Jenny's Time

JENNY’S TIME

Sue Traylor Sturgeon

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© 2011 by Sue Traylor Sturgeon. All rights reserved.

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Published by AuthorHouse 03/16/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4634-4764-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-4763-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011914010

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CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

With appreciation for the love

of these women in my life—

Mother, Kathy, Becky, BJ,

and Chère Margaret

ONE

Jenny sat looking out the window of the study, as her mother had, watching the goldfinches at their feeders in the oak tree. Every bright yellow feather of their sleek little breasts shown like a tiny mirror reflecting the sunlight. It was a golden day. A promising day.

Suddenly, without warning, the outlines of the oak’s dark green leaves and the silhouettes of the twittering birds, began to swim in a pool of tears welling up unbidden in Jenny’s eyes. All at once she put her head down on her arms on the maple desk before her and began to sob. She didn’t want to be heard by the others, but she couldn’t keep the gasps from racking her body, just as they had when she was a child. Only then, her mother had been there to comfort her.

I’m trying not to do this, Mom, Jenny whispered from anguish deep within, and wept all the more because she knew her mother wouldn’t want her to be unhappy, but couldn’t be there to help her. Jenny couldn’t stop crying…

For the first time since her mother’s death a month ago, the tightly-wound string on her emotions was beginning to unravel. On that first painful visit to the funeral home, both her dad and her brother Michael had turned to Jenny to make the necessary decisions concerning the ceremony, and she had taken charge without hesitation. After all, she was used to having to handle projects efficiently when they were given her by the French faculty in the office she managed at the university. Working full-time had made her take a couple of years longer than usual to earn her degrees, but it had also forced her to learn to concentrate on the job at hand and to spend her energy wisely.

She glanced up through glassy tears at her M.A. diploma in French sitting on the bookshelf where her mother had proudly placed it on display. At least, she got to see me receive that! thought Jenny, sadly shaking her head.

Taking charge of making arrangements and organizing details of her mother’s affairs, although a somber and sobering task, had seemed almost like Jenny’s normal pace of activity for those few days after her mom’s death. She had kept busy, and her mind had been occupied most of the time. But whenever she stopped long enough to dwell on the reality of what had happened, the truth overtook her: things were not normal and never would be again. She had been split in half, and half of her was gone.

Her tears broke forth anew.

In the onslaught of relatives and friends who had visited their house, Jenny had overheard whispers that told her the family was worried about her, wondering how she could appear so controlled, and when her calm exterior would crack. Jenny and her mother had been so close that those who knew them well thought their tight cord, when it broke, might spring back and bring Jenny to her knees.

Has that time finally come? Jenny wondered to herself. Am I really going to fall apart now? No! she exclaimed. I’m not going to break. I need all my senses to be in order for the challenge to come.

Jenny lifted her head, squared her shoulders, and once again gazed out the window. The twined ivy vines trailed up the sides of the storage shed in the yard, and a scattering of hungry Monarch butterflies headed north paused gently for feeding breaks on the soft pink blossoms of the mimosa tree beside the shed. A renewed flood of salty tears flowed across Jenny’s hot cheeks and into the corners of her mouth. Her mom had always loved the butterflies.

Bitty…

Jenny stiffened at the sound of her father’s voice. She wiped her eyes with a handful of tissues pulled from a box on the desk and swallowed deeply, trying to soothe the large lump of tears that had formed in her throat. But she wasn’t ready to answer.

Bitty, are you okay? Can I come in? . . . Better still, come on out of the study and sit down with me for a while. We need to talk, Bitty.

Bitty! Jenny had hated being called Bitty’ all her life. It made no sense. She had been told that her dad and most of the family, excepting her mom, had latched onto that name from the day she was born. Michael had called her a little-bitty-baby" when he first saw her in the hospital, and it had stuck. She felt sure they would let her outgrow it by the time she finished graduate school, but she came to realize that some people would never give it up, not even for all her pleading. Now, at age twenty-five, it was no longer just an irritating nickname. It sounded absurd!

