The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles Read Free Page B

from the very beginning. Joséphine’s father used to say, affably and even lovingly, “The stork must have picked the wrong house.” This feeble joke earned him so many cold looks from his wife that he eventually stopped saying it.
    One evening, the night before Bastille Day, he put his hand to his chest, said, “It’s a little too soon to set off the fireworks,” and died. Joséphine and Iris were ten and fourteen. The funeral was magnificent. Looking tragic and majestic, Henriette orchestrated the whole thing, down to the smallest detail: the big sprays of white flowers strewn on the coffin, the funeral march. She copied Jackie Kennedy’s black veil and had the girls kiss the casket before it was lowered into the ground.
    How could I have spent nine months in the womb of that woman people claim is my mother?
Joséphine wondered.
    The day Joséphine was hired by the Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, she’d raced to the phone to tell her mother and sister. Neither understood what there was to be excited about. Recruited by a research center? Why would she want to work in that black hole?
    Joséphine had to face facts: she just didn’t interest her family. Marrying Antoine had been the only thing they understood. For once they had reacted positively. She had stopped being a mystery to them and become an ordinary woman, a wife, a mother.
    But Henriette and Iris were soon disappointed: Antoine wasn’t going to cut it. His hair was too neat (no charm), his socks too short (no style), his paycheck too small (and paid by Americans!), and he sold hunting guns—how degrading! Worst of all, he had a sweating problem. Antoine’s in-laws intimidated him, and when he was with them—and only them—he would perspire profusely.

    Jo suddenly felt a wave of pity for Antoine. Forgetting that she had resolved not to talk about him, she blurted: “I just kicked him out, Iris. I—”
    “You kicked him out? For good?”
    “You don’t know what it’s been like to live with an unemployed husband. I feel so guilty about my job. I’ve been hiding my work behind pots and pans and potato peelings.”
    Joséphine looked at the kitchen table.
I should clear it off before the girls get home from school for lunch.
She’d done the math: eating at home was cheaper than in the cafeteria.
    “After a year, I would think you’d have gotten used to it,” said Iris.
    “That’s a shitty thing to say!”
    “I’m sorry, darling. But you seemed to be coping. So what are you going to do now?”
    “I’ll keep working, of course, but I need to find something else, too. Give French lessons, grammar, spelling, whatever.”
    “You know, there’s a need for that. There are so many dunces out there these days! Starting with your nephew Alexandre. He came home from school yesterday with a 38 in dictation. A 38! You should have seen Philippe. I thought he was going to have a stroke!”
    Jo couldn’t help but smile: the highly accomplished Philippe Dupin, father of a dunce.
    Alex was ten, the same age as Zoé. At family gatherings the two would hide under the table and talk, looking serious and concentrated, or go off to build models together.
    “Do the girls know?”
    “Not yet.”
    “How will you explain it to them?”
    Joséphine didn’t answer. She picked at the edge of the Formica table with her nail until she’d accumulated a little black ball of grease, then flicked it across the kitchen.
    “Jo, darling, I’m here.” Iris’s voice had turned soothing, and it made Joséphine feel like crying again. “You know I’m always here for you, and I’ll never let you down. I love you as much as I love myself, and that’s saying something!”
    Jo laughed.
    The doorbell rang.
    “That must be the girls. I have to go, but please, not a word about this tomorrow night. I really don’t want to be the main topic of the evening!”
    “All right, Jo, I promise. And don’t forget: Cric and Croc clobbered the big Cruc creeping up