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My father, whom I haven't seen for two years, stands at the end of the platform. Maybe it is just the distance, but he looks much smaller than I remember. For a second, I think I have mistaken a stranger for him. As Jenny and I walk along the motionless train, my father's look-alike takes his hand out of the pocket of his raincoat and waves. Instinctively, I turn around. No one is waving back.

"Is that your father waving?" Jenny asks.
With narrowed eyes, I try to superimpose the mental picture of my father on that of the tiny old man in a beige raincoat.
"I think it's him," I say.
"Why don't you wave back, then?"

I raise my hand obediently, and wave. My father smiles and returns his hand to his pocket. As we get closer, I see how wrinkled my father's face is. His left eyelid, which droops when he's tired, is threatening his eyesight. The lock of white hair he brushes across his forehead to hide his baldness would no longer fool anyone. When a gust of wind wipes it off his bare skull, it hangs down from his temple like a thread of white linen. He brushes it back quickly with the comb he keeps in his back pocket. As a child, I came across a snapshot of my father in his twenties. His crow-black hair was surprisingly thick and wavy. I covered it with my thumb, searching for a resemblance between my father and the dark-haired stranger in the picture.

I drop my suitcase and kiss my father on the cheeks. I recognize the smell of his after-shave, the same he has worn for the last twenty years.

"Papa," I say. "This is Jenny. Jenny, my father."

Jenny holds out her hand. My father stares at it for a second, expecting a kiss, for French men rarely shake women's hands. She figures it out, blushes, and hugs my father who stiffens under the embrace. French people seldom hug, at least in my family. Jenny and my father smile at each other in embarrassment.

"Je suis très heureuse de faire votre connaissance!" she says.

She sounds like a schoolgirl who recites a poem by heart. Knowing my parents don't speak a bit of English, she rehearsed in the train from Paris to Tours. Her American accent is noticeable, though milder than my French accent in English. Her way of rolling the "r" in "heureuse" and "votre" sounds sexy. My father laughs nervously. At the age of seventy, he's still shy in the presence of a young, attractive woman.

"Your French is very good," he says.

Jenny shakes her head.

"I just speak a little bit of French," she says, squeezing the air between her thumb and forefinger.

My father's new car is illegally parked across from the station's entrance. He always parks illegally, an old habit from the time he was a cop and knew every police officer in town. Today though, the policeman busy recording my father's license plate is ignoring him.

"Good morning, Sir," my father says. "I'm leaving right away. I just stopped here for a second to pick up my son, who's just back from America."

The cop glances at my father, then me, and shrugs. Obviously, he couldn't care less if I had just landed from Mars.

"I used to be a police officer years ago, you know," my father says.

His tone is casual, but I sense his anxiety. The cop hands him the ticket.

"You have ten days to appeal, Sir."

The offending piece of paper in his hand, my father watches in disbelief as the man in uniform walks away.

"Things have changed," he says. "In my time, this would never have happened!"
"So, that's your new car," I say. "It looks great, Papa."

I liked my father's old car. This one is so small (so "cute" as Jenny calls French-size cars) that all our luggage doesn't fit in the trunk, and Jenny's suitcase ends up next to her in the back seat.

During the ten minute drive to my parents' place, my father won't stop talking. I don't bother translating for Jenny.

"How was your flight?...

How was the weather in Boston?..." he asks, cutting me short to switch back to his monologue. I listen patiently, nodding every time he takes his eyes off the road to glance at me.

During these short lapses of time, a lot of things happen outside his field of vision. As we enter the highway, he nearly gets us killed by a truck he hasn't seen coming. It takes him a frightfully long while to stop the car.

"Did you see that?" he says, visibly shaken. "That damn truck came out of nowhere!"

I meet Jenny's eyes in the mirror. She looks terrified.

"French driving!" I laugh nervously. I've never been scared by my father's driving before today.

As we pull into the driveway, my mother appears at the kitchen window.

"She's so excited," my father says. "She's been waiting for your phone call since 6 this morning."
"What was she thinking, Papa? Our plane landed at 11."
"I told her. But you know your mother."

