Chapter 3
Once I rounded the corner and started onto our street, my pace slowed to a near crawl. My little Bessie hound seemed to be at least twice as heavy as when I had left the market. With a sigh, I placed her between my feet and shook out my aching arms.
Sad, dark eyes looked up at me as though wondering why she had been deposited onto the street.
"Walk, girl," I commanded. I tapped on my leg and ran several steps ahead, and she bounded off...in the opposite direction of home.
Horrified, I dashed after her, surprised at how something so small could in fact be so quick.
"Bessie, no!" I yelled. "Come, girl! Come!"
I had always thought dogs instantly new commands, that they somehow possessed an innate understanding of sit, stay, and come, but this was obviously not the case. She looked back, overjoyed by our new game of chase, and ran full speed into a lamp post.
She hit the post head first, and proceeded to tumble along the sidewalk three or four full rotations before she came to an abrupt halt with all four legs splayed
The streets of Paris paused around me, onlookers gawking in horror as my lifeless puppy lay in a motionless heap.
I could feel everyone staring at me, horrified at what they had witnessed. This ignorant boy had chased his puppy to her death not even a half hour after obtaining this wriggling, joyous creature.
Tears welled in my eyes. I had no idea what I would tell my father as I delivered her lifeless body to his bedroom. He would be furious, I thought. First I had lied to Aunt Meg, then I had foolishly placed the puppy on the street, of all places, and lastly I had killed her.
Bile rose in my throat as I carefully picked up her still warm body and hugged her to my chest. I felt light-headed and sick to my stomach over the accident. Never before had I hurt any creature, not even the toads I found in the garden. I always made certain I placed them back where I found them-after scaring the daylights out of my aunt, of course.
"I did not intend for you to be killed," I whispered into the lifeless pup's long, soft ear. "My father would have loved you. He truly would have loved you, Bessie."
"Oh, how terrible," a young woman said. From the corner of my eye, I saw her shake her head.
It angered me that everyone looked on but no one could do anything for my innocent pup. How quickly I had fallen in love with her, and how quickly she had been taken away from me. I understood then what Meg meant when she told me I was the first person she loved instantly. That is how I had felt for my puppy; pure, boundless love.
I squeezed her tighter and heard a hiss of a breath leave her body. Startled, I shifted her in my grasp and did the only thing I could think of: I rubbed her belly and patted her back, similar to what my father did when I was not feeling well.
"I am here, Bessie," I whispered as I continued to walk toward my home. "Hold on, girl. Father will know what to do."
Her tail vibrated against my forearm while another squeak left her lungs.
"That's it," I said, encouraged by the signs of life. "That's it, girl, hold on. I promise Father will save you."
Father had to save Bessie. He had to. He had once told me that I came to him with my face so red that I looked like I would burst. I was starving and inconsolable, but somehow I had known he was my father and found my way back to him. Found like a helpless little kitten was how Meg had put it, and nurtured by my grandmere, my father, and of course Aunt Meg because she loved me instantly.
We reached the front steps and Bessie began to show much more promising signs of life. She kicked her stout legs and began licking at my throat as I hurried home. I turned the door handle and discovered the door locked. Much to my dismay, I had no key as I had no need for one when I was out with Aunt Meg.
The pup in my arms was supposed to be a surprise, and I could not possibly walk into the house with her wriggling in my grasp. The entire walk home I had been devising my plan of how I would present Bessie to my father, and each time it revolved around smuggling her into his room unnoticed.
My plan unraveled. Frantically I looked around, uncertain of what to do. Since she had run off and nearly murdered herself, I could not place her on the ground.
"What are we going to do, Bessie?" I asked under my breath.
"Alex?" a feminine voice called out.
I whirled around, both surprised and delighted to see Madame Julia with her daughter Lisette in tow.
Madame Julia lived behind our house. I visited her home when my studies were completed and Lisette was able to play in the back garden or on the corner of the street where no one could see us climb onto the stone fence and see who could jump the farthest.
Madame Julia reminded me of Meg in a way. They were both motherly, but Madame Julia had more roundness to her whereas Meg had been a dancer and was more lithe. When Madame Julia embraced me, it felt like hugging a warm pillow that smelled of sandalwood. Her hands were always very soft, and she ran her fingers through my hair like my father. She paid as much attention to me as she did to Lisette, and even though she was not my mother, I thought of her in that respect.
