Free Man, Woman and Child by Erich Segal Page A

strangled."
    "Ugh." Paula clutched her neck in empathy for

    the valiant dead man. "Do they let you read that kind of stuff in France—gory, I mean?"
    Jean-Claude shrugged.
    ''Are there pictures in that book?''
    "Yes."
    "Is there one of the strangling?"
    "Uh-no. Vm sorry."
    Paula pondered for a moment. "We take hygiene next year/' she said.
    "What is that?"
    "Do you know what 'sexual education' is?"
    "I think so." He wasn't quite certain and didn't want to admit it.
    "Do you have that course in France?"
    "Fm not sure."
    "Well, do you know where babies come from?" she asked, enjoying the thrill of grown-up dialogue.
    "Uh-yes."
    "WTio told you—your mom or your dad?"
    "My mother. She was a doctor."
    'Teah, I know. How come your dad didn't tell you, though?"
    Paula had innocently trespassed onto Jean-Claude's most private anxiety.
    "My father was not there," he said, and hoped she'd change the subject.
    "You mean he was dead already?"
    "What?"
    "My father said your father was dead."
    "Oh," said Jean-Claude, wondering why Bob's version should have contradicted what his mother had always told him. "Well . . ." His voice trailed off.
    Meanwhile, Paula was preparing to probe deeper.
    "What's your favorite color?" she asked.
    "The color of the sea," he answered.

    "But ifs not one color. Sometimes it's green and sometimes it's blue."
    "Well," he replied, "thaf s what I like."
    "Cool," said Paula. "You're a really fascinating person, Jean-Claude."
    "Thank you. You are also."
    "Really? Do you really think so? Hey—was that French you were speaking on the phone just now?"
    "Yes," the boy replied, a trifle uneasy.
    "It sounds terrific. Fm gonna start it in sixth grade. Then Fll be able to visit you sometime."
    "That would be very nice."
    "Yeah," said Paula, happy to receive the invitation. "Uh—were you talking to a friend?"
    "Yes."
    "Boy or girl?"
    "Neither."
    "Your dog?" She was serious. Jean-Claude laughed.
    "No, an old friend of my mother's. Louis Venar-gues. He was mayor of our village for many years."
    "Wow," said Paula. "What does he talk to you about?"
    "Oh, this and that. He says he will call every week to ask me how I am."
    "Gee, I wish I had a friend like that."
    The boy looked wistful and his eyes were saying, You have parents. But Paula didn't notice. In fact, just then she bounded up as swiftly as she had plopped down.
    "Hey, I gotta help Jessie cook."
    "Oh," said the boy, who now was not anxious to be left alone again. "What are you cooking?"
    "Stuff," said Paula.
    "What kind of stuff?" he inquired, showing serious interest.

    "We're making dinner to surprise my mom when she gets home. You wanna watch?"
    'Tes/' Jean-Claude rephed, and leaped to his feet.
    As they started toward the house, side by side, their arms occasionally brushed. And Paula Beck-with inscribed the joy she felt upon a special page of memory. To prize forever.
    Julia Child was spread out on the kitchen table.
    Jessica was poring over it, surrounded by open jars, boxes, bottles, and piles of assorted vegetables. Bowls and spoons were scattered everywhere.
    "Dammit, Paula, where've you been? Fve been killing myself all afternoon f
    Her little sister entered, with Jean-Claude a step behind. Seeing him, Jessie restrained her anger.
    "Hi, Jean-Claude-"
    "Yuck," said Paula, interrupting. "What a mess in here! Whatcha doing, Jessie—cooking or finger painting?"
    "Paula, I am trying to make a blanquette de veau. It's taken me hours, and all you've done is criticize."
    "Well, what do you want me to do?"
    "Nothing." Jessica sighed with exasperation.
    Paula turned to Jean-Claude and explained, "Jessie's studied cooking in school."
    "Oh," said the visitor.
    "That was nothing," Jessie sniffed. "Our fanciest project was macaroni and cheese."
    "Wish you'd made that," Paula murmured. "At least we'd be able to eat it. What's all that junk on the stove?" She pointed to the four pots, all steaming like a grade school production of Macbeth.
    "Well, Jean-Claude obviously