I do know my mother. She has changed quite a bit, though. Something is wrong with her new hair color. The hall lighting casts a pink sheen on it. She has always been a frail, tiny woman. Still, I don't recall having to bend over that much to reach her. I feel like a giant. She, too, notices.

"You look so tall. Have you been taking growing pills?"
"Yes, three times a day. Maman, this is Jenny. Jenny, my mother."

We drop our luggage in my bedroom. Again, the same dizzying feeling of being disproportionate. What makes my room look so narrow? The new green carpet? The new flowered wallpaper? The dark brown couch waiting in the corner like some gigantic cockroach?

Jenny seems delighted. "I love your bedroom," she says.

I nod. Your bedroom is what my parents still call it, although I've been away for the last fifteen years. My bedroom. Not much in common with what it used to be, though. All my posters have disappeared with the old wallpaper. They were pictures of McEnroe I had cut out of Tennis de France when I was training every day to become a professional player; posters of Apocalypse Now I had brought back from the Studio theater when I dreamed of becoming a movie director; pictures of The Clash from when I envisioned becoming a rock star. All there are now are a couple of seascapes resulting from my father's brief encounter with oil painting.

"Did your father paint this?" Jenny asks. "I didn't know he was an artist."
"No one does," I whisper. "Keep the secret."
"You're mean." She laughs.

My joke makes me feel sad, though. I remember the day my father showed us his first paintings, the happy look on his face when I said they looked great.

My paperbacks, which I displayed on top of my dresser as if they were limited editions fully bound in leather, have been replaced by an army of ceramic knick-knacks. I discover, stacked in a drawer, the first book I ever read in English: Brave New World. On a shelf sits a plastic model of the drakkhar Oseberg, which I made when I was twelve. The mast was broken at mid-height in an unfair battle with my mother's feather duster. The sail hangs on the side, now, above a row of severed oars.

A tap on the door brings me back to present.
"Dinner's ready!" my mother says.
I look at my watch: 6 pm. An early bird special.

The dining room is crammed with bric-a-brac from some souvenir shop. The windows are so narrow I feel like tearing down the wall to let more daylight in.

"I was wondering," I say, as we start eating. "Have you ever thought of moving into a new apartment?"
"A new apartment?" There is outrage in my father's tone. "What do you mean? We like it here."
"I know. I mean, it's a nice apartment. I was just thinking about a place a bit bigger, with more windows, on the ground floor to spare you the stairs. Maybe with a yard."

My father shrugs. My mother plays deaf. She's busy serving Jenny a duck leg with a fork. She concentrates excessively hard, as if she just dug up a landmine. Years ago, she tried to convince my father to move but he refused. I always wondered why. I guess he had gotten emotionally attached to this place. To tell the truth, there aren't many things my father wouldn't get emotionally attached to. When I was twelve, my mother organized a yard sale with all the junk stored in the attic. Knowing my father would disagree, she picked a weekend he was gone on a mission. The yard sale was a success, until my father came home: he not only yelled at my mother, but spent his Sunday evening calling around to all the buyers. He sounded like the director of a museum that had just been ransacked. He bought everything back and moved it back in the attic where it remains to this day. Thus failed my mother's ultimate act of rebellion against my father's rule of status quo.

"By the way," my father says. "Since you make me think of it: it will be fifty years in October that your mother and I moved into this apartment."
He gives Jenny a proud smile.
"Yes. Fifty years in October."
I translate.
"Fifty?" Jenny whispers. "Are you sure your father said fifty?"
My mother laughs nervously. "Jenny must find our apartment quite small." She smiles sadly at Jenny. "I guess everybody in America lives in a big house..."

I say no. Not everybody in America lives in a big house. Jenny has understood.

"I love your apartment," she says. "It's so cute."

I translate for my parents. My father exults.

The next morning, I'm awakened by a knock on the door. Jenny is sound asleep against me. We stayed up until four, our biological clocks upset by the six-hour jet lag. I stare at the ray of light underlining the door, trying to gather my thoughts, when the door opens. My mother's silhouette stands out against a rectangle of bright light. Jenny moans and turns over, burying her head in the pillow.

"Still asleep?" My mother's tone is half apologetic, half reproachful. "Get up. Your father and I made you breakfast."

