Chapter 8: Tribulations Part 5 - A.J.T. Continued

Vedette had never consumed a drop of alcohol in her life..."Allen grinned and spread out on the blanket with his arms behind his head, peering into the sky......."And how much do you charge for this happiness". Vedette said incredulously..... "That dep

My mother thrived in California, blossoming both mentally and physically in her new environment. She experienced a renewed freedom - having left behind the volatile situatiom in France - and despite her jaded personality, she grew even more beautiful in appearance. Vedette seized every opportunity to learn English and study subjects of interest like literature, poetry and philosophy. The only interest she wasn't involved in her first four years in America was boys. Whether it was because of the irreversible scars the assault had burned into her soul, or because she was simply too busy to entertain the idea, the thought of a relationship or even marriage did not occur to her despite her need for citizenship...not until she met Allen Tolliver. It would come as no surpise that the night she met my father was among the fondest memories recorded in her journals.

The sun was just descending over the horizon, during the last remnants of dusk on the night of September 17, 1922. In the evenings, my mother frequented evening walks along the countryside. She picked apples and peaches in the mornings. In the afternoons, she brushed up on her English and studied whatever peaked her interest that day. Besides literature poetry and philosophy, she had acquired an avid curiosity for the naturalism of the Transcendentalists; specifically Henry David Thoreau. And since the nearest homestead was five miles away, there was little else to interact with except nature. There was an open road that bordered the south side of her counsin's orchards where she could be found late into the evenings, and sometimes early into the following morning, strolling along with a copy of "Walden" under her arm.

Her primary tutor in English was her cousin's cook Dalila, a second generation Italian-American. One can imagine the odd accent Vedette developed as a result. It was an eccentric variation of English, a little Italian, French, with a country drawl she picked up from the Orchard workers; all thrown together and concocted into an absurd, however be it unique, dialect. I found it both odd and endearing, listening to her speak about her life in California, but when she spoke to me in French, I was captivated by how beautiful and commanding her voice was. It was scary sometimes, seeing the transformation in my mother when she sidetracked on some rant in her native tongue.

Mother confessed in one of her later entries that it was one of the qualities my father loved most about her, but it was her beautiy among all others that captivated him the most. She recalled on the night of September 17, as she walked along the country road just beyond the Orchards, attempting to mimic a mockingbird, my father breezed by her in a boosted Model T; kicking up a trail of dust as he passed. She paused to wipe the dirty grit from her eyes and mouth with the hem of her skirt, cursing his carelessness through her teeth. Allen came to a halt half a mile down the road, deliberating whether he should stop for assitance. Eventually, he turned the Model T around and pulled over beside her.

"Are you lost?" he asked in jest.

It was difficult for her to see him at first, still dazed by the cloud of dust that was just beginning to dissapate. Neglecting to answer, my mother broke down suddenly and fell to her knees sobbing. The pitiful sight must have struck accord with my father's compassionate nature, because he crept slowly out of the car to avoid startling her and knelt beside Vedette. It was never an argument that my father was a compassionate man, but he was also very selfish. When faced with a situation that required him to decide between himself and others, his own personal interests almost always took precedence. Yet somehow, seeing my mother in this predicatment, of which he was the cause, struck some pity in the bottom of his heart and actually triggered a sense of guilt. Perhaps he stopped simply because she was a young woman. If it had been an older gentleman or a field worker, he probably would have laughed and drove off into the horizon, not giving it a second thought, except as fuel to entertain his incorrigible friends.

As it was, she was a young woman...the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. He confided to my mother after they married that it was the most fortunate Cupid that had brought them together that night and pierced his heart with affection's arrow. My mother did not feel the same way, not at first.

The moment my father knelt beside her, she punched him in the mouth - "Walden" grasped firmly in hand, leaving a trickle of blood that dripped from his bottom lip and a cracked tooth. Allen was startled by the sudden assault, more for the fact that he had just been struck by a girl than the pain she caused. What ensued next was a string of uncomprehensible curses flung at him in French, of which he had no understanding, but made him smile. My mother's words relayed the vileness she felt for him at that moment, but all he heard was, "I love you."

He retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to my mother to wipe her muddy tears away, rather than clean the blood from his face. She was taken aback by the gesture and stopped crying, not knowing what she should think of this strange American who had been so inconsiderate only moments ago.

"I am sorry," Allen informed her slowly and loudly, as if he were speaking to some dimwitted deaf girl. "Not that it means much. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

My mother apparently found it difficult to describe how she felt the moment she met my father Allen, citing that "it was like polar opposites flooded my soul when my eyes met his, both frighetening and comforting at the same time. It is hard to explain."

Allen looked into my mother's eyes and she went pale with fright. His eyes were bloodshot and there was something in his gaze that was foreboding. And yet, she found his smile irresistable, and blushed suddenly, the color returning to her cheeks. Vedete found him incredibly handsome, as long as she didn't look him directly in the eyes, and yet she hated him, "perhaps unjustly" she wrote. "It was dark. Maybe he didn't see me on the road. The whole ordeal was very confusing. Here he was, bleeding in front of me...blood that I shed, and he didn't even yell at me. He just knelt there smiling dumbly like some school boy who didn't know any better. I didn't know whether I should punch him again or kiss him."

"Do you understand me?" my father asked again, as he stood slowly to his feet and extended his hand to help her up. My mother nodded and took his hand reluctantly. She was surprised at how gentle he was, and tall, standing a full six inches above her head, the top of which was only two inches shy of six feet on her own. Not to mention, he was ten years her senior. Which really wasn't that old. She was only twenty one.

"Thank you," my mother said, refusing to look him in the eyes.

"You speak English then," my father exclaimed. "Splendid." An awkward silence fell between them as my mother shook the dust loose from her dark curls. "I am sorry, you know. It was dark. I didn't see you there. I'm grateful nothing serious happened to you." My mother turned away from him and began to walk back towards the orchards without uttering a word; my father catching at her heels like a puppy. "Do you have somewhere to be?" he asked, "I can drive you there, if you like. Again, I'm really sorry."

My mother paused in the middle of the road and turned to glance at him with an awkward simper. She knew better than to trust this man, but then again, she had lived the last eight years of her life with boring caution, trusting no one. She didn't want to grow old without ever experiencing life. What she wanted, more than anything, was to live wildly with no regrets. She sensed something dangerous in Allen's eyes, and perhaps his smile was deceiving, but as she glared at him, not ten feet from her, she was no longer afraid of him. She felt as if he were an old friend returning after a long separation. It was the first time my mother had exhibited such an uninhibited nature. So, when she spoke to Allen, it was hardly a surprise that she accepted his offer.

"I've never been in one of those," she motioned to the Model T, which although covered in dust, still had a new look to it; being only a year old. "Where are you going?"

"I'm just out for a little fun, that's all" Allen explained with a deviant assertion. "Would you like to join me?"

My mother tapped her foot and gazed at the light in the distance where her mother was expecting her back at the homestead. Caroline would be furious, but that didn't seem to bother Vedette at the moment. If she was ever going to be spontaneous in her life, this was the time. Then, as quick as lightning, Vedette suddenly realized how much fun she had been denied during her life, and without saying another word she bolted straight for the Ford and hopped in.

The Model T groaned as Allen thrust the gears into place, and they were off, kicking up another trail of dust behind them. My mother jostled recklessly within the car. The sound of bottles rattled from the back seat. It was uncomfortable, but she liked it. In fact, she had never felt so free in all her life.

"You must be rich," she acknowledged my father. "Where did you get a car like this?"

"I borrowed it..." he hesitated, but only for a moment. He wasn't exactly ready to be forthcoming about the boosted car. "I borrowed it from a friend."

"And who is this friend of yours?"

"You certainly are a curious cat," Allen frowned. "It's impolite to ask so many questions, you know." My mother gazed at him sternly and demanded an apology, not audibly, but expressed it quite clearly. "I'm sorry, it seems I'm the one that's being impolite," he apologized. "Where did you want me to take you?"