Of course, to be truthful, she hadn’t been too fond of Jenny either. There were five Jennifers in her high school graduating class. She had called them, The Generation of Jennifers, because it seemed that nearly every hand shot up when a teacher called out the name. But, because they lived in the south—or the southwest or the southern midwest—Jenny was never quite sure where to place Dallas geographically—all the Jennifers in her class had middle names that distinguished them: Leigh, Anne, Marie, Joanne, and Sue. Her mother had chosen the name Jennifer Sue in honor of two favorite aunts, and since Jenny felt the nickname Jenny was immeasurably better than Bitty, she had kept it. Bitty still caused her to bristle.

Bitty, answer me! I want to talk with you. Now!

Okay, Dad, she said at last. Give me just a minute.

Jenny covered the dampness of her eyes momentarily with the tips of her fingers, then pressed hard at her temples, trying to fend off an approaching headache. She gave herself one more swipe with a handy tissue and rose to cross the room to face the expected confrontation she could no longer avoid.

Come here, Bitty, said her dad as she opened the study door. He reached out and pulled her tight against his shoulder, almost cutting off her breath. This is a tough time for all of us, Bitty. And it’s okay to cry. I’ve even…

Looking up, Jenny searched for the glisten of tears in her dad’s eyes. They seemed saddened, but were quite dry. Dad is strong and healthy. He will be able to adjust, Jenny felt sure. She would not let herself be pressured back into the bonds of his control. She had made up her mind.

Pulling away from her father’s grasp, Jenny led him to the big beige recliner where he usually sat in the den while watching television. She sat down in the old green wicker rocker opposite, where her mother had sat. Jenny took a deep breath and said, Dad…

Bitty, his voice broke in over hers. Before your brother and Aunt Maggie come back in here, I want us to have a minute together. Listen, I’m well aware of how close you and your mother were—sort of like best friends instead of mother and daughter…

Jenny was surprised by her father’s apparent concern. You know, Dad, it’s strange, she said with a sniffle, but there are moments when I feel like Mom’s still here with me. I almost think I can hear her voice…

Dabbing at the corners of her eyes with the moist tissue she still carried, Jenny glanced up at her father. He was nodding in agreement. Perhaps the task confronting her would not be so formidable as she had feared.

I’m going to miss your mother, too, Bitty. I was just wondering, he went on, if you wouldn’t want to move back home now that she’s gone. This is such a big house—’way too big for me alone. You’d have a nice kitchen here—Mother taught you to be a good cook, I know—and…

Dad, that’s exactly what I want to talk to you about…

Really? he asked excitedly. I was afraid you might not want to move back. You can have Michael’s old room if you want it—it’s bigger than yours—and we could be a family again.

No, Dad, Jenny said abruptly. You misunderstand. As soon as I can get away from the office without leaving them in a bind, I am planning to move… but not back here.

Her father’s expression instantly darkened as if she had struck him a harsh blow.

Dad, don’t be upset. I’ve put a lot of thought into this, and I’ve made up my mind. I am going to Paris. Jenny watched as her dad’s jaw tightened and his eyes became remote—the look she had always dreaded. The door that moments ago had seemed half-open, had now slammed shut.

You always did have wild, hare-brained ideas! he finally muttered.

Mom called those wild ideas ‘spirit’! Jenny thought to herself.

She took a deep breath once more and braced herself for the argument. Trying hard not to lose her temper, she said, Dad, I’ve really worked to save my money. You know I haven’t gone out of town for even a weekend during the whole time I was studying for my Master’s. And I’m very careful about the cost of clothes and things. I always watch for sales and bargains, and I shop all the time at discount houses.

I know, I know, her dad said with obvious growing irritation.

Well, the way I figure it, between my own money and the bit of special savings Mom gave me before she died—which she said for me to use any way I wanted to—I could live for a few months in Paris on my own. It won’t be the high life of a jet-setter, of course, but that’s okay. I just want to spend some time there and be a part of the city. It’s absurd to have an M.A. in French and never to have gone to France! And I already have my passport. I’m sure you remember three years ago when you said I was foolish to waste my time and money on such a thing. But I got it any way, just so I’d have it in case I ever got the chance to make this trip.