In a split second I'm thrust back into childhood, with my mother hammering the door, yelling that I will once again be late for school. As we crawl out of bed, Jenny snaps at me.

"Why didn't you tell them we needed more sleep? They would have understood."
"You don't know them," I say.

Breakfast awaits us in the dining room: coffee, tea, orange juice, butter, honey, apricot jam, baguette, croissants, and the Limoges porcelain service my mother saves for special occasions. Aside from her sleepy look, Jenny seems impressed.

"How was your night?" my father asks, dipping the edge of a croissant in his coffee.
"Short," I say.

I must sound like a rebellious teen, for Jenny looks at my father with a contrived smile.

"I slept well, thank you," she says. "And you?"

Her fake enthusiasm is admirable. My own reflection yawns at me in my black coffee. Everyone else eats, including polite Jenny.

"You don't seem very hungry," my mother says anxiously. "I hope you eat more than that in Boston."

I translate for Jenny who looks down, bites her lower lip to suppress her laugh. I take a bite of a croissant and chew obediently.

Mr Clément, the downstairs neighbor, calls me l'Américain. We meet him in the stairs on our way out for a walk. He looks older than ever. His wife died of cancer six months ago. I say I'm sorry.

"It's hard," he says. "I had only her. Fifty-five years we were together."
He glances at Jenny.
"I see you're doing well, l'Américain. Is this your fiancée?"
"My girlfriend Jenny. She's American."

Jenny nods.

"How long have you been living in America?" he asks me.
"Seven years. But I came back to visit two years ago."
"Seven years? When are you coming back for good?"
"I'm not sure."
"Your parents must be happy to have you back. And you to be back home."

I smile politely.
A lot of people call me l'Américain. Friends and cousins I call on each of my trips back to France. How are you l'Américain? Happy to be back home, l'Américain? None of them can figure out why I left France for the United States.

At lunch time, I sit with my father at the dining table, while Jenny helps my mother in the kitchen. He pulls his chair next to mine and lowers his voice.

"Your mother isn't doing well..." He pauses to clear his throat. "She's very worried these days. She'd like to know when you will be back for good."

I knew this would happen. My mother is my father's best alibi. Whenever he wants something from me, he uses her health to make me feel guilty. Another old habit from the time he was a cop, dealing with runaway kids. He kept telling me I would end up killing my mother if I didn't do this or stop doing that. After all these years, I still resent his emotional blackmail.

"Your mother dreams about you coming back home. She wakes up at night and can't get back to sleep. She'd be so happy if you could settle down."

Settling down means getting a job in France, a house, a wife, and a couple of kids.

"With Jenny?" I say.
My father shrugs. "You're old enough, you know. I won't tell you what to do. But Jenny seems like a pretty nice girl to me..."

The kitchen door opens and Jenny comes in carrying a plate, followed by my mother.
I can tell my parents are fond of Jenny.

"I don't speak English, and it's a shame," my mother tells her. "But I'd love to come visit you two in Boston."
"The thing is," she adds, winking at me, "your father doesn't want to."
My father protests. "That's because of the flight. We're not that young anymore, you know. Your mother gets tired when we drive. Boston would be too long a trip for her."
"I'm not old," my mother says. "I could travel around the world. The truth is, your father wets his pants at the idea of flying!"

We all laugh. My father has never flown in his life. The first time I boarded a plane with my mother (a fifteen minute flight at a local fair), my father refused to get in. He spent the whole time watching the aircraft circle in the sky, expecting it to crash.

Every afternoon, Jenny and I take long walks around the city while my parents take a nap. I show her the gothic cathedral where I was baptized, the Renaissance bridge I crossed on my way to school. At first, she's thrilled by everything she sees, but soon there isn't much left to discover. In a guide book, she read about the vineyards and castles of the Loire valley.

"I'd love to visit the countryside," she says. "Why don't you borrow your father's car?"
"He won't allow me."
"Your father won't let you drive his car?" She frowns in disbelief. "You're thirty-five, you're a grown man."
"My age has nothing to do with it, Jenny. He just won't let anyone drive his car."
"Do you want me to ask him for you?" she says, putting on an air of innocence.
"Please do," I say, for nothing better comes to my mind.

The way Jenny stares at me, I feel like a bug under a magnifying glass.

