Holden Sr. wore military boots and a sergeant’s coat. They climbed up the steps of the Palais des Papes. The palace was white, and Holden didn’t see any popes. But he saw a bridge that stopped in the middle of the water, and he wondered what a bridge like that could bring. His dad was the handsomest guy in town. Holden Sr. had different-colored bars and stripes across his chest and the palace walls were reflected in the wax of his boots. Holden wouldn’t talk French with his dad. He was an American boy. Holden and his dad were polite to all the priests and nuns who settled on the palace stairs. The priests were taking pictures. And Holden wanted one of his dad, so he could remember him in his uniform and the white gloves a sergeant major was allowed to wear. He posed with his dad for a number of priests and scratched his address on a sliver of sandwich paper, so the priests wouldn’t forget to send the photographs. The nuns had floppy capes and their stockings gathered round their knees like stalks and Holden asked his dad if these nuns were his people.