Another foolish scheme! Young lady, you’re always ready to leap into something without thinking it through first. Besides, what about that boyfriend of yours—Brian? You’re in pretty deep with him, aren’t you? Surely he won’t agree to let you walk out and leave home at a time like this.

Jenny’s eyes stung with a new infusion of tears—angry tears!

Won’t agree! Dad, Brian doesn’t have anything to say about what I do!

Brian! They had been going together since high school. Brian was the boy-turned-man she had thought she’d always love, the one who on a night in June between high school and college had brought her to womanhood in the back of his Chevy while they parked near Flag Pole Hill.

But as the months and years passed, the more Jenny’s interests widened, the more possessive Brian had become. Each time she tried to break off with him, he asked for forgiveness and convinced her to return, but Jenny knew he was not good for her. Somehow, whenever he said he loved her, she felt insecure and restricted, instead of full of life and joy. She didn’t know what lay ahead, but she knew she needed to get away from Brian, and soon.

I’ve already talked with Brian, Dad, she said, compelling her voice to grow calmer, and you’re right. He’s terribly upset about my plan.

Her dad nodded his head jerkily, as if saying, I told you so!

But, Dad, she went on, ignoring his reaction, Brian and I are not committed to each other in any way, and I’ve explained to him that I feel I must make this journey.

"This journey!" her father repeated in undisguised disgust. He turned instantly toward the blank television screen, staring hard at it, as if Jenny’s ridiculous suggestion would go away if he ignored her.

I don’t want to hurt you, Dad… Jenny said, near tears again.

It’s not me that I’m thinking about, said her father coldly. You just shouldn’t go off to a dirty, dangerous place like Paris all by yourself. You’ll be at risk the whole time!

No, you’re not thinking about yourself at all! parroted Jenny inwardly, but she answered aloud, At risk! Dad, think about it: I’m at risk right here in Dallas! People are at risk wherever they are nowadays! They have to face guns and tornadoes and terrorists and drunk drivers and who-knows-what-else everywhere in the world. You can’t just hide away from life!

But you always tempt trouble, Jennifer! he growled.

It was the first time Jenny ever remembered her dad calling her by her real name instead of Bitty. And he’s patronizing me with it! Why can’t he accept me as an adult with some sense like he does Michael! Jenny knew that if her brother had wanted to move anywhere in the world, their dad would have seriously discussed the various options with him, adult-to-adult. Whatever Michael had decided to do would have been accepted and encouraged. Jenny had never known such encouragement from their dad.

With intense clarity, she heard the echo of her mother’s words. Follow your heart, Jenny, but listen to your mind, too. Then make your own decisions and follow them through.

At the sound of voices approaching from the kitchen, Jenny rose from the chair and said, Dad, I’m not moving to Paris forever, but I’ve looked carefully into all aspects of spending a little time there. I plan to follow through on this. I’m sorry to disappoint you…

Jenny’s words trailed off as Michael and their Aunt Maggie came through the kitchen doorway into the den, talking in low tones.

 . . . Maybe you can get Michael to move back home, Jenny added in a whisper, knowing full well that her dad would never ask Michael to come home and cook for him, nor would Michael accept, if asked. But Jenny would not give in to her father’s wishes, as she felt her mother often had.

She had made her decision. She was going to Paris!

TWO

The plane was crowded. Each coach seat was filled. Jenny couldn’t see beyond the curtain that the flight attendants kept carefully drawn to maintain the sanctity of the exclusive first class section.

Who cares? Jenny sang silently to herself. On this trip, it’s all first class to me!

The leading edge of the wing cut easily through the misty white clouds enfolding the plane. Jenny looked past the man sitting beside her next to the window. She glimpsed the stirring of the clouds and felt the plane’s occasional gentle sway, up and down. She was not afraid, but odd moments of excitement burst within. Seven hours from Dallas to the City of Lights! the travel brochure had read. Seven hours to another world! she thought. To another era even!

