Letters from the Sky

Chapter 1-4

There was no one in the living room when she rushed in, and Jeanne was grateful. No one to stop her as she skidded to the corner of the entry way, up the stairs to the attic, and over to her bed. Beneath the pillow was the note she had written so carefully this morning. She reread it, then added a line to the end.

Love has no limit. We’ll be connected wherever we are, won’t we?

She foldedit i it in half again, then curved and creased the corners twice so they touched the center line before spreading them out again. A paper plane. Smiling and giving it a kiss, she ran to the window, throwing the frame and pane up, and crawling out so she was straddling the sill. She wasn’t afraid of falling; the roof sloped gently below her, and she could even step out onto the shingles if she wanted.

She didn’t—just leaned out and let the wind swirl around her, aa as she threw the folded letter as hard as she could. It caught, floated for a pendulous moment, then spiraled off. It flew, far away, above the blind houses and the streets, over the valley and the beehives and the sunflower fields, and then she couldn’t see it anymore. It could have reached heaven. She hoped it had.

She watched the empty horizon for a while longer before she heard Maman on the stairs.

“I thought I heard you come home—get off the windowsill, you’ll fall,” she said, flapping her apron at Jeanne. Jeanne nodded and complied. Maman kissed her cheek. “Come down and do your homework in the kitchen; Gramaman found some salt in the back cabinet and she’s making lima beans.”

Jeanne smiled widely. “Will she let me try them first?”

Maman smiled. “I’m sure that’s why she wanted you to come down. Go ahead. I’ll dust up here.”

Jeanne bobbed her head and skittered down the narrow stairs, hopping the last three.

Gramaman heard her coming, as Jeanne knew she would. “Sit down, chère, tell me about your day.”

Jeanne set her math book on the table, sat, and swung her feet as Gramaman put a kettle on the stove. “It was fine,” she replied. “We drew landscapes.”

Gramaman nodded. “Very nice…sit tight, chère, and you can try the beans when they’re done.”

“Where did you get the recipe this time?” Jeanne asked the old woman.

She winked. “Made it up myself, using a few odds and ends. Can’t trust anyone else, yes?”

Jeanne smiled. “Yes. I bet you’ll find the perfect recipe on your own!”

It had been a game for years, Gramaman’s search for the perfect recipe for lima beans—Jeanne knew it all started because of her own continued reluctance to eat the vegetables, but she couldn’t help but be excited. Perhaps today was the day she would learn to like them. She was confident Gramaman would get it eventually.

The woman poured coffee grounds into a cloth, twisting it into a knot and dropping it into the kettle.

“Your little sister was a right terror today,” Gramaman complained conversationally.

Jeanne was working with algebra. The X’s clicked into place as Gramaman talked about how baby Suzette had cried all day until she was sure the little girl would tire out, but just before Jeanne got home, she had fallen asleep, and wasn’t Jeanne just so lucky she didn’t have to listen to that? By the time the anecdote was finished, the beans were ready, and a few were on a small plate in front of Jeanne. Her maths were finished, and she was working on her sketch of the red ribbon. Quirking an eyebrow at Gramaman, she reached out with her bare fingers and picked up a bean, popping it in her mouth. She smiled as she did, knowing Gramaman—who was feigning ambivalence—was actually watching closely…

“…ew.” She made a face and pushed the plate away. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

Gramaman sighed, but she was smiling. “Better than before, at least?”

Jeanne nodded. “But I liked the soup you made the best.”

“Because all you could taste was potatoes,” Gramaman teased. “Well, you’ll have to suffer through these for dinner, but next time I’ll do it the way you like.”

Jeanne clapped her hands and smiled. “Okay!”

It was already late in the afternoon, and the sky was a darkening pinky-gloom. Maman, who had been fussing with Suzette in the small living area, came into the room after getting the child to quiet down.

“Jeanne, your father’s bus will be here soon. Go meet him, and pick up some cheese and a few ounces of coffee beans. We’re almost out,” she ordered, handing over a few coins.

“Yes, Maman,” Jeanne agreed, springing to her feet.

“And take your coat and hat!” she called after the girl.

Jeanne grabbed the objects from the closet near the front door, shoving the beret onto her head as she left.

Her trip to the deli was quick, and she trotted away with a small sack of coffee beans and a wrapped paper packet of cheese. She liked these times best, the still dissolution of the day and a transition from activity to domesticity. She took the long way out of town, down side avenues bustling gently with humanity, until the businesses thinned to smaller cottages and the cobblestones thinned to dirt and she could clearly see the school and athletic fields, and, farther out, the cultivated wildness of the valley and the hills beyond.

The wheezing, rusty little bus had already sighed to a stop when Jeanne trotted up, and a few tin cutouts of men filed off, fresh from business in the city. Papa was one of them. Jeanne hugged him, taking his briefcase in both hands, along with the bag of groceries.

“Salut, Papa. How was your day?”

The man was growing more and more transparent, she thought. He patted her head with a distracted air. “Fine, fine. What’s for dinner?”

Jeanne made a face. “Lima beans.”

He laughed at her discomfort and put an arm around her shoulders, with difficulty because her head was only to the level of his chest, but he always managed somehow.

They walked home as the day drew to a close.

The night was dreamless. Nothing at all disturbed her sleep, neither that night nor the following nights, until the end of the week.