Free Words Unspoken by Elizabeth Musser Page B

France, with its open hostility between the maghrebins —the North Africans—and the French. Distrust. The feeling every Frenchman had, but most did not utter, was something she understood all too well.
    Go home!
    The North Africans were not going home, of that Janelle was sure. Home now was France, no matter how unwelcome the second generation of maghrebins felt. What did the young North Africans know of Tunisia and Algeria and Morocco? Janelle wished that Brian’s work with the radio station didn’t take him away so often, didn’t ask him to fly over hostile waters in the Mediterranean. She used to love the adventure, anticipate the all-night prayer vigils, the clandestine meetings, the hurried supplies shipped to Algeria and Morocco on a boat.
    Not now. Intrigue, danger, adventure. It all terrified her. What she wanted most of all was to have Brian, Luke, and Sandy sitting with her around the table, enjoying a delicious meal. Happy, healthy, safe. She longed for this. Was it so hard for the Lord to answer? Did she not deserve this after what had happened?
    I cannot think straight right now, she had confessed finally to her parents yesterday in the aerogram, sealed shut with a crease and a lick of the flap. Everything about life seems hard. Very hard. Now she wished she could reach through the postal services and retrieve her letter. It would only make them worry more.
    She realized she was nibbling her lip. She brushed her hands through her hair and glanced back at the listing for the arriving planes. With a sigh of relief she read the one word she longed to see: Arrivé.
    ________
    Ole Bessie was parked by the curb when Lissa walked out into the late September afternoon. Beyond the light blue car, the sky boasted a perfectly cloudless deeper blue, almost sapphire, with Lookout Mountain standing off to the right.
    Mr. MacAllister, who was bending down beside Ole Bessie to talk to a young boy, had replaced his seersucker suit with a striped buttondown and a pair of khaki pants held in place by leather suspenders. His tie was a strange shade of burgundy, and the tennis shoes were still dirty, blue and white.
    Lissa smiled as she watched his animated conversation with Eric Dudley, who lived across the street from the school and routinely came by to taunt the girls.
    “Well, Mr. MacAllister, she’s a real beauty. I guarantee she’s worth a lot. My dad sells cars and he knows.” The boy frowned. “But if you wanted to sell it to my dad, you’d have to take the sign off the sides.”
    “I’ll keep that in mind, Eric,” Mr. MacAllister said, shaking Eric’s hand. “See you later.”
    “Good-bye.”
    “You’re making friends quickly,” Lissa commented, coming to the car.
    “Hello, Lissa,” Mr. MacAllister said, going around to the driver’s side and getting in the car. “Yes, well, he looks like a rascal. Caught him trying to take something out of another car, and when I confronted him, he came up with quite a tale about his father’s car business.”
    “He is a rascal. You’ve got that right.” She opened the passenger door and climbed in, put on the seat belt, and took a long, slow breath. Mr. MacAllister started the ignition and Ole Bessie was off.
    “I thought we’d head back to the park today.”
    “All right.” She was careful to keep her hands settled lightly on her lap. No clenched fists, no white knuckles.
    “Back in the early 1800s the town of Chickamauga was just a big old plantation. Cherokee Indians lived nearby, peacefully. They helped General Jackson win his victory over the British in the Battle of Horseshoe Bend. I guess you studied all that?”
    She knew Mr. MacAllister was trying to calm her down, make her think of things other than her fear of driving. She glanced at him, thankful.
    “Yes, I remember the guide mentioning something about that. But I really don’t know anything else about the Cherokees.”
    “They called this area their home—called it Crawfish Springs, named