She knew the ocean was rolling there thirty-five thousand feet beneath the clouds. Never having flown over the water before, Jenny hadn’t known what to expect. Aunt Maggie had said that one time she flew over Lake Michigan, and she was scared to death the plane would fall into the lake. Not so Jenny. Jenny was loving the flight. She had even declined to watch the movie on the plane so that she wouldn’t miss one moment of the experience.

She glanced around at the passengers nearby. They could have been representatives at an international conference. She heard British accents from the two gray-haired ladies directly in front of her. They were laughing and seemed to be having a great time.

Across the aisle was a young couple. They look younger than I am! Jenny exclaimed inwardly. And they are traveling half-way around the world with a baby! That takes real courage! The child was asleep in a sling strung around the father’s neck. The dad was softly singing to the baby in German. It was a popular rock tune usually heard with the beat of loud drums amplified to bounce off the walls, but the father had turned it into a lullaby. The mother, had earphone wires draped around her head, but had fallen asleep with a pale blue baby’s blanket folded up beneath her head.

The woman immediately to Jenny’s right looked a few years older than Jenny. Maybe thirty, she guessed. She had long, straight blonde hair, wore round wire-framed glasses, and was totally immersed in a book she had propped up on a backpack resting on the tray table in front of her. Jenny glanced at the title and read, Aliénor: reine, femme, troubadour. Incroyable! Jenny exclaimed inwardly in French, and repeated in English, Incredible! Someone has stolen my thesis title! She started to voice her complaint aloud to the reader, but stopped abruptly. The woman was totally absorbed in the book.

Jenny understood how someone could easily get lost in reading about that era, as she herself had done time and again while researching her thesis on French language and literature in the Middle Ages. She had soon learned that Eleanor, or Aliénor, as the name was often written in French, was not only a brilliant, beautiful woman or femme. She was also the Princess of Aquitaine who became queen or reine when she married King Louis VII in twelfth-century France. And, better still, she was also, as both the book’s title and Jenny’s thesis said, a troubadour, like her grandfather William, the very first troubadour. Jenny could never describe to anyone the fun she had had making her own translations of some of their songs, as difficult a job as that had been.

Love and joy, pain and sorrow, honor and country! Jenny repeated rhythmically to herself, recalling the many deep emotions that lived in the songs. It had been very hard to say goodbye to Eleanor when that work was done!

But once the thesis had finally been approved, Jenny had had to turn her mind to things in the office and, particularly in the last few months, to the stirring emotions of activities at home. Now, here in the clouds, Eleanor had turned up again, and Jenny felt as if she had met an old friend.

I will ask the woman about her book! Jenny decided, hoping, if nothing else, to be able to bring all her classroom French training into play at last. She turned slightly in her seat and said, "Pardon, Mademoiselle . . ."

At that instant, she was surprised to hear the same words from the man sitting to her left by the window, "Pardon, Mademoiselle, you are from Texas, n’est-ce pas?" he asked.

Oui. She twisted back to face the smiling man to her left. Oui, je viens de Dallas, Texas, she said, mais comment savez-vous ça?

Her first words spoken in French to a French stranger! Why did this little accomplishment seem so pleasing?

Ah! Vous parlez français? And his voice, which had sounded so charming with the French touch on the short English phrase he had used, was now even more pleasing in what was obviously his native tongue. As he continued speaking in French, Jenny found herself translating mentally into English very quickly. I spent one month in your Texas, he said, the smooth French tones linking his words together like a swiftly flowing stream. Jenny was pleased she could easily understand him.

She had heard horror stories of French people acting as if they didn’t grasp a word when foreigners tried to speak their language. She was delighted that her response had been so readily accepted. Maybe, after a while in Paris, she would reach the point where her internal translation would no longer be necessary, but for now…

 . . . and you are very much like the other beautiful women I saw in Dallas. With his obvious attempt at flirtation, Jenny felt a flush rising unbidden to her face. She had clearly understood what he was saying, but she didn’t want him to see her react like a schoolgirl. The stereotypical image of the flirtatious Frenchman was well-known, but having escaped the entanglement with Brian, she had no plans to give encouragement to anyone new so soon.

