The Wife Draft (Peterick)

France: The Inflection

France was a beautiful country to explore. It was nothing like Pittsburgh, where I crossed bridges everyday and dodged cars as I walked the streets. Pollution from the coal filled the air during the day, leaving the tops of buildings buried. As much as I loved it, it wasn't the city I grew up in anymore. Not that I minded. The population was going down, and the streets were much cleaner, but I was looking forward to the day it was beautiful again.

I really should've paid more attention to where I was going. But he probably should have, as well. If we were, we wouldn't have walked right into each other. His coffee spilt, and I hopped back, letting it hit the sidewalk instead of my sport jacket.

"I'm sah sorry, suh," he said to me, a thick southern accent in his voice. I should have been the one to apologize to him, but I wasn't expecting to run into an American. Especially not one so clearly from the Deep South. "Désolé, c’est ma faute."

I was staring at him. Speaking of beautiful. . .

When I didn't respond, he tried to step around me. "No, wait." He turned back to look at me, but he seemed uneasy. "I should be the one apologizing. Let me buy you a drink."

His blue eyes widened. "Oh, ya' don't have ta' do that, suh," he stammered.

"Please, um. . ."

"Patrick."

"Patrick," I said. His name rolled so nicely off of my tongue. I smiled. "You have to let me repay you somehow."

"Ah--- If ya' insist, I supp'as," he finally agreed. I had no idea what he actually said, but took the entire sentence as a yes and smiled.

We walked next to each other quietly, listening to the sounds of the city. Everyone who passed us spoke the language I didn't, and the sun was hidden behind clouds. It looked as though it would rain. My excursion was probably going to be cut short.

I glanced over at Patrick. He had a bag slung over his shoulder. His clothes were voluminous and clearly not his size, and he had an uneasy look on his face. He was hiding something. And considering that I was in Europe during wartime, I probably should've left him. But he was. . . He was definitely something.

"Where are you from?" I asked, breaking the silence between us.

His eyes shot over to look into mine, and then they focused ahead again. I wished he would look at me for longer than a few seconds at a time. His eyes were beautiful. Dark blue. Gold. His made everyone else's seem worthless. I had never seen anything quite like them before.

"Nawlinz," he said.

I raised my eyebrows. "Pardon?"

Patrick smiled at the ground. "I'm. . . from. . . New. . . Orleans," he tried saying again. He was much easier to understand when he slowed down his speaking by forty notches. But his accent was something special, and listening to him try and control it was strange.

"I should've known," I replied. "Your accent is giving you away." I didn't throw in any of my other thoughts about it.

He pursed his pink lips for a quick moment before turning a question to me. "What 'bout ya'?" he asked. "Gotta name?"

"Peter Wentz," I responded. "Editor of The Pittsburgh Times."

He laughed, which was a response I had never gotten before. "Givin' me alla ya' credentials," he said. "That why ya' here?"

"I've been undercover throughout Europe for the past month," I answered. Giving that all away may had been a terrible idea, but he didn't seem as though he would harm me. "I go home tomorrow night."

"Must be nice." I was confused by what he meant before he added, "Ta' gah home, ah mean."

"Why are you out here?" I asked. I pulled on the door to the small café, holding it open for him to walk in.

"Ah was drafted," he said with a shrug. We stopped walking, now parked at the end of the line in front of the counter.

"You were in the war?" I asked. I was almost amazed at my luck. Interviewing an American who returned from combat would be the center of the story, especially a handsome one. He would make a great photograph. But he laughed, causing me to frown.

"'Course naht," he replied, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets after tipping the fedora on his head. "Ah ran. Hitched sum rides. Now'm here."

How does one escape Germany? I wanted to know, but I didn't know Patrick. It would've been wrong to ask, especially if the wrong person was listening to us. Or if he was the wrong person, himself.

"How do you expect to get back to New Orleans?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Ah don't, ah guess."

"Well, don't you have a job to do there?" I asked. I paused before adding, "A wife?"

He chuckled, and our conversation was halted before he could answer. He reordered in French the coffee that I accidentally ruined, and as I paid, he wandered off to the window by the garbage can. I collected his drink and my change from the teenage chap working, and then I walked towards the southerner.

"S'rainin'," he muttered, taking the drink from my hand. "Thank ya'."

We stayed in the shelter as Patrick finished his drink, with the hope that the rain would slow. Of course, just with my luck, it only got worse.

"Do you have anywhere to go?" I asked.

I couldn't believe what I was doing, but Patrick had me completely intrigued. I couldn't leave him out on the streets in the rain. My mother raised me to help out anyone in need, and I wasn't about to abandon her advice.

It was probably crazy for me to be taking a stranger back to my hotel room. It was probably even more insane that he agreed.

The man escaped American, British, and German soldiers. He could probably kill me.

Neither of us had an umbrella, so we were forced to run the five blocks back to the hotel. We didn't get an opportunity to catch our breaths until we were in the empty elevator.

I let him shower and have a pair of my clothes. While he was locked in the bathroom, I changed out of my wet clothes before sitting on the edge of the bed. I held my head in my hands and thought about how stupid I was. I was positive that my mother's advice didn't extend to inviting handsome strangers into my room, but my mother wasn't in France. What she didn't know wouldn't hurt her.