Vanished

This time Charles stared, and then suddenly he was amused. It was most likely not true, but it was the perfect way to make them give up the idea of an annulment. But as soon as she said the words, all hell broke loose, her mother cried louder still, and her father sat down and began to gasp, insisting he was having chest pains. Her mother said Marielle was killing him, and when the old man was ushered from the room, with his good wife's help, Charles suggested that they go back to the rue du Bac, and discuss the matter with his in-laws later. He and Marielle left shortly afterward, and as they walked a few blocks in the warm air, Charles looked vastly amused as he pulled her close to him and kissed her.

“That was brilliant. I should have thought of it myself.”

“It wasn't brilliant.” She looked amused too. “It's true.” She looked very pleased with herself, the little girl she had been only moments before was now going to be a mother. He looked stunned.

“Are you serious?”

She nodded her head and looked up at him.

“When did that happen?” He looked startled more than worried.

“I'm not sure … Rome? …maybe Venice …I wasn't entirely sure until last week.”

“Well, you sneaky little thing …” But as he held her close to him, he looked pleased. “And when is the Delauney heir due?”

“June, I think. Something like that.”

He had never given much thought to being a father. It should have frightened him, given the life he'd led of such great freedom, but the truth was he was thrilled. He hailed a cab for her, and they rode home toward the rue du Bac, kissing in the backseat like two children, instead of two prospective parents.

Her own parents were just as distraught the next day, but after two weeks of arguments, they finally relented. Marielle's mother had taken her to an American doctor on the Champs-Elysées, and there was no doubt about it, she was pregnant. The idea of an annulment was out of the question. And their daughter was certainly happy enough. And like it or not, they knew they had to live with the reality of Charles Delauney. He promised them, before they finally left, to get a better apartment, a maid, a nurse for the child, a car. He was going to become a “respectable man,” her father extracted from him. But respectable or not, the obvious fact was that the two were deliriously happy.

Marielle's parents left shortly after that on the France, and after all the excitement and fuss and strain and exhaustion of dealing with them, she and Charles agreed that they were not going to New York for Christmas, or maybe ever. They were happy in their garret on the Left Bank, with their life together, his friends, even his writing had never been better. In Paris, in 1926, for one brief shining moment, life had been perfect.

As Charles pulled open the enormously heavy cathedral doors, even his bones felt chilled, and the leg throbbed more than usual. It had been just as bitter a winter in Europe. It had been so long since he'd been in New York, so long since he'd been in a church, as he walked inside and looked up at the enormous vaulted ceiling. In some ways, he was sorry he had come. It was depressing to see his father so ill, and so unaware of his surroundings and those around him. For an instant, he had seemed to recognize Charles, and then the moment passed, the eyes were blank and then closed as his father dozed heavily on his pillows. It made Charles feel lonely whenever he watched him. It was as though the older Delauney was already gone. He might as well have been. And for Charles, there was no one left now. They were all gone …even the friends he had fought with in Spain. There were almost too many to pray for.