"What are you doing out here alone?" Madame Julia asked as she approached. She looked from me to my Bessie hound. "Where did you find that?"
"It's a surprise for Father," I answered.
Madame Julia was the only person outside of our home that Father knew. He visited her several nights a week because she fed him and listened to him talk about his music, which no one else ever did because it was quite boring.
"Oh, I am sure he will be very surprised," Madame Julia said.
"May I hold him?" Lisette asked.
"Her," I corrected.
"Only for a moment," Julia said.
Lisette practically tore the puppy from my grasp and buried her face in Bessie's soft fur. "Oh, she smells awful! But she is so sweet!" Lisette exclaimed.
Julia placed her hands on her hips and sighed. "Is your father home?" she asked me.
"Yes, of course," I answered. "It is far too early in the day for Father to leave."
"Have you knocked on the door?"
I shook my head. "I cannot allow him to see my surprise."
"Why don't you come around to our house and you can enter through the back garden?"
Lisette, who refused to let my smelly, sweet puppy go, and I followed Madame Julia around the corner to their home.
"Why were you out on the street alone?" Madame Julia asked as she unlocked the door to her home.
I explained to her how I went to market with Meg every Friday, and I asked to leave early so that I could surprise Father.
"Did Aunt Meg know you had a puppy?" she asked.
I bowed my head. "She did not."
Madame Julia placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. "You are very thoughtful," she said gently.
"Father needs a puppy," I said, attempting to justify my actions. "He needs…"
Me, I wanted to say. But he did not truly need me anymore. When he thought I was sound asleep, he would whisper to himself, "I could not bear to live another day without you, Alexandre." In recent weeks my father had proven that was not at all true.
"Oh, Alex, your father is need of cakes and cookies and his darling son bringing him a puppy," Madame Julia said as she bent, pushed my hair back, and kissed my forehead. She turned from me and said under her breath, "Your father is in desperate need of something."
"Do you think he will like my gift?" I asked, feeling desperate for reassurance.
Madame Julia wrapped several cookies in a cloth before she turned to face me. "Your father will absolutely love anything you bring to him because he adores you."
Her words were meant to sooth me, but I shrugged in response.
"I nearly killed the puppy," I confessed.
Lisette gasped. "Alex! How could you kill a sweet puppy!"
Madame Julia placed her hand over her heart. "My goodness, what happened?"
"My Bessie hound got away from me," I said. "She ran and bludgeoned herself on a lamp post."
Madame Julia gave a solemn nod. "You should probably let her rest for a bit then. Why don't you take her home? I am sure your father will know what to do."
Of course he would. My father knew everything. Well, almost everything. The only person in the house who knew absolutely everything was my grandmere. And Uncle Charles because he read all sorts of books and once taught at a university when his legs were able to hold him upright. But my father knew plenty and he would be able to care for the puppy and make certain her skull was not cracked like an egg.
Madame Julia sent me home with a half-dozen cookies meant for Father, but I ate one after I returned home and broke a second one in half, which I then ate because it seemed rude to present my father with a broken cookie.
Alone in the kitchen, I heard Grandmere humming to herself down the hall from her bedroom. Quiet as a mouse, I shut the kitchen door to keep Bessie contained and gave her a piece of the cookie that had broken off as well as a bowl of water, which she drank immediately. I sat on the floor with her and considered my options. Much to my disappointment, I felt a sinking sensation in my belly as I thought of every possible way my father could react to me entering his room with a dog in my arms.
He will love her, I told myself, but I felt much less convinced now that we were inside the house. With a sigh, I took up Bessie in my arms, opened the kitchen door, and trudged up to the top of the stairs.
I would tell him that I had found her near lifeless on the street, gravely injured from a knock to the head. He could not possibly be angry with me for saving her life. He would be proud of me, far too pleased to send Bessie away.
Breath held, I turned the doorknob, and to my surprise, the door opened effortlessly. Father was slumped over his desk, chin resting on the heel of his hand and his leather folder open.
"Alex," he said quietly.
Yes, Father," I meekly replied. My heart slammed against my ribcage as I sat on the edge of his bed and furiously pet Bessie, hoping somehow the rhythmic motion would calm both of us.
"You have finished with your studies for the day?"
"Not yet," I answered.