"You know what?" she says. "You can't let your parents treat you like a ten year-old all your life."

It feels like a slap. I open my mouth but find nothing to say.

On our last night, Jenny and I decide to go to a movie. A French movie, Jenny insists, although she might miss a lot of the dialogue. My parents are disappointed.

"I thought you would spend your last evening with us," my father says.

I can't tell him how glad Jenny and I are to escape the nightly TV session.

"Don't stay up too late," my mother says, "or you won't get up on time to catch your train tomorrow."
"It's a cold night," my father adds. "You should wear a sweater."

The word sweater echoes in my mind as Jenny and I walk hand in hand on our way to the Studio theater. When I was thirteen, I went to a movie with the girl I was in love with. It was a cold summer night, yet I wore a short-sleeved shirt unbuttoned halfway. I thought it looked cool and might impress her in some way. Through the whole movie, I waited anxiously in the dark for the perfect moment to kiss her. Then, the movie ended. I was mad at myself. With a tight throat, I offered to walk her home, hoping I would have the nerve to kiss her on her doorstep, in a movie-like ending. As we walked out of the theater, my hopes evaporated: across the street stood my father, beside his illegally parked car. In his hand was one of my sweaters.

"I came to give you two a ride home," he said. "How was the movie?"

Then came the worse part.

"Put this on," he said, handing me the sweater, "or you'll catch a cold again."

I refused, bragging that I was never cold, but my father made a scene. Looking for my date's approval, he told her how I would catch pneumonia and never do what I was told. I could tell she was trying hard not to laugh. On the way back, the girl chatted cheerfully with my father. Sitting next to her in my sweater, I felt like a miniature version of myself, as seen from the wrong end of a telescope.

The next morning, my mother wakes us up with a storm of knocks against the door.

"Get up, or you'll miss your train."

No matter it's only 7 and our train leaves at noon. Jenny and I play dead. I sink back into sleep, and awake soon after to the sound of my parents' voices from the dining room.

"Did you wake them up?" my father asks.
"I tried. They must have gone back to sleep."
"They'll miss their train."
"I know. What do you want me to say?"
"Don't count on me to rush them to the station if they're late. Go wake him up."
"Why don't you wake them?"
"It's your responsibility. You started that. Years ago. Waking him up for school every morning."
"He's thirty-five now. He's not a child anymore."
"Well, he sure acts like one."

My father's old time strategy: pressuring my mother to do what he couldn't do, while making sure I witness the whole argument. I wake up Jenny and get up, defeated.

"I wanted to make sure you wouldn't miss your train," my mother says at breakfast with a sorry smile.
"You're such a good Maman," I say.
"How was the movie?" my father asks.
"Crap," I say.
"The movie was very good," Jenny says.
"What kind of sandwiches do you want?" my mother says. "I'll make them now, so that you don't run late."
"We have plenty of time, Maman. Stop being the perfect mother."
My father glances at me. "Your mother is a perfect mother. I'm not sure how you'd do without her."

No one speaks for a moment.

"So when are you planning to come back?" my father asks, breaking the silence.
"Maybe July, or August," I say.
"I'm not talking about vacation," my father says, irritated. "I mean, when are you coming back for good?"

I shrug.

"Why don't you answer your father?" my mother says.
"Because I'm tired of him always asking me the same question, Maman."

My father keeps silent. The muscles of his jaws contract rhythmically as if he were chewing gum.

"You could be nicer to your father. Especially in front of Jenny."
"Jenny knows better, Maman. You don't have to feel sorry for her."

Jenny smiles in embarrassment at my mother.
"Why exactly did you come, then?" my father says abruptly, as if waking up, his hand coiled into a fist. "Why bother coming home if you're not happy to see us? Why not just stay in America, since it's so much better than home?"

He stands up, throws his napkin on the table, walks out to the kitchen and slams the door behind him. A long silence follows, as when an actor leaves the stage after a heartbreaking monologue. Jenny peers into her coffee cup.

When my mother speaks, her voice is strangely serene. "You didn't have to spoil it all just before leaving. You should go and apologize to your father."
"Me, apologize?" I say. "Why shouldn't he apologize for once? All these years, he has been running your life as if you couldn't make a decision by yourself. And every time I come back, he pretends he's running mine."