"Anywhere but here," she suggested, "but don't get the wrong idea. I just need to get away for a little while, and then you're going to bring me right back."

"Whatever you say, Mon Cherie." Allen smiled with an innocent pride, having attempted to impress upon my mother's french heritage, and floored the Model T as fast as it would go.

"Don't ever call me that!" my mother snapped, and Allen nearly swerved into a ditch at the sudden outburst. She brushed her hair aside and glanced out the window. Several minutes passed as Allen drove on with wounded pride. They travelled several miles down the road before my mother spoke to him again. "I"m sorry, I shouldn't have yelled at you," she announced. "Just don't call me that."

"Yes, ma'am," he mumbled solemnly.

"You can call me, Vedette, if you like...just not Cherie, or ma'am, that's almost as bad. I'm not an old woman, if you haven't noticed."

"Indeed, you're not," he agreed. "In fact, if I were to say what you were, I'd swear you were an angel." My mother smiled and loosened up a bit, as Allen eyed the book clutched in her hands. "You look like a bookworm," he advised.

"Maybe, is there a problem with that?" my mother responded testily.

"Not at all, I guess I'm kind of one too. My father was never home when I was young, so I spent a lot of my time at the library because it was free and it kept me out of trouble...most of the time," he added the last part with a hint of mischievousness. "What are you reading?"

"Walden," my mother confessed. "I'm a bit of a naturalist I guess." Suddenly she felt foolish and wished she hadn't said those last words; she thought she sounded too pretentious.

"I see." Allen smiled innocently, and not all all offended. "I like Mark Twain myself. I've never read "Walden". I'll have to grab a copy one of these days."

My mother nodded her head sullenly, still feeling a bit awkward. They drove for another ten or fifteen minutes in silence, before Allen pulled the car over into the middle of a wheat field and cut the engine. He got out, walked around the car and opened my mother's door. Vedette laughed as he bowed like a valet and offered his hand. She gladly accepted it and followed him around to the front of the car. "Wait here," he whispered and walked several paces in front of her. He then proceeded to stomp the wheat down in a giant square, about eight feet on each side and went to the car to retrieve a blanket. "Have a seat."

Vedette folded her skirt over her knees and settled indian style in the middle of the blanket. "Not very lady like, Frenchie," Allen observed with a smirk, as he returned to the car to fetch one of the bottles from the back seat. Vedette didn't seem to find the comment offensive. Allen returned shortly and plopped down awkwardly into a similar position beside her and uncorked the bottle; eyeing her the whole time. "You're shivering, Vedette, are you cold?" he asked, pulling off his jacket.

"No, it's not cold. I don't know what's wrong with me," she confessed quietly, taking his jacket out of politeness. "It's been so long since I was alone with a boy."

My father leaned over and whispered in her ear, "you're frightened." He smiled real big and moved a little further away. "That's okay, I understand." Allen took a swig from the bottle and passed it to Vedette. "Here, this'll warm you up a bit."

"What is it?"

"Happiness," said Allen.

"Where did you get it?"

"I deliver it...for a friend."

"The same friend that gave you the car?" Vedette asked.

"Yes, exactly."

"And you deliver happiness."

"Exactly, Bravo dear Vedette, my little Chickadee. You've hit it right on the nose, Frenchie." A trace of liquid ran down his chin and he used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the liquid and dried blood away. His lip stung terribly whenever the contents of the bottle touched his mouth, reminding him of Vedette's sucker punch. "Or right in the mouth, if you like," he added.

Allen snickered and Vedette noticed a small trace of blood around his gums. She felt sorry for him. "I'm sorry I hit you," she pronounced, and snatched the bottle out of his hand. Vedette had never consumed a drop of alcohol in her life and wasn't able to stomach the stoppered happiness. As soon as she swallowed, it came right back up, mixed with acid from her stomach and left a putrid taste in her mouth. She was incredibly embarrassed for being sick in front of him and attempted to recover her delicate composure, but Allen could care less.

