 © Joseph Mack Branchcombe
|
Coming of Age Click to read Click to |
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© Joseph Mack Branchcombe
|
Coming of Age Click to read Click to |
Coming of
Age
Madame Vincent is ninety-two. She takes the stairs to the second floor, because
once she was caught in an elevator for an entire day alone. She uses a cane and takes each
step with caution. At the first-floor landing, she pauses and seems to lose her bearings.
I think for a moment that she is almost blind, as she reaches for the wall, searching for
a clue to her whereabouts.
"Ah," she says to no one in particular, "C’est le premier."
I have just locked my door and am ready to go out. It is now that she notices me.
"Bonjour, Madame." She greets me with a nod of her head.
"Bonjour, Madame," I reply. "Vous allez bien?"
"I have just returned from mass at Salpetriere," she declares in French as she leans onto her cane. Madame Vincent does not speak English. My own has been left behind. But my French has not yet purged itself of its abrupt American style.
"How did you get there?" I ask. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but Salpetriere is a fair distance.
"The bus," she answers, as if it’s of no concern. "They know me there."
Her delicate body is wrapped in a shabby tweed coat. Nylon stockings droop on tiny legs and twist around her ankles. She has pulled her thin, silver hair into a smooth bun, and finished it off with a black velvet hat that appears to have lived as long as Madame Vincent.
"After mass the priest asked a nice young man to accompany me to the bus." Her pale blue eyes become alive as she shares this act of friendship.
"Mais c’est bien." I smile. I’m relieved that this woman is not alone in the world. She shuffles past me in the dark hallway. "Au revoir, Madame," I say to her small, hunched back. I’m off to find a cafe for lunch where I can write in my journal.
I try to imagine Madame Vincent getting on and off the bus. "What must it be like?" I ask myself. I don’t even use the bus at home in Portland. This is Paris. Everything goes fast, and the steps of a bus are high above the ground. People getting off are in the way of people getting on. Does she know immediately where to descend, or does she ask? I must give her credit.
I first met Madame Vincent a few days ago. She was ahead of me on the sidewalk. I watched her put all of her weight against the solid oak door to enter the building. I slowed my pace. It had been a long weekend—too many people and too little sleep. So I passed behind her and stood at the corner to wait a few minutes. I did not want to deal with this old woman.
Old woman.
"I, too, shall be an old woman one day," hissed the good woman of my conscience. "Relax," replied my demon, "you’re allowed to be less than compassionate from time to time." But impatience joined forces with fatigue. I pushed my own weary body against the door and caught a glimpse of Madame Vincent’s sleeve as she rounded the hall corner.
"Me voici," she said, as though to warn me of her presence.
"Bonjour, Madame." My voice seemed thin in the cool, stale air of the vestibule.
Madame Vincent had stopped at the foot of the stairs. I wasn’t sure if she was resting or waiting for me.
"I have been to the Boulevard Arago for some bread," she offered. The corner boulangerie is not open on Thursdays.
"I understand they have to take a day off," she added, "but it makes it difficult to buy my bread." I nodded in sympathy.
She motioned for me to go ahead. "Unless," she suggested, "you will be taking the elevator." I reassured her that I could certainly use the stairs to get to the first floor. Climbing stairs was a novelty, actually. I wondered if she could even imagine my single-story ranch-style house in Oregon.
Up we went, in single file, my steps slower than usual. Madame Vincent spoke to me from behind, and told me of her harrowing experience with the lift.
"The door would not open. I knew that someone would arrive eventually," she said, "but it was a long wait. I was very tired. No place to sit down, you know."
"And such a tiny box," I thought. I remembered the day I tried to squeeze in with my suitcases. It was then that she cautioned me.
"Don’t get old," she began, then added before I could reply, "particularly if you must get old alone. Toute seule," she affirmed with a shake of her head. We arrived at the door to my flat. As I turned the key, I asked Madame Vincent if she would like to come in for a rest.
"No, thank you," she responded. "I’m going to make myself a good, hot cup of tea. You’re most gracious to ask."
My door stood open. I watched Madame Vincent as she rounded the bend and turned her back to continue to the second floor. She planted what seemed like enormous, heavy shoes firmly on each step, first one, then the other. I thought about my impending birthday and wondered how fifty had arrived so quickly. I felt the weight of my bags and watched a wisp of a woman climb alone to her flat, as she had done a thousand times.
Profile
Sharon spent eighteen years developing an ornamental garden with rare trees, shrubs, and perennials—carefully placed to provide interest throughout the four seasons. With her math-teacher husband as the photographer by her side, Sharon explored and studied French gardens. She has published articles on gardening for the Pacific Horticulture magazine and given slide presentations. As one of the founders and first president of the Hardy Plant Society of Oregon, she initiated and edited the semi-annual membership bulletin for five years.
In 1989 Sharon was catapulted from her world by the sudden, traumatic death of her husband. Her grief and new life alone have changed her. She left teaching and has begun to define and express herself as a writer.
—Nancy Travers
Bio
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