The Body in the Vestibule

yet, but certainly Ghislaine knew more about Lyon and its inhabitants.

“About these clochards. Where do they go to get help, or for food? Surely there must be some who cannot support themselves on the street.' Faith had decided that the key to it all must be with the clochards and their way of life, something she knew very little about. 'In the United States, we have shelters where they can go for food and a place to sleep, though they are still inadequate for the numbers.”

Ghislaine appeared relieved. Apparently, Madame Fairchild—who was, to be sure, a minister's wife—was simply concerned about these poor unfortunates, nothing more.

“Of course, we have them here, as well. The Armee du Salut, Secours Catholique, Emmaus, and the Restaurants du Coeur. But most prefer the street and the trash bins, as you have seen only too clearly.'

“Then there must be one of these shelters close to us.' Faith was thinking out loud.

“Oh yes, there's a Soupe Populaire in rue Millet Although Paul would scold me for calling it that, even though everyone does. Soupes Populaires existed in the twenties and after the war for poverty-stricken and jobless people, not clochards.”

A soup kitchen was a soup kitchen as far as Faith was concerned and she was sure she could find out more there about the two clochards—if indeed the man sitting outside St. Nizier now was a clochard. It wasn't certain, but it seemed logical that whoever they were, they would go to the nearest place for free food.

The dishes were all dried and they joined the other women around the table, who seemed in no hurry to get back to their respective mates. Faith settled in comfortably and listened to the gossip, talk of offspring, and speculation on hemlines with a familiar feeling—the company of women.

One femme was busy stitching together small triangles of bright calico, and seeing Faith's glance, she said, 'Le patchwork. Just like you American women do. It is quite the rage here. We are all busy making—what is your word?— quilts.' Faith did not want to disillusion the woman, but her own forays into quilt making had consisted of getting others to do it for her, especially in the case of a quilt top she'd purchased at a house auction in Maine, which had led to a treasure hunt and more. 'Oh yes, it's very popular where I live, also,' she said. Her friend and neighbor Fix Miller, whose car sported a bumper sticker that read I'M A QUILTER AND MY HOUSE is IN PIECES, kept telling Faith that if she could do a running stitch, she could quilt. But it was the number of running stitches one had to do, Faith reminded her. She was glad to meet a French quilt maker and it would be something to write to Fix about. Perhaps the two women could start to exchange patterns and eventually their children would meet and marry, and all because of a few scraps of cloth. Life could be like that, Faith believed.

“How is Dominique?' Michele asked a woman across the table. 'Is she worried about the bac?' She turned to Faith in explanation. 'The baccalaureat is a very difficult, perhaps even ridiculous, exam French teenagers must take to get their diplomas.”

The woman sighed and put her cup down. 'Who can tell? Whenever we ask her, she just says not to nag so much and everything is fine. That is her answer for everything. 'Where are you going?' 'Where were you?' It is as if she has a secret life. And the way she dresses—like the circus!”

Everyone laughed and Michele reassured her, 'They are all like her, these adolescentes, secretive and so very serious. Not like us. We were perfect.”

A slight feeling of nausea came over Faith, which she knew had nothing to do with either food or fetus. It arrived whenever she contemplated 'Ben, the Teenage Years.' And now, foolishly, she had signed up for a sequel.

Ghislaine was talking. 'We are never satisfied. I get worried because Stephanie seems too good. The only thing she ever criticizes is my accent when I speak English to Faith!”

Faith loved Ghislaine's delightfully accented English and much preferred it to Stephanie's more correct British version, learned at school. She doubted that her own at- tempts at speaking French carried the same charm as Ghis-laine's phrases: 'You have learned me so much,' she had told Faith and Tom Saturday night.

She continued to extol her daughter's virtues with a mixture of pride and concern. 'She still talks to us, is polite, and does what we ask. It's not natural. When I think of what my poor mother endured!'

“Yes, I know all this,' said Dominique's mother. 'And'—she looked skeptically at Ghislaine—'Stephanie is only thirteen, yes? Wait, cherie, a few more years. It's so hard to understand. Martin and I are good parents. We are not wardens who insist Dominique stay by our side or even that she go to rallyes, where she might be with some nice children.'

“Rallyes! Those ancient elephants!' Michele exclaimed. 'Cecile, think how bored you were when Tante Louise made you go, and besides, what seventeen-year-old girl wants to meet 'nice children'? She wants to meet the opposite, then maybe later she will settle down and marry someone you wanted her to meet in the first place.'

“What are these 'rallyes'?' Faith asked, images of antique cars racing incongruously to mind.

“They are very correct little gatherings arranged by a particular sector of Lyonnais parents for more years than anyone remembers, so little Marie or little Louis will meet a suitable mate. In the winter, there are dances and in the warmer months, tennis or pool parties. I hesitate to say parties, because all this is sans alcohol and under the eyes of the parents. There used to be more of them, and of course nice boys like my Paul were always invited, but I'm happy to say we met normally—on the metro,' Ghislaine explained.

“I know rallyes are old-fashioned,' Cecile said, 'yet at least our parents knew where we were.”

A few eyebrows went up, but no one said anything, although Faith could see Michele's mouth was twitching. It was obvious that Cecile was very upset about her daughter's behavior. Faith's stomach gave another lurch. She'd been hoping for a daughter of her own. Yet it was true—she'd heard girls were tougher in their teens. Maybe there was a good convent school near Aleford.

It was growing late and, a few at a time, the women slipped out of the kitchen into the garden to fetch a child or remind a husband of tomorrow's busy schedule, until only Faith, Ghislaine, and Michele were left.

“Do you think Cecile is overreacting about her daughter, or is Dominique really difficult?' Faith asked Ghislaine.

“I see the girl at Christmas and Easter, perhaps a Sunday here or there in between when her father has been feeling the need to flex some parental muscles and make her come, so it's hard for me to say what she is like. She was always very bright and did well in school. If she messes up her bac, then there will be some cause for alarm. Actually, you saw her the other night. She was at Valentina's gallery with Christophe d'Ambert and some other friends. She was wearing gold—what do you call them?—sneakers.'

“But she looked great in them, a very pretty girl.'

“I agree; however, Cecile would prefer her in a long navy pleated skirt and flower-print blouse from Ca- charel—a slightly different uniform. Now I would love Stephanie to dress a little more like Dominique. My own daughter, and not interested in what she puts on her back. Pierre is the opposite—not only a certain marque but it has to be from the right shop.'

“Oh, boys are much worse than girls about these things,' Michele agreed. 'Patrice is barely eight and if his Floriane Bermudas or shirt are from the warehouse and not some place in the Brotteaux, he is ashamed. Of course, I don't pay any attention to him,' she added proudly.

The clock in the hall struck and Faith looked about in surprise. She'd had no idea it was so late and realized, too, that her mind had moved far away from the dark preoccu- pations of an hour or so ago. Now her main concern was to get the address of the Floriane outlet from Michele.

Ben cried when they left and everyone tried to comfort him, which only made it worse, because they were so nice and that was why he didn't want to leave in the first place. The lure of riding in the Deux Chevaux soon worked its magic, he cheered up, and they finally got him in the car. Such is the fickleness of youth.

“Did you have a good time, darling?' Tom asked as they drove down the hill toward the city, beginning to sparkle as lights went on against the twilight.

“Wonderful. The longer I'm here, the more I love it.'

“Me, too. You know we should get together with our families more. Go down to Mother and Dad's, see my brothers and sister.'