Father grunted. He scooted his chair forward instead of back and furiously wrote on the paper in front of him before he made a sound of displeasure and crossed out whatever he had written. He tapped the end of his pen on the paper while muttering to himself as he often did while composing.
"Market day?" he asked under his breath.
"Yes," I said. "I returned early."
Bessie began to squirm. Any moment now, I expected her to bark or make some other noise that would give me no other choice but to reveal my gift.
"Good," Father said.
There were many times when Father composed music and was so consumed by what he created that he did not speak for a straight hour. He would mutter under his breath, bob his head and move his lips, but he did not seem to notice anything else around him. Other times he would hold full conversations while he jotted down his notes and arranged melodies.
"Father," I said quietly.
"What is it?" he asked.
I could tell by his tone that he was not truly listening, yet still my heart beat so wildly in my chest I felt as though I would pass out. I could have said anything in that moment, and no matter how ludicrous, I was certain he would not know what I said.
"I had two cookies," I said. If he was listening, he would ask where I got cookies from or why I did not bring one upstairs. Sugar, Grandmere said, was Father's weakness. He could not resist desserts, not for as long as Grandmere had known Father.
But Father merely grunted, and I knew he had not heard what I said to him.
I waited patiently for him to look over his shoulder, to ask me how market was or why I had returned alone, but he did did not acknowledge me further. He continued scribbling whatever was on his mind, occasionally consulting the contents of his folder.
Bessie turned in a circle and curled up on the bed beside me, apparently bored from our exchange. I ran my hand from her neck down to her rump.
"Father," I said again.
"One moment, Alexandre."
How I dreaded those words more than anything else, the simple phrase that had shut me out. One moment to my father became an infinite span of time to me.
I considered asking my father to turn around, but I knew he would grumble that I was impatient, and I did not want him to be cross when he saw Bessie for the first time.
Father, I saw a man today selling puppies.
The last damned thing anyone in this house needs is a puppy. Honestly, Alexandre, why would you ever think to bring home a puppy?
I winced at our imaginary exchange.
Father, I found this little dog in the street. I believe she was trampled by horses!
Where was Aunt Meg?
I asked to leave the market early.
She was foolish enough to allow you to wander wild on the streets? Tell her to see me at once! I will not have you walking like a vagrant on your own, do you understand? And take this dog out with you! Honestly, Alexandre!
My throat tightened. In each scenario my father was not pleased with me. I looked at Bessie, who was sound asleep beside me, and feared Father would grab her by the scruff and toss her out the front door into the street where she truly would be trampled by horses.
He would be livid despite my good intentions, and grumble to himself and ask if I had ears because I did not listen to a word he said.
Sometimes, when I went through his desk in search of a clean sheet of paper, I would find old compositions with cruel words written across the top and in the margins. They were words my father never said to me nor to anyone else in the house, but he wrote them to himself. Worthless. Wretched. Intolerable. Despised. When he thought I was not around or when he forgot I was still in his room reading quietly to myself, he would mutter these words under his breath before he balled up the sheet of paper and threw it away. I hoped my father not only discarded the unfinished music, but the sentiment as well. My heart ached when he said such things to himself, such angry and untrue words.
"I love you," I said quietly as though I could remind my father that I found great worth in him. It was truly all I wanted to say to my father, to let him know that despite the weeks, which had turned into months, of silence between us, I loved him. More than anything. More than anyone.
"What are you muttering about?" he asked without turning.
"Nothing," I said.
"Nothing indeed." He groaned as he looked over his work and bunched his shoulders. Whatever he was writing had frustrated him. "Shouldn't you be studying?"
I didn't argue or protest or say a word. With Bessie sound asleep on the bed, I carefully stood as to not wake her and stared at the back of my father's head for a moment and considered draping myself across his thin shoulders and burying my face against his neck, but it would not be enough.
If I waited long enough, he would most likely forget I was ever in the room. He would continue scribbling down notes, pausing every so often with the music held between his thumb and index finger before he shook his head and started over.
A thousand times he would start his concerto or waltz or symphony. A thousand times he would peruse the newspaper with the photograph of the woman on the front. But he would not spare me a second to turn and acknowledge my words. Worthless, I thought to myself. Intolerable.
I left Bessie on the bed and quietly shut the bedroom door. It was not until I reached the bottom of the stairs that I heard my father say my name, which was followed by him muttering something unintelligible that I knew for certain meant he saw Bessie.