaned forward.

  I knew what was coming.

  “And, tell me, little one, how are things, you know, between you and our Claude?”

  I didn’t have a chance to answer, because “our Claude” was coming our way with a package in his hands.

  “Oh, another present. Who is it from, Claude?” I asked.

  “From me. To you.” He gave me the box.

  “I don’t understand. It’s not my party.”

  “Oh, no. And the party is wonderful.” And he bent down and kissed me on both cheeks in front of God and everybody. “This is a surprise. It has been ready for several days, but I thought today was the best time to give it to you. Open it, Bonita Faye.”

  I don’t need to remind you that I don’t like surprises. In fact, I can hardly be surprised, but Claude’s gift just flat did me in. It was the first good surprise I’d ever had in my life and I keep a list of them.

  Inside the box, under several layers of tissue was a handsome cream-colored mug. On it, in black enamel, was a modern outline of a French guillotine. The blade was a rich gold with a dash of bright red splashed across it. Vermeillon red. In the center of the guillotine were the words Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité.

  “Remember, this was your inspiration. I have double the orders for this cup than we had for the one with the Eiffel Tower. And I haven’t even begun to show it around. Bonita Faye, with the extra profit, I can finance my first business venture. Already I have talked to several bankers who are interested in my ideas. As you say, my love, I am on my way to the clouds.”

  If I live to be a hundred, God willing and the creek don’t rise, I will never forget the look in that young man’s eyes that day as he stood there on the Champs-Elysees aholding on to that coffee mug. Those weren’t clouds in his eyes, they were stars. If I could live my life over, the day Claude took his first step toward his dream would be one of the moments I would choose.

  Claude had cups for everyone, the whole kit-and-caboodle of them. “It is the new Vermeillon crest,” I heard him tell an old aunt as he pressed one in her hand. “From now on everyone will know us by this symbol.”

  I handed one of the cups full of hot coffee over Denis’s shoulder and took the opportunity to whisper in his ear, “One thing more I don’t understand. Why didn’t you speak English to me that day you picked me up at the airport?”

  Denis laughed and nodded for me to sit in the empty chair next to him. “You know I am a Communist? Yes? Well, maybe then you know we are becoming not so popular in America now?” Seeing the confused look on my face he said, “No matter. But you never know what kind of a conversation you’re going to have with Americans. How many questions they will ask. It is easier to not admit you speak the language.”

  “But it was just me,” I protested.

  “Ah, but then, cherie, I didn’t know you were going to turn out to be our Bonita Faye.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  The telegram was addressed to Mrs. Harmon Adams.

  “What does this mean, this ‘Mrs. Harmon Adams?’ ” Claude asked as he threw it at me.

  “What does what mean?” I scrambled to pick up the envelope. “Oh, good lord, I don’t know. Should I open it?”

  “No one else knows a Harmon Adams here, monsieur or madame.”

  “It probably has something to do with those insurance papers Harmon wrote me about,” I said, but my heart was pounding as I tore open the telegram.

  The United States Army regrets to inform you that your husband Harmon Adams has been seriously wounded in battle. He has been air-evac’ed to Hawaii for surgery and convalescence. Lt. Adams has been recommended for a Medal of Honor for his actions as well as the purple heart. The United States Army will keep you informed on the condition of Lt. Adams.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Let me see it, Bonita Faye.” He read the telegram.

  “I gotta go home, Claude. No, I gotta go to…where did they say he is? Hawaii. I gotta go to Hawaii. Harmon needs me.”

  “No! You cannot go. The doctors will take care of him. I need you, Bonita Faye.”

  I saw Claude shouting and pleading, but his face seemed lopsided and his voice like an echo. My inner vision was seeing Harmon’s dirty face when he walked into my living room one cold January night and said in a tired voice, heavy with an Oklahoma accent, “I love you, Bonita Faye.”

  “I love you, Bonita Faye.” Now I could hear Claude clearly.

  One real murder and one attempted one hadn’t made me a woman. Nor the lovers I’d had. But right there in the lobby of the Hotel Regina…as surely as if a hand guided me over a bridge, I made a woman’s decision. Only little girls think you can have your cake and eat it, too.

  “And I love you, too, Claude. But Harmon loved me first. That’s gotta count for something. I’m going to find Simone to help me make arrangements. We’ll talk later.”

  Claude’s shouts followed me all the way up the stairs. “Is it because he is older? A hero? Because he is from Oklahoma?”

