Page 72 of His Sound
I raise a hand. “Salut, famille.”
“Ouais ouais,enough about you,Poisson,” Geneviève’s twin, Carol, calls out in French. “Who’s the girl?”
I place a hand on Molly’s shoulder and introduce her in English. “This is Molly. She’s coming to the gala tomorrow night. She doesn’t speak much French, but”—I put my other hand on her back and twist her into a sudden dip—“she’s a very good dancer.”
The awkwardness eases a little after that. Molly and I get loaded up with appetizers, and I introduce her to the crowd: Geneviève and Carol, plus Lucille and Thérèse, plus all their boyfriends, fiancées, and husbands. Molly looks a bit overwhelmed, and I whisper in her ear to let her know she shouldn’t worry.
“I mix them up all the time. Lucille has had so many boyfriends I don’t even bother remembering their names anymore.”
I find we’re all waiting forPapato get back from work. It’s almost eight-thirty already andMamansays he still hasn’t left the office. My family does their best to remember to speak in English, and while they keep giving me confused looks about her whenever they get a chance, they don’t make too much of a scene about Molly.
So far, things are going better than I thought they would. No one burst out laughing and started making fish faces at me. We’re in the middle of looking at some photos Alain sent over from Thailand when the sound of the front door crashing open interrupts me making fun of his tan lines.
“Finalement!”Mamansings out. “We can eat! Come to the table, everyone.”
We all move into the dining room and take seats at the massive table that’s been set with cutlery and plates. Carol is serving everyone salad when my dad walks into the room, still dressed in a suit and tie, his face red from the cold outside.
“Papa!”
Carol kisses him on the cheek before he moves around the table to kiss the girls and shake hands with the guys. When he finally reaches me, he eyes my man-bun like I’ve got a dead squirrel on my head.
“Jean-Paul, you made it,” he says in French, stating the obvious like usual, “and I see you’ve brought a stranger into our midst.”
“This is Molly,” I say in even English, as the rest of the room goes silent. “Molly, this is my father, Marc Bouchard.”
He hesitates for a second, then offers Molly his hand. “C’est un plaisir de vous rencontrer, Mademoiselle.”
“B—bonsoir, Monsieur Bouchard.C’est...C’est...nice to meet you.”
She laughs off her struggle with the language, but nobody else joins in. Carol freezes with the salad tongs still hovering over Lucille’s plate, her eyes glued to my dad. Everyone else is equally frozen, like a sheet of ice just swept in to blanket the room.
“Molly is still learning French,”Mamansays in quiet English.
Papa’s jaw twitches. He doesn’t follow her lead in switching languages.
“Well, this is a French household. I think we can speak French at our own dinner table, don’t you?” He turns to Molly again and says in strained English, “We will speak French now, if you don’t mind.”
She gives him a wide-eyed little nod, like a terrified private responding to a drill sergeant, and he takes his seat at the head of the table. Carol goes back to dishing out salad, andMamanpulls off the towel covering a basket of bread. The conversations that were going on beforePapaarrived resume, but nobody makes an attempt at bilingualism now. Molly wraps her hand around my clenched fist under the table and shoots me a reassuring smile.
I wish I could ease up enough to smile back. This is why my father has done well in politics: when he walks into a room, he owns it. He sets the mood to whatever he wants it to be. He leads, and people follow. You can hate yourself for it all you want, but you can’t stop craving his approval.
Somehow, we get through the rest of the meal, although it seems to last for hours. It’s only whenMamanducks away to get dessert ready thatPapashifts his chair back a little, the sure-fire sign that he’s about to make a speech.
“So, as you all know, the Parti hosts the Christmas charity gala every year, and it’s one of the most important events in the city...”
I tune the rest of what he’s saying out, picking a piece of bread apart in front of me until I feel Molly nudging my foot with hers. I look up and realize everyone is staring at me.
“Poisson rouge,” Geneviève mouths from across the table.
I cross my eyes and stick my tongue out.
“Jean-Paul!”Paparepeats, for what I realize is probably something like the seventh or eighth time. “While you were busy playing with your food, I told you that Gabriel Laframboise’s daughter doesn’t have anyone to go to the gala with. I let him know you would arrive together.”
Great. Not only is he refusing to talk to Molly in English, he’s also refusing to acknowledge she exists.
“I already have someone I’ll be arriving with.”
His grip tightens on his fork. A shriek from the kitchen saves things from getting any uglier.
