Jul 16, 2011
Is She My Husband?
Madame Mauser wound up at Colette’s table when they rearranged the dining rooms. She asked us our names then she scrawled them into a notebook. Sweet idea, I thought, an active attempt to get to know her dining partners. The fact that she repeated the question two or three times didn’t strike me. I thought she was practicing. On the fourth and fifth times, the other residents started grousing.
“Don’t answer her!” one woman yelled.
“Incredible! She can’t leave anyone alone!”
The need for the notebook continued. Madame Mauser brought a bag to carry it in and required an extra chair be placed at her side to put the things on. I learned the importance of this chair the hard way.
“You sit there,” the fat woman at the next table yelled. “Why should she get an extra chair?”
I didn’t mind walking twenty feet to find another chair. Of course, Colette called out after me. “Hey! Where are you going?”
Madame Mauser had a new question one night as she made her way around the room. “Excuse me, what table is this?”
The fat woman yelled. “Sit down! Enough is enough!” The younger woman, the one who’d had the stroke and felt so sorry to trouble people with her condition, remained gentle. ”Oh dear, I’m afraid I don’t know the tables around here.”
Then one night the notebook stayed in Madame Mauser’s bag, and she stayed in her seat. “Mademoiselle, is this my wine?” she asked.
“Yes, it is,” I said.
Madame Mauser got back to names when her body started going. She staggered into the dining room that night with oozing leg bandages. Trembling from head to toe, she was still in a desperate need for facts. “Mademoiselle?” she called out. Colette ignored her and carried on with her story. “What’s her name?” Madame Mauser asked. I told her Colette’s last name for the 100th time.
“Gauguin, like the painter,” I whispered.
“OK, she’s Madame Gauguin. Am I Madame Gauguin?”
“No, you’re Madame Mauser.”
“She’s Madame Mauser?”
“No, you’re Madame Mauser.”
“Is she my husband?”
She asked. I answered. Colette continued her story. It came time for the soup. I helped Madame Mauser with her bib.
“Thank you, Mademoiselle,” she said with a smile. I’d never seen her smile, but for a brief moment she looked grateful and happy. I’d helped her do something her trembling hands could no longer do. In a flash life made sense. Then confusion returned. “She’s not my husband?”
I never got to snap that bib again.
