A story of my father
Jan. 31st, 2010 11:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jeanvieveThe year was 1948. In the park in front of a small French Café in Bakersfield, California, there stood a bench. Under most circumstances it would have been a fairly ordinary and uninteresting bench, but on this occasion it stood out, holding a curiosity. As the Café's proprietress unlocked the front door, she noticed a small blue and white wrapped bundle on the end of the bench. The park was deserted, and she took a moment to open the blinds and turn on the lights before investigating the soft wailing. Inside the bundle was a baby, perhaps a couple of months old and wrapped firmly in a warm blanket.
Madame sat with the child for a few moments, searching the deserted park before picking the child up and taking him in. There was a certain wry quirk that grew on her lips that morning as she let the baby suckle upon a half and half soaked napkin, and she proceeded to go about opening the Café for the day. Briefly she darted back out to the bench again as more people started to wander through the park with the morning traffic, eyeing the ground around it. In the soft earth of late April, there were the marks of a small foot in high stilettos facing the bench and hardening slowly as the inevitable California sun baked the ground into the daily concrete. Only this, and nothing more.
Her husband arrived as he usually did, just before the lunchtime rush. He greeted the two young waitresses working on filling salt shakers and napkin dispensers with his usual Gallic charm and a wink that set them laughing as he headed for the back to steal a kiss from his wife before putting on an apron. There by the stove his smile faded into consternation, as Madame stood by the stove slowly stirring the soup de jour, a child cradled in one arm and gently bounced.
We are given to understand, though the memory may be suspect coming from a woman gone long grey with a dusty romantic air, that there were tears that started in Monsieur’s eyes as he begged that they might keep the baby. But Monsieur was also well known to Madame as to have something of a wandering eye and foot, and had been suspected of a tryst with a lovely Hispanic girl that no longer worked nearby. One can also believe that she saw something in the small, wrinkled little nose that she was more accustomed to seeing in a larger original beside her at night. Further there was a certain suspicion in the baby’s location, just outside the café, for such a small look alike. The baby was taken to the police station and left there, and Madame would hear no more about it on the matter from Monsieur.
A nurse named Josephine happened to be working at the hospital and heard the commotion, for at the time Bakersfield had that small town charm of everyone knowing each others' public scandals. Since a baby abandoned on a park bench was a very juicy scandal indeed, many stopped to look at the small thing there in the pediatric unit. Jo looked long and perhaps wistfully at the abandoned child, for she had no children of her own and had lost the hope of them with words from the doctors about her husband Jim. That night she went home and talked about him, this foundling, sharing the story and the wild speculation running about the hospital and visitors there.
Now Jim, though he fancied himself something of a curmudgeon to the public eye and opinion, had a secret softer underbelly. He was the sort of man who would grumble about the kids that cut across his lawn, muttering about how he disliked children in general. And yet every Christmas his garage would be full of small wooden toys that he had made to donate to Hospitals and Orphanages around town. Though fifteen years older than his wife, he nevertheless doted on her in his own understated way, and the expression in her voice as she described the foundling was inspiration of a sort though he said nothing at the telling over dinner.
The next day, Jim didn’t open his business, but instead went over to the hospital to take a look for himself to see the child. He stood outside the glass looking in as young children lay in their cradles attended by nurses, with the unnamed child on the end as a small crowd of curiosity seekers gathered. “Poor little bastard,” one matron sniffed, shaking her head a little.
“That is no bastard, ma’am. That’s my son,” Jim stated in his quiet but firm way, and one thinks perhaps enjoyed a little of the sputtering of the woman in question before she hustled away. That Friday, paperwork done, Jo brought the boy home from the hospital to stay for good.
Madame sat with the child for a few moments, searching the deserted park before picking the child up and taking him in. There was a certain wry quirk that grew on her lips that morning as she let the baby suckle upon a half and half soaked napkin, and she proceeded to go about opening the Café for the day. Briefly she darted back out to the bench again as more people started to wander through the park with the morning traffic, eyeing the ground around it. In the soft earth of late April, there were the marks of a small foot in high stilettos facing the bench and hardening slowly as the inevitable California sun baked the ground into the daily concrete. Only this, and nothing more.
Her husband arrived as he usually did, just before the lunchtime rush. He greeted the two young waitresses working on filling salt shakers and napkin dispensers with his usual Gallic charm and a wink that set them laughing as he headed for the back to steal a kiss from his wife before putting on an apron. There by the stove his smile faded into consternation, as Madame stood by the stove slowly stirring the soup de jour, a child cradled in one arm and gently bounced.
We are given to understand, though the memory may be suspect coming from a woman gone long grey with a dusty romantic air, that there were tears that started in Monsieur’s eyes as he begged that they might keep the baby. But Monsieur was also well known to Madame as to have something of a wandering eye and foot, and had been suspected of a tryst with a lovely Hispanic girl that no longer worked nearby. One can also believe that she saw something in the small, wrinkled little nose that she was more accustomed to seeing in a larger original beside her at night. Further there was a certain suspicion in the baby’s location, just outside the café, for such a small look alike. The baby was taken to the police station and left there, and Madame would hear no more about it on the matter from Monsieur.
A nurse named Josephine happened to be working at the hospital and heard the commotion, for at the time Bakersfield had that small town charm of everyone knowing each others' public scandals. Since a baby abandoned on a park bench was a very juicy scandal indeed, many stopped to look at the small thing there in the pediatric unit. Jo looked long and perhaps wistfully at the abandoned child, for she had no children of her own and had lost the hope of them with words from the doctors about her husband Jim. That night she went home and talked about him, this foundling, sharing the story and the wild speculation running about the hospital and visitors there.
Now Jim, though he fancied himself something of a curmudgeon to the public eye and opinion, had a secret softer underbelly. He was the sort of man who would grumble about the kids that cut across his lawn, muttering about how he disliked children in general. And yet every Christmas his garage would be full of small wooden toys that he had made to donate to Hospitals and Orphanages around town. Though fifteen years older than his wife, he nevertheless doted on her in his own understated way, and the expression in her voice as she described the foundling was inspiration of a sort though he said nothing at the telling over dinner.
The next day, Jim didn’t open his business, but instead went over to the hospital to take a look for himself to see the child. He stood outside the glass looking in as young children lay in their cradles attended by nurses, with the unnamed child on the end as a small crowd of curiosity seekers gathered. “Poor little bastard,” one matron sniffed, shaking her head a little.
“That is no bastard, ma’am. That’s my son,” Jim stated in his quiet but firm way, and one thinks perhaps enjoyed a little of the sputtering of the woman in question before she hustled away. That Friday, paperwork done, Jo brought the boy home from the hospital to stay for good.
