The Avion My Uncle Flew by Cyrus Fisher Page B

never realize he might be aware of how shabby he looked. His clothes were clean. He kept them neatly pressed. His curly black hair was brushed. He was gay as ever, telling my parents they were to have a good time in England and not to be concerned about me.
    When he talked fast he made me want to laugh because sometimes he wouldn’t say our words exactly right—he’d say “ziss” for “this” and “I zink” for “I think”—but for all his easy, light-hearted manner he was a proud, touchy little fellow, and I didn’t care to laugh for fear of wounding his feelings. My mother had told him about the bargain I’d made to earn that bicycle with the high gear and the low gear and the real electric lighting dynamo.
    Now he said, “That bicycle, Jean—” He never did call me “John.” “Ah, we shall get it for you, I zink for a certainty. I, personally, will teach you the great French language. You will see. I promise. For the honor of the family, zat I promise!”
    You know, I thought he was half joking, just making conversation. I never realized he was in dead earnest and privately considered it was his obligation to help me win that bicycle and electric lighting outfit. I could have saved myself an almighty lot of trouble later if I had known mon oncle Paul Langres never trifled when he took on a job, whether it was fighting the Germans, inventing an avion, or taking charge of an American nephew.
    When it was four o’clock in the afternoon and time for mon oncle and me to get to our train, all of us, I guess, became a little solemn. My father rolled out the wheel chair. Mon oncle Paul shot a glance at me. I took a long breath. I tucked my crutches under my arms. I remarked I could go to the station without that chair.
    â€œIn two months,” mon oncle told my father, “Jean will run. Jean va courir, you watch!”
    â€œWhat does that mean?” I inquired.
    â€œWhat is what?” asked mon oncle. “Jean va courir?”
    â€œOui,” said I. “What does ‘Jean va courir’ mean, please?”
    Mon oncle said, “‘Va’ in French can be both ‘goes’ or ‘is going.’ And ‘courir’ is ‘to run.’ Now you tell me what ‘Jean va courir’ is, my friend.”
    I thought. “Jean va” according to him could be either “John goes” or “John is going.” The first one didn’t make sense with “courir”—to run. So I said it meant I was going to run. I hoped he was right. I hoped in two months I was going to run.
    â€œExactly,” said mon oncle. “It is easy.”
    It was time to shove. I didn’t need anyone to carry me. The porters came up for our baggage. My mother and father went into the corridor. I came after them, trying not to let them notice how the pain jogged me every time I used my left leg. Mon oncle waited behind me. So they wouldn’t see my face, I looked back at him. Then to say something, I asked, “Mon oncle Paul va?”
    I must have said, “My uncle goes?” well enough in French because he grinned and said, “Bien!” giving his fingers a snap. “Très bien! Oui, ton oncle Paul va aussi, Jean.”
    I didn’t know what that “aussi” at the end of the sentence meant but it sounded like “also.” Later, I learned it was “also.” Sometimes you can pick up words in sentences without having anyone tell you what they are. And that “ton oncle,” of course, was simple: “Your uncle.” I could guess that much.
    When we reached the station we had about ten minutes to wait. In France there are three classes on trains, not like ours. There is a magnificent and expensive first-class where nobody rides but swells and lords and dukes, I guess; and a second-class, about like ours; and a third-class where, as nearly as I could find out