  I didn’t have to look for Simone. She found me, sitting on the bed in my room, a half-filled suitcase beside me. “Where did I get so much stuff? I came over here with one little ol’ suitcase and now look at all this. Pack rats don’t have nothin�
� on me.”

  “Slow down, Bonita Faye.” She sat beside me and took my hand. “Claude told me Harmon is injured. I understand your concern, but are you sure this is what you want to do?”

  “I know it’s what my insides are atelling me to do, Simone. Whether it’s my heart, my soul or my guts speaking, I don’t know, but something is telling me that if I don’t go to him, that Harmon ain’t going to make it. I couldn’t live with that.”

  “What about Claude? I know my brother. He really does love you.”

  “And you gotta believe me when I tell you that I really do love him. More than I do Harmon in some ways, but that don’t make it all the way right.” I got up and walked to the open window. “Simone, I can’t rightly put into words what this past year has meant to me. I came here more a wreck than you ever could imagine. I found acceptance of…well…me…from all of you, not just Claude. He’s taught me how to love in a way…a gentle way…I’ve never known and Robert showed me how it’s okay to be smart…and you and Denis have given me friendship and trust. I’m a new Bonita Faye, but I’ll never know I’m the real Bonita Faye until I go back and see how I work out what I left.”

  Simone heard me, but she still continued to plead. “Michel loves you so, Bonita Faye. A year is a long time for a child. He thinks you’ve always been here and always will be.”

  “Now that’s dirty pool, Simone. You know I couldn’t love Michel any more than if I had borne him. I was going to kill for him. But, there’s another child, a little girl, you don’t know nothing about, that I owe somethin’ to. Michel’s got you and the whole Vermeillon clan to support him. I gotta find out who this little girl has on her side.

  “Besides, Simone, I do love Harmon. Now are you going to help me get tickets out of here or not?”

  She sat silent on the bed for a moment longer, her hands rearranging the clothes in my open suitcase. “You know, Bonita Faye, you are stronger than I am. I knew it at the farmhouse. You were so brave when Max attacked you, but even before that, the planning and the actual doing of it. Even if I had had the idea of killing Max, I don’t think I would have had the courage to carry it out.”

  When I started to protest, to remind her about her dangerous work in the Resistance, she stopped me. “And now. You are doing something else I can’t do. You are making the decision between two men who love you and whom you love. I’ll never be able to make a decision between Denis and Robert. That’s what I admire and why I’ll help you. Right or wrong, you have made a decision.”

  As we made reservations, bought more suitcases and even tried to telephone Hawaii, Claude ignored us. He simply refused to speak to me and Michel wasn’t much better. He didn’t understand why I was leaving him and hung on to his mother, crying behind her skirts.

  Finally I took a long, last look at my Vincent Van Gogh bedroom and, on impulse, jerked the framed postcard of the artist’s own room from its nail over my bed. I was holding it as I followed Denis downstairs with the last of my baggage.

  Robert was standing at the curb by the taxi. “I brought you some books for the trip.” I hugged him. We’d already said our good-bye words. Then I hugged Simone. Michel and Claude had refused to come downstairs.

  Just as I was stepping into the taxi, Claude burst through the door of the hotel. My gentle Claude, who had never touched me except in a loving way, grabbed my shoulders and shook me ‘til my teeth rattled. Then he gave me a backbreaking embrace and kiss. The confrontation caused me to drop the framed picture, breaking the glass.

  Claude didn’t say a word, just turned and walked into the hotel, tears streaming down his face.

  Robert picked up the postcard that had drifted apart from the frame during the fall and brushed it off. I held it in my hands as Denis drove us away from the Hotel Regina leaving the shattered glass all over the sidewalk.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Harmon Adams, how dare you tell the United States Army that we’re married and have them sending me next-of-kin stuff. Now you tell them the truth or you just get up out of that bed this minute and marry me. It’s not right to lie to the United States Army.” I ignored the tubes, the bags and the wires and pulleys that surrounded the swaddled man I thought was Harmon.

  His eyes were covered in bandages, but he smiled and said, “Goddam, it’s Bonita Faye.”

  They said he started getting better from that minute on. Hadn’t I known that back in France? Sure as I’m standing here, I’ll always believe that Harmon would have died if I hadn’t gone to Hawaii to save him.

  The next day, I stormed into the room again, talking while I tore off the mask the nurse said I had to wear. “Now Harmon, listen up. If you don’t marry me today, they’re not going to let me come and see you. This here man I have with me is the chaplain of this hospital. He’s Navy, but he’ll have to do. Now all you got to say is yes, you are in your right mind and know what you’re doin’, and yes, you want to marry me, and he’ll do it right here, right now. Is that clear?”

