Part 39 (1/2)
”So you were in London,” she finally said.
”Yes.”
”Are they totally Beatles mad?”
”Yes.”
”And the Rolling Stones?”
”Yes.”
”And the s.e.xtuplets?”
”Yes,” he said, frustrated.
”What?”
”Betty.”
”What?” she said.
”Mom.”
It was only the second time he had ever used the word out loud. The first had been the night he had run away from Humphrey and gone to New York.
”Huh. 'Mom,'” she repeated, as if it was funny, and she took another sip of wine.
Henry lost, for a moment, any desire to forgive her; clearly she had forgiven herself, or at least forgotten how to blame herself.
”Mom,” he said, as reprisal. ”I've been living in London for almost two years.”
He could as easily have told her that he'd been living in India, or Athens.
”That's great!” she said, clearly not comprehending that the point was how close he had been to her, how punis.h.i.+ngly close he had been without her having known.
The waitress came by and asked something in French.
”Oui,” Betty said, a bit fl.u.s.tered. Betty said, a bit fl.u.s.tered.
”What was that?” Henry asked.
”She wanted to know if my sandwich was okay.”
Henry looked at Betty's sandwich. She hadn't had a bite. ”Why don't you have some?” he asked her.
”I will,” she said, and took another sip of her wine. ”How's yours?”
”Delicious,” Henry said. ”Do you come here a lot?” he asked her.
”A lot of lunches,” Betty said.
”Do you like Paris?” he asked her.
”I love Paris.”
”Where do you live?”
”In the Third,” she said. ”But you don't know Paris.”
”No,” Henry said. ”I don't know Paris.”
”That's okay,” Betty said, perhaps a bit giddily. ”I don't know London.”
”I'm not going to be living in London anymore,” Henry said. But she didn't ask him why not. She didn't ask him where he was going to live, or how, or with whom.
IT WAS, INCONGRUOUSLY, spring in Paris, a pale silver and green flowering. Back out on the street, Henry could feel the sun on the top of his head.
”Where do I get a taxi from here?” he asked.
”I'll take you to the stand,” she said. ”It's just a few blocks.”
They walked toward the Arc de Triomphe, ma.s.sive and unreal in the sun.
Betty checked her watch. ”There's a lot of talk about de Gaulle stepping down,” she told him.
”And you're doing a story?” he asked her.
”Yes.”
The taxis were lined up, rounded and gleaming, like large boulders in the sun.
”Mom,” Henry said. ”I want you to know I wish you the best.”
”Oh, I don't need that,” she said, as if he'd offered her a handkerchief.
”I want you to know it,” he said.
”Let's face it, Henry,” she said. ”I ditched you.”
”Yeah, but you also kept me.”
”What do you mean?”
”In the first place,” he said.
”You need a cab,” she told him.
She hugged him now, this time tightly, forcing herself to settle for a moment into the structure of his arms. He could feel her exhaustion, her tipsiness, her tininess. He could feel her shame, and her need to flee. He looked back once from the taxi, just in time to see her brush her hair from her forehead and tug on her ear.