Man, woman, and child(8)

"Oh wow," chirped Paula once again. Her vote was clearly yes.

"Jessie?"

"Well, there's justice in the world."

"What?"

"If I can't visit France, at least I'll have a native to discuss it with."

"He's only nine years old," said Bob, "and he'll be sort of sad. At least at first."

"But, Father, surely he can talk."

"Of course."

"Which means I'll hear a better French than Mademoiselle O'Shaughnessy's. Q.E.D. on you. Dad."

"He's my age, Jessie, not yours," Paula interrupted.



"My dear," said Jessie with hauteur, "he won't give you the temps du jour J'

"The whatr

"Go study French. Vous etes une twerp."

Paula pouted. Someday she'd get revenge on Jessie. And their foreign visitor would soon see what was what and pay attention to the true in heart.

Curiously, neither of them asked why the boy was crossing the Atlantic instead of staying with seme friend who lived a little closer. But girls of nine are overjoyed to have a visit from a boy their age. And girls of twelve are anxious to gain worldliness through international experience.

Sheila made herself go through the motions of a normal day. Her act worked well enough for the girls, who seemed to sense nothing awry. She worked furiously, and actually completed the editing of Reinhardt's book. Bob, of course, could see behind this fagade of industry, but could do nothing. Say nothing. As she grew more distant he felt increasingly helpless. They had never been estranged like this. At times when he was yearning for her smile, he would hate himself. At other times, he would hate the boy.

The Arrivals board announced that TWA 811 from Paris had just landed. A crowd began to form around the double-doored exit from the customs area.

And Bob suddenly was very scared. During the past weeks all the arrangements had occupied his mind to the exclusion of emotion. He'd been too distracted to allow himself to think what he might feel when those metal doors would open and a son of his would walk into his life. Not a theoretical dilemma he'd discussed by telephone, but flesh and blood. A living child.



The double doors now parted. Out came the flight crew, jabbering about the fantastic roast beef at Durgin-Park. And could they catch the Red Sox afterward?

**I know this disco . . /' said the captain, as they walked away.

In the instant when the open doors revealed the customs area, Bob craned his neck and tried to glimpse inside. He saw the lines of passengers, all waiting for inspection. But no little boy.

He was so distracted he began to smoke. Actually, since he had given up in high school, he was puffing on his pen. It pacified him somewhat, till he realized what he was doing. Embarrassed, he put it back into his pocket.

The doors now opened once again. This time a stewardess emerged, carrying a green leather valise and leading a tousle-haired little boy who was clutching a TWA flight bag close to his chest. The stewardess glanced swiftly at the crowd, finding Bob almost immediately.

"Professor Beckwith?''

"Yes."

"Hi. Guess I don't have to introduce you two." She turned to the boy, said, "Have a good time now," and slipped off.

Now, suddenly, the two of them were on their own. Bob glanced down at the little boy. Does he look anything like me? he thought.

"Jean-Claude?"

The boy nodded and held out his hand. Bob reached down and shook it.

*'Bonjour monsieur/* the child said politely.

Though his French was reasonably fluent, Bob had prepared some remarks in advance.

''Est-ce que tu as fait un bon voyage^ Jean-Claude?'*



*Tes, but I speak English. I have taken private lessons since I was small/'

^*Oh, good/'said Bob.

''Of course, I hope to practice. I thank you for inviting me.'*

Bob sensed the boy's remarks had also been rehearsed. He picked up the green leather suitcase.

''Can I take your flight bag?''

"No, thank you/' said the boy, clutching his red canvas sack even tighter.

"My car's just outside," said Bob. "Are you sure you have everything?"

"Yes, sir."

They began to walk. Through the doors and into the parking area, where the bright sun was now dimming into the afternoon. The humid Boston heat was still intense. The little boy followed silently, half a step behind.

"So the trip was okay, huh?" Bob asked once again.

"Yes. Quite long, but nice."

"Uh—how was the film?" Another question Bob had carefully prepared.

"I didn't watch it. I was reading a book/'

"Oh," said Bob. They now had reached his car. "Look, Jean-Claude, a Peugeot. Doesn't that make you feel at home?"

The boy glanced up at him and gave a tiny smile. Did that mean yes or no?

"Would you like to sleep in back?" Bob asked.