My mother flattens her hands on the table, takes a deep breath.

"Your father is worried."
"Papa, worried? You must be kidding. Papa blows everything out of proportion. With him, a spill of water turns into a flood and a gas leak into a chemical attack. He always worries about everything I do or don't do."
"It's not about you," my mother says. "Your father is worried about the apartment..."
"The apartment? What about it?"
My mother sighs, drums her fingers on the dinner table. "I really shouldn't tell you this," she says, visibly embarrassed. "Your father asked me not to."
"What is it that Papa doesn't want me to know?"
"We have a new landlord," she says. "The building was bought by a bank. They're talking about turning all the apartments into offices."

My mother's words hit me with a short delay, like arrows in slow motion. I stare at her in disbelief. Jenny touches my arm, an anxious look on her face. When I translate, her eyes widen in surprise.

"Why didn't he say anything?" I ask.
"He didn't want you to worry."
I sneer. "Papa worrying about me worrying?" I pause. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm not sure what your father will decide," my mother says, pointing with her chin to the kitchen door.

My hands are loaded with the breakfast dishes, a pretext for me to enter the kitchen. My father stands facing the window, exactly the way I pictured him, sulking like the child he becomes when he encounters opposition. He stiffens at the clatter of the dishes in the sink. I turn on the faucet, and grab a sponge, watching him out of the corner of my eye.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you..."

My words drown into the flow of water. He keeps peering out the window, his temple pulsing rhythmically.

"I hope you're not doing the dishes," my mother calls from the dining room. "Pack your suitcase or you'll miss your train."

I keep silent, scrubbing the same coffee cup over and over. I rinse it and wipe my hands against the legs of my jeans. My father sneers.

"You just say you're sorry because you need me to drive you to your train."

"I'm not begging you for a ride, Papa. Anyway, I decided to call a cab."

He nods slowly, as if answering silently to someone waving hello from the street.

"So then," he says, "you don't even trust my driving anymore."
"I just want you and Maman to come with us to the station. I'm sorry, but your new car is too small. Once we fit our luggage in it, there'd be no room left for Maman."

He just stands there, his back to me.

"Why didn't you tell me about the apartment?" I say, staring hypnotically at his spine to make him face me.
"Of course, she had to tell you," he says, in a defeated tone of voice. "She can't hold her tongue."
"Maybe she's right. Maybe we should talk about it. What if they kick you out?"
"Maybe," I add softly, "that wouldn't be so bad after all."

My father half-turns, showing his profile, one frowned eyebrow.

"What do you mean, not so bad?"
"Maybe, it's the opportunity to move to a place, you know, lighter... bigger... on the ground floor... with an elevator..."

He shakes his head. "You don't understand. Your mother and I, we've been here fifty years. This apartment, you may not like it, but it's our home. We know all the neighbors. We meet them every morning at the bakery and butcher shop. Besides, our rent is cheap. We couldn't afford anything downtown. We'd have to move out of the city." He pauses. "There used to be a frontyard down there, you know. Right there, where the landlord parks his cars. You don't remember, but we used to grow flowers..."

"I remember, Papa. I played hide-and-seek in the yard after school with Vincent..."
"The flowers? Do you remember the flowers?"
"I remember. Our cat used to eat them, and it drove Mr Clément insane."

His shoulders shake as he lets out a nervous laugh. He turns to me, a faint smile on his lips.

"Maybe I could help with the rent," I say. "If you find a place you like in the city."
As an answer, he looks at his watch. "You'd better call your cab now or you'll be late."

We have a half-hour to kill before the train leaves. Jenny decides to buy postcards for her family. She walks into the bookstore with my mother, holding her arm. I stay outside with my father, watching people. Neither of us speaks. My father hides his clenched fists in his pockets. I see the shape of his knuckles through the fabric of his raincoat. In a gesture that surprises me, I lay my hand on his shoulder. I have never touched my father like this before. I look with curiosity at my hand on his shoulder, not knowing what to do next, if I should keep my hand where it is and for how long. I wish he would do something, but my father doesn't move. We remain motionless, as if frozen in time, indifferent to the movement of the crowd around us.