AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Probably, although the parapluie vendors will rise like mushrooms. Flimsy, but we’re leaving tomorrow, so it doesn’t matter if it breaks.” JL grins.
We haven’t had rain, but I’ve seen pictures of twisted, bent umbrellas, discarded like broken-winged blackbirds, forlornly ready to trip unwary passersby.
“We’re off,” Max says, helping Cress out of her chair. He whispers something in her ear and she shakes her head. Arm and arm, they decamp to wave down a taxi.
After our discussion yesterday, JL returned my cell. Now it rings and I answer reflexively, not paying attention to caller ID. Maybe my parents, checking up on our plans.
Before I say a word, an assumed Southern drawl, sugar sweet but oily, raises hackles. “Slipped past your defenses.” A sinister chuckle. “Guess you ain’t payin’ attention, darlin’. Hearin’ yer voice, babe, maybe you can guess what’s risin’ here.” His breathy vocalization swells with lascivious menace.
JL taps my arm and signals I need to put this on speaker.
“Heard there was some brouhaha in Paris, and I was wondering whether you was nearby. Don’t want anything to happen while you’re away. That would spoil the fun.” He chuckles. Despite myself, I can’t hang up. “Can you imagine what I’m doing right now?” The accompanying panting and lip-smacking moan brings bile up my throat.
JL’s warm hand envelops the back of my neck, breaking the spell. I choke back a gasp and hit end. Hyperventilating, I throw the phone toward JL. Putting a hand up, he catches it easily, keeping his eyes on me.
I expect him to reprimand me for answering, but all he says is, “Salopard.”
A giggle grips me as I grope for the glass of water sitting on the table. Why I feel the need to laugh when I’m hurting is a mystery I can’t deal with now. The swallow of water extinguishes the sound. If I try to speak, I’m afraid bile will pour out. The phone rings again. “Hello?” JL’s greeting sounds distinctly unwelcoming. Then he listens soundlessly, finally saying, “I’ll put her on.”
“Your dad,” he whispers, handing me the phone.
“Micki?” The growl is very familiar.
Confirmation the news hit the U.S. papers. Dad still gets all his news that way. Wonder if it was on the front page of theChicago Tribune,complete with graphic photo, or buried farther back in the international pages?
“Hey, Dad. How are things working out at the condo?”
Text messages are scrolling across the screen. Work colleagues. Guess word of the attack has spread far and wide. I can see the start of a long text from Paul, Cress’ and my best friend from school. More stuff whizzes past from volunteer acquaintances and staff at the women’s shelter where I do workshops on legal resources. I turn off the screen.
Momentary relief at the short period of wordlessness disappears when Dad roars with all the bellicosity of Patton exhorting his men. “Your mother is going crazy. We’re both going nuts.”
I gurgle, but no words come out. Closing my eyes, I see the men in fatigues, face masks, automatic weapons. Gag from the memory of the acrid odor as the bullets whiz around. Feel JL push me under the table, the cloth rubbing against my hair, shoulders, back, as I creep away, knees rubbing on the carpet. Remembered screaming blots out Dad’s voice. Then I feel JL’s thumb rubbing circles against the back of my hand. His voice soothes. “Calme toé, ma chouette. C’est tiguidou.” Except for calm and owl, I don’t understand the words, but the icicles I thought would pierce my heart melt away.
The world comes back, and I see the café, sunlight pouring in from the Place, dispossessing the earlier clouds. The hiss of the espresso machine as shots are pulled blends with conversations in French, English, and languages I can’t identify. From my phone, I hear, “Answer me. What the fuck is going on over there?” He’s yelling loud enough for both of us and maybe everyone else in the café to hear him, even though I’ve turned off the speaker.
My dry, swollen tongue makes pushing words out impossible. Awkwardly, I manage to grasp the glass and water spills into my mouth. I sputter as some goes down the wrong way.
JL gently removes the tumbler from my tenuous grip, pours more, and sets it within easy reach while I wipe away the moisture filming my eyes from the violent cough that follows.
After a few more demanding growls from the other end, I manage to remove the cell from my lap and squeak out, “Uh, well…”
At way too many decibels, the two words I hear are raw with relief, not anger. “You’re okay?” A deep, ragged breath follows. “We weren’t even sure if you were alive after we read about the attack. Why didn’t you call?”
I wrestle my lips apart, but all that comes out is another inane “uh.” JL watches me with concern.
My near silence provokes another growling outburst. “That’s it?” I can visualize Dad’s reddening skin and the throbbing vein in his temple. Maybe he should just scream obscenities and throw stuff. I worry he’ll have a stroke one of these days.
“What the hell is going on over there? You were at that museum, weren’t you? I’m on my thousandth cup of coffee. Your mother’s in a tizzy. She can’t even come to the phone. She’s borrowed your across-the-hall neighbor’s dog and they’re running along the lakefront instead.”
JL wrenches the phone out of my frozen fingers. “Mr. Press? This is JL Martin. I am with your daughter, and she was not a target. Now she’s fine, just overwhelmed. Give her a minute and she might be able to answer.”
“Hummphff,” comes from the other end of the line.
Pressing the mobile back into my hand, JL gives me a pat. After another cough, I say, “I’m okay, Dad. JL got me out of the room and the police rounded up the terrorists.”
“On the news, the reporter said terrorists kidnapped an American, a woman.”
“Not me.” Maybe he’ll accept that, and I won’t have to give him my secondhand account of Cress being dragged out of the dinner by someone we thought was a friend, the car chase, and the rescue in the abandoned village near Paris.