"This is horrid. What is it, really?" asked Vedette.

"I told you, happiness." Allen grinned and spread out on the blanket with his arms behind his head, peering into the sky.

"And how much do you charge for this happiness?"

"That depends..."

"On what," Vedette said incredulously.

"On how happy you want to be."

Vedette said nothing more about the subject. She didn't approve of Allen's entrepreneureal business, but who was she to judge. They were living during hard times, and a job was a job, however you looked at it. And the more she thought about it, the more my mother really didn't care whether he was a criminal or not; as long as he wasn't a violent one. As she lay beside him, the only thing that mattered was that he was there - someone she could relate to, another human being that was just as lost in the world as she was - someone who breathed the same air she did, as silence fell like shooting stars around them. They both stargazed for what felt like an eternity, then suddenly they both laughed, a grand gut shaking laugh: the kind that shakes out all the sadness from your body until all that's left is the most potent dregs of joy in the bottom of your soul. Slowly, Vedette lay down beside him and moved closer until their shoulders brushed together lightly, and she very gently took hold of his hand so that their fingers intertwined.

"You're very sweet, thank you," she whispered, but her voice cracked slightly through the lump in her throat. "And I don't care that you do sell happiness. I wish you the best of luck."

"Why thank you, Frenchie." Allen finished off the last of the bottle and tossed it into the wheat field.

My mother was not offended when he called her Frenchie. Coming from him it sounded endearing, and even though she didn't fully understand what was happening to her at that moment, she understood the warmth she felt inside because of him. "Just don't ever get me involved with that mess," she informed him seriously, but with a gentle delivery.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Vedette."

Allen paused as the liquid happiness coursed through his veins and the world began to spin. All he could do was stare at her face, desperately trying to focus, as Vedette continued to gaze into the sky above. The three quarter moon illuminated the world around them in a white glow. He was drunk with happiness, both literally and figuratively, as his heart beat with her every breath; and then he noticed a peculiar sparkle in the corner of her eye.

"You're crying, Vedette. He hurt you didn't he?"

She frowned suddenly. Her eyebrows hooked into a menancing expression, but her bark was worse than her bite. Allen sensed this. "What are you talking about?" she asked.

"The last boy you were with, he hurt you didn't he?"

Vedette rolled her eyes and gripped his hand tightly until her nails began to dig into his palm. "You might say that."

"Well I'm sorry for that," Allen tried to express as genuinely as he could, flenching through the pain as her nails punctured his skin. "There's nothing I can do to change that, but I can be your friend if you'll let me, Vedette."

"A friend?" Vedette let go of his hand suddenly and gazed deeply into his eyes. A small trace of blood and skin was buried beneath her nails. "What do you mean be your friend?" She expected the worse from this man, and even as she lay beside him, expected nothing less than that he wanted to date her, to be her boyfriend. Isn't that what boys were supposed to want? So, what was all this talk about being friends? She wasn't offended by his remark, just confused.

Allen laughed, another lost expectation, and hopped to his feet. "Come, I'll take you home, Frenchie."

"What time is it?" she asked, grasping his hand more carefully than before. The cuts she left in his hand were bleeding significantly because of the alcohol, but Allen never seemed to notice; most likely for the same reason.

"I'm not sure exactly," he answered. "I suppose it's past midnight." He glanced at her, dumbstruck as she tore a strip of cloth from her skirt and tied it snuggly around his hand to stop the flow of blood. His hand throbbed, but it was the furthest thing from his mind.

"Past midnight," Vedette sighed deeply and smiled with a sense of relief, as if an enormous weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "That's good."

Caroline was livid when my mother returned, even more so when she discovered Vedette had been so careless as to run off with a strange man she had never met. The crickets, and every other nocturnal creature in the orchards for that matter, fell silent as her shouting reached Allen's ears as he sped down the driveway and disappeared into the night. He pitied Vedette, but even more he felt he would fall in love with her.