Besides, he spoke again while she was still gathering her thoughts, I must tell the truth. I admit that I heard you talking with someone at a newsstand at the airport in Dallas—your brother, perhaps? I promise I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but I did hear you say something about him and your father. Then, your whole family is in Dallas, correct? he asked. "By the way, my name is Guillaume—or William as you say in Texas."

Yes, my father and brother live in Dallas, too, she replied, continuing to try to use her skills in French to match the stranger’s. At the same time she recalled with some embarrassment the parting at D/FW. Not exactly a time of bon voyage wishes. As she had walked toward the departure gate, Brian, her dad, and Michael had stood together in a row, a trio of mute statues with identical forbidding looks on their long faces.

What a send-off! They’ll never understand! flashed bitterly for a moment in Jenny’s mind. Then she tossed those thoughts behind her and pulled herself firmly back to the present.

Were you vacationing in Texas? Jenny asked. And by the way, my name is Jennifer, she added. They call me, Jenny.

Jennifer! My baby sister’s name is Geneviève! Very similar, no? asked Guillaume with a broad smile.

"You have a baby sister?" asked Jenny, surprised at the difference in ages there must be between the siblings.

Oh, la, la! I call Geneviève my baby sister. Actually, she is 16 years old. She is the youngest in our family.

But she’s growing up, said Jenny firmly. "She’s not a baby." For some reason she felt it necessary to defend Guillaume’s younger sister, since she wasn’t there to speak for herself.

No, indeed, you are right, agreed Guillaume. I shouldn’t call her ‘baby.’ She is, in fact, quite a young lady. We live at Cluny, near Mâcon, he added. Have you ever been to Cluny?

No, although I’ve heard of it, said Jenny, and I’ve read about the medieval Cluny Museum in Paris with its magnificent tapestries…

At the risk of sounding like a travel brochure, I shall give you a brief introduction to my home village. The place you call the Cluny Museum was a sort of hostel set up in the Middle Ages for the Cluniac monks to stay in when they came to Paris. The town of Cluny had the largest abbey in the world at that time.

I’d love to see it, interjected Jenny, becoming steadily more comfortable with conversing in French.

Well, the only trouble with that idea is that the abbey was almost totally destroyed.

By the Revolution?

Partially during the Revolution, but mostly afterwards. People wanted to use the stones to build new buildings, so they just tore down the rest of the church. It’s funny when you think about it, but almost all of the abbey at Cluny is gone. There are only a couple of the original towers and some ruins left.

"Why is that funny?’ asked Jenny.

Because the Cluny building in Paris is still going strong as a popular museum, even after the abbey that founded it has passed away. I guess you might say time flows easily between the past and the future in France. In one day you can visit everything from the marble ruins of Lutèce, the earliest Roman beginnings of Paris, right beneath the Cluny Museum, to the very modern glass pyramid of Mr. Pei at the entrance to the Louvre. Paris grows and grows, while Cluny remains a very small village, but they both keep strong ties to the distant past.

Tell me more about your Cluny, said Jenny, fascinated.

Guillaume pushed a curly strand of dark hair from his forehead and raised his glance as if focusing on a picture far away. Jenny noticed that his hands were tanned and looked strong, as if he spent most of his time working out of doors.

Okay, he said, back to the travel brochure. Cluny is on the southern edge of the Burgundy wine country… We have very fine wines, by the way… he interjected, his eyes twinkling. Cluny is not so wealthy as it once was, but it has its own special beauty. The ruins of the abbey stand on a flat hilltop in the middle of the village, and thousand-year-old stone houses line the narrow streets around it.

Do you live in one? Jenny broke in excitedly, trying to imagine what it would be like to live in a thousand-year-old house.

"No, but as a child, I used to climb on the remains of a medieval wall that surrounds the oldest part of the village. And the stables are nearby. In fact, one end of what used to be the