  Harmon said, “Yes, I am, and yes, I do.” Then he added, “Sir.”

  Who said real men don’t cry? In less than a week, I had seen two of the strongest and most manly men I knew with tears running down their faces. Harmon’s fell in little streams from underneath his bandages.

  I don’t like Hawaii. I don’t care if that is where I got married. I can’t even pronounce the name of the island the hospital was on and I resented the sun shining all the damn time. And the blue skies with their perfect cottonball clouds. I missed the gray skies of Paris with their fly-by clouds that let the direct sun in so seldom that it was no wonder that those Impressionist artists went bananas over light and shadow in their paintings.

  “I don’t like Hawaii,” I told Harmon when I was pushing him in his wheelchair out onto the hospital’s sun roof a few weeks after our bedside wedding. God knows, sun roof was a perfect name for it. “When can we go home, Harmon?”

  “You talk to the doctors more than I do, Bonita Faye.” His right leg was wrapped in shiny white plaster and stuck out in front of him. It didn’t look comfortable at all, but I reckon it was a change from lying in bed.

  “I ain’t complainin’, Harmon. I just want to get you home. Get those bandages off you and take care of you myself.”

  “I want the same, Bonita Faye. And I want to make love to my wife.”

  “Well, now, I reckon you are gettin’ better if you’re remembering what most newlyweds are supposed to be doin’.”

  “No sense in talking about it, if we can’t do it. Now tell me some more about your Paris adventures. About the professor and the taxi driver. And Claude.”

  “Again? I think I wrote you every word I’ve told you these last few weeks. Didn’t you ever read my postcards?”

  “All forty-eleven hundred of them. And so did every G.I. in my outfit, not counting those at the mail depot in San Diego. Got so they would read them out loud before they’d hand them over to me. You got to learn to write letters, Bonita Faye. Strangers were coming up and asking me ‘How’s Bonita Faye? How many coffee cups has she sold now?’ My own buddies were laying odds and taking actual bets as to whether you’d send me a ‘Dear John postcard’ that said you were marrying Claude.”

  “I hope the winner is buying beers in Korea,” I said. “‘Sides I like postcards. You get in, say what you want, and you get on with it. A letter has too much space. And you get a picture, too.”

  “How come you didn’t marry Claude? Didn’t he ask you?”

  “Harmon Adams, that’s enough.” I looked at the dark shadows under his tired eyes, the red, newly healed scar right above his temple and his yellow complexion. My heart hurt just looking at him.

  The doctors told me to keep at him, to keep encouraging him and badgering him into getting well. “We’ve done all we can, Mrs. Adams. The rest is up to Lt. Adams and you. Right now, we know he’ll live, but its a toss-up as to whether he’ll be
a cripple for the rest of his life. We can help him. We think he can make it, but we can’t do it for him.”

  Harmon wouldn’t get off his one-horse track. “Did you love him, Bonita Faye? Did you love Claude?”

  I got down in his face. “I said that’s enough, Harmon. Whether I loved Claude or not is my business and none of yours. If you keep up this whining about who it is I love, I’ll walk off this pink oven of a rooftop and leave you to sit here until you melt or rot, whichever comes first. But, before I go, I’ll tell you who it is I love. I love me. Bonita Faye Burnett Adams. And I only give myself what I want. And what I wanted was Harmon Adams. I flew across two oceans to get to him. And I married him. And nobody else. You got that straight, buster?”

  Harmon sighed and smiled. “You really do love me, don’t ya, Bonita Faye.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of belief.

  I settled back down in my chair. That was the last time Harmon ever whined and the last time he ever asked me about Claude.

  We sat in silence and watched huge waves break way out in the ocean, the sunlight hitting the crashing water caused blinding rays of reflected light that gave me a headache. I said, “I hate Hawaii.”

  “I hate boats.”

  “Ships, you hate ships, Bonita Faye.” Harmon leaned heavily on his crutches as he brought me another wet rag.

  “Boats. Ships. It’s all the same to me. The only good thing about it is that it’s taking us home.”

  “Now this isn’t like you, to be so whining. You’ve go to shape up or ship out.” Harmon’s tone was warm and mocking as he wiped my forehead and mouth with the rag. “All I do is hear you complain. Let’s see. You hate Hawaii. You hate ships.” He grabbed ahold of the bunk to steady himself as the ship took a dip.