Excerpt from new, debut fiction<\/p>\n

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From The Caretakers<\/i> by Amanda Bestor-Siegal. Copyright \u00a9 2022 by Amanda Bestor-Siegal. Reprinted by permission of William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

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The Chauvet house is the only one on the block without a gate, not because the Chauvets can\u2019t afford the privacy, but because they want passersby to admire their front yard. They would deny this if anyone were to suggest it, but the motive is there in the fountain, the constellation of topiaries, the cluster of Lalanne sheep sculptures (acquired after some maneuvering by the wife, whose friendships with well- known artists somehow ambush most conversations).<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

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The most interesting attraction in the Chauvets\u2019 yard, however, can-not be credited to the family (through their unintended efforts\u2014 yes, perhaps): the crumpled form of Charlotte Chauvet herself, knees hitting the grass, as a stretcher carrying her youngest son is ferried outside. It\u2019s a crisp March evening, the last of the month, sky finally slipping through the gray. The residents of Maisons-Larue take their first evening walks of spring. Those who pass the Chauvet house stop to watch the show, the firework of ambulance lights. Some avert their gaze at the sign of the stretcher. Others stare harder, transfixed by the white sheet, a body too small to be dead. Charlotte Chauvet on her knees, long after her son is gone. This night is the realization of her nightmares. Not the death of her youngest child (why would she anticipate such a thing?), but this aftermath: the witnesses, her own disintegration made public. This part of the performance\u2014mother, collapsed\u2014the neighbors watch without shame. This is what she gets, they think, for needing the world to see her front yard.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

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The next morning is the first of April. The recounting of the yard show\u2019s grand finale leaps from boulangerie to pharmacy to caf\u00e9: the Chauvets\u2019 au pair, a quiet, obedient American girl, was led out of the house in handcuffs. The police are opening a homicide investigation. Parents call their nannies and give them the day off, leave work early to go to the schools themselves, hug the precious, fragile bodies of their children who\u2014confused, oblivious\u2014conceal their delight by wriggling away. The working mothers blame the au pair. The child was her responsibility. The stay- at- home mothers blame Charlotte: this is what happens when you don\u2019t raise your own children. The other au pairs don\u2019t know whom to blame. They all know the girl sitting in the police cell. They\u2019ve sat beside her in French class, stood beside her at the translator\u2019s office and the prefecture, waiting for their visa appointments. \u201cI bet it wasn\u2019t an accident,\u201d one girl whispers, huddled with her friends at a caf\u00e9. \u201cI always thought something was wrong with her,\u201d mutters another. They are hoping, secretly, for murder. If this were merely an accident, the au pair a helpless witness, then any one of them could have been that girl in the cell.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Overnight, while Paris slept, the city changed its M\u00e9tro signs: the Quatre-Septembre<\/i> station was renamed Premier Avril<\/i>, the Op\u00e9ra<\/i> station became Ap\u00e9ro<\/i>. There is a station called Potato, another station with its signs flipped upside down. The morning commuters gaze out the windows of the train, regarding each stop with their usual resignation, eyes half- focused until they reach one of the puns and do a double- take. Some laugh. Some peek around, worried they\u2019re the only ones who see it. Others pull out their phones, tap a photo of the altered signs. Tourists be-come anxious, convinced they\u2019ve taken the wrong train. Students and au pairs, those with free time on a Friday, ride up and down the lines for hours. They double back, retrace their route, transfer five times, driven by the stubborn desire to personally photograph each fool station for themselves. It\u2019s the kind of joke that\u2019s funny only to those who speak French. A joke that says: You belong here, if you knew to laugh<\/i>.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Commuters smile. For an unexpected moment, in an unexpected place, they feel okay. This is 2016, the era of France when soldiers in full riot gear, cradling their rifles, patrol the streets of Paris in groups. Purses and backpacks are searched at the entrance to each library, each market. On the buses and trains, alongside transportation maps and ads, there are cartoons depicting what to do in case of a terrorist attack. Escape, hide, alert. Cartoon people flee down the street. A cartoon man moves a sleek couch in front of a door.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

It\u2019s been a long winter. <\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

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The last time the sun made an appearance in Paris\u2014an abnormally beautiful November evening, balmy and empty-skied\u2014130 people were shot and killed while they dined, toasted friends, attended a concert. It\u2019s been raining ever since. Now, five months after the November 13 attacks, the joke signs on the M\u00e9tro appear like some small badge of resilience, Paris rebelling against its own winter. We will laugh again<\/i>, says each M\u00e9tro station, the rats scuttling across the tracks, the odor of pee in every tunnel. It\u2019s okay to smile today<\/i>.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Charlotte Chauvet will not smile. Neither will Alena, the girl in the cell. She is unaware of Paris\u2019s April Fool\u2019s joke, that the city is bouncing back. Her own winter has begun. She traces her fingers in dust on the floor, writing words in a language she no longer speaks\u2014not French, not English. In her lap is a golden chain she\u2019s always worn around her neck, until recently, when the keepsake it held went missing. It occurs to her only now that her host child is dead that he might be the one who stole it.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

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+++<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

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