Broken for You (20 page)

Or perhaps,
Margaret thought, her heart doing a sudden giddy-up dance,
it's delighted. Perhaps it's pleased that it's going to be touched again, after so long a time, in an intimate, familiar way. It's going to interact with something besides a feather duster. Perhaps all of them
—
the vases and figu
rines, the egg cups and inkstands and game pie tureens, the wall pockets and asparagus plates, the foot bath!
—
perhaps they're grateful that finally, finally, they don't have to wait anymore. They're going to come out of their dar
k
niches and off their pristine shelves, into the sunlight, into human hands, to experience something riotous and passionate. Like the breaking of the glass at the end of a Jewish wedding!
Margaret thought, immensely pleased at how fitting it was.
L
ike that!

Margaret pictured Wanda alone in her house, moving through the rooms with her brisk, light footsteps and her flickering, restless energy.

Yes,
Margaret thought, closing her eyes again and settling deeper into the lounge chair.
They're happy. They're happy at last.

"Shouldn't we save something for special occasions ?" Wanda asked. They had each had three glasses of champagne. This meant several things:

"Maybe you're right," Margaret replied. "Like Easter!"

"Like Chanukah!"

"Like Bastille Day!" Margaret began to sing loudly, and badly, in her beautifully accented French.
"Allons enfants de la patrie, le jour de gloire est arrive!"

"Your birthday!"

"Oh, no!" Margaret said, refilling their Dixie cups. "Heavens, no. Much too far away. How about yours? When is it?"

"Don't celebrate birthdays."

"Why ever not?"

Wanda shrugged and took a swig of champagne.

There she goes again,
Margaret thought.
Doing her disappearing act. Funny girl.
"My husband Stephen made this wall," she said.

"Really?" Wanda replied. "I wondered."

"It took months to finish."

"I believe it. This kind of thing is really hard to do."

Margaret had to admit, she'd never considered this. "I suppose it is."

Wanda got up. Stepping carefully, she made her way to the wall and let her hands explore its surface. "He did this all by himself?" Wanda asked. She liked wedging her fingers into the cool, smooth, shadowy recesses where the rocks touched.

"Yes. Stephen worked on this the whole time I was pregnant."

Wanda was surprised. She'd never heard Margaret mention children before. "That's nice."

"Day and night. I'd wake up at two or three o'clock in the morning— one gets so uncomfortable, you know; or else the baby wakes up and starts kicking up a storm—and Stephen would be gone. I'd find him out here, with one of the living room lamps plugged into an extension cord. I haven't thought about that for years. But then"—Margaret took off her glasses and massaged her closed eyelids with the tips of her fingers—"I don't come out here often."

Wanda sat down on the edge of the wall and took a deep breath. "Well, I like it."

"Daniel used to call this—the patio and the walls, I mean—his 'bubble house.'" Margaret paused and laughed. "It always came out 'Bubba!' 'My Bubba house!' he'd say, like a Southern sheriff, and Stephen would make jokes about boiled peanuts and moonshine."

"Daniel is—?"

Margaret didn't answer right away. "I'm sorry," she said. "Did you ask me something?"

"Daniel. He's . . . ?"

"My son. Stephen made this wall to keep him close to the house when he first started walking. To keep him safe."

"That
is such
a nice story," Wanda said, with the slurred emphasis of a person who's had too much to drink and feels just fine about it. She
waited, assuming that Margaret was going to say more about her son. Instead, she fell silent and sipped on her champagne.

Wanda perceived nothing unusual about this—how could anything that happened between them be called unusual after today?—and so she cleared a place next to the wall with her foot, sat down on the patio floor, and began examining the china fragments surrounding her. She felt an odd tenderness toward them, and she sensed keenly that, whatever Margaret might intend, her relationship with these pieces was not finished, and would involve more than a broom and a dustpan and a trip to the city dump.

Margaret gazed westward over the large expanse of land that sloped down and away from the patio. Situated as it was at the top of a hill, the property looked out on an almost completely unobstructed view of the Olympics.

When is the last time I was out here?
she wondered.
It feels as though it's been years. Surely not. Surely it can't have been that long.
She looked toward the carriage house, where a few crowded, anemic-looking daffodil and bluebell shoots had begun to emerge. She thought she could see Daniel, crouching under the empty window box, flinging a handful of bulbs into the air, and then laughing when they dropped onto his head. He was three. Margaret's eyes clouded. She rubbed them, looked up again, and saw an older Daniel—six or seven, maybe—waving to her from the upstairs window of the carriage house.

This is fascinating!
Margaret's mother said, sauntering outside in a cranberry-colored peignoir. She was intent on reading a small book embossed with the words, "My Special Year." /
had no idea you spent so much time thinking about me, Margaret. And in verse, no less. It's really quite flattering.

You don't mind that I had everything wrong?

Margaret's mother made a preemptive gesture. She began to recite in quavering melodramatic tones:
"As silent as one's conscience when temptation hovers near, she ne'er will sing a lullaby or hold her daughter near." That's quite good. . . . God in heaven, Margaret! What have you been doing out here?

Lightening the load, Mother. Remaking the world in my own image.

What a blasphemous thing to say.

Mother, who was Carmella Manzito?

Who?

Carmella Manzito. She gave me a biscuit canister for a wedding present. She wanted me to have a happy life.

How should I know? I didn't go to your wedding, in case you've forgotten. I'd been dead for decades.

Sorry, Mother.

I mean really, Margaret!

Well, it's not as if you haven't been lingering. I thought you might hazard an educated guess.

What was the name again? Manzito. Carmella.

Sounds Italian.
Margaret's mother took hold of the edges of her peignoir robe and began twirling her wrists in small figure eights. She had a coy, self-aware look, as if she were trying to inspire a display from a male peacock.
Probably one of your father's chippies,
she said, lightly.
He had quite a few, you know. I'm sorry to dispel any illusions you may have about your father, Margaret, but the truth is, he acquired a lot more than fine antiques during all those trips to Europe.
She sighed and swooned gracefully into Wanda's lounge chair.

You know what, Mother? You're not invited to this party. Please leave. What a rude thing to say. What's come over you, Margaret? I already told you: I'm remaking the world. You know what the world looks like, do you?

I know what my world looks like,
Margaret replied, and turned her attention to Wanda. She was studying a large fragment of a dinner plate. It had cracked roughly in half, but much of its outer edge was still intact.
Hers, too, I imagine.

From what I can tell, you know nothing about her.
Margaret emptied the last of the champagne into her cup.
Climb into this bottle, why don't you, Mother. I'll give you a ride.

That's NOT funny!
Margaret's mother replied. Then, with magnificent hauteur, she arose from her lounge chair and exited the scene.

"Heads up!" Margaret threw the champagne bottle against the wall farthest from Wanda.

"How much more of this sort of thing do you plan on doing?" Wanda was regarding the patio floor critically. She leaned over and adjusted the position of a tiny crystal fragment.

"Maybe all of it. Everything. I'm not sure yet."

Wanda put a finishing touch on her work, stood up, and stretched. The sun was low on the horizon, and it was chilly. Wanda gathered a blanket around her shoulders and snuggled into her lounge chair. "Champagne all gone?"

"Here," said Margaret. "Finish mine."

"Thanks. This was a really good idea."

"You know, I've never felt that the name 'Wanda' suited you. I've always wanted to call you something else."

"Really? What?"

Margaret paused, and then said, "Tink."

Wanda wasn't sure she'd heard correctly. "Tink, did you say?"

"Yes. That's right."

"Huh. Okay. Tink it is." She was almost asleep when Margaret spoke again.

"How would you feel about my taking in more boarders?"

"You mean, along with the overnight guests?"

Margaret laughed. "Yes."

"It's your house, Margaret. Do whatever you want."

"Yes, but, it's your home too now, Tink."

"Fine with me," Wanda murmured. "As long as they don't have cooties." She closed her eyes and instantly began to snore.

Margaret finished off the last of the champagne, and then got up and tucked another blanket around Wanda's sleeping form. She walked to the place where Wanda had been arranging the fragments of china and glass. In their new incarnation, the pieces formed a loose mosaic of a winged patchwork cow. Having escaped the pages of a dusty book of nursery rhymes, the old girl was finally off the shelf and out in the air, smiling broadly, vaulting breezily over a gold-encrusted, winking moon.

Fourteen

Detective Lorenzini

Margaret woke her at five o'clock. Wanda shuffled zombielike into the kitchen, but was resuscitated by the spicy, muscular aroma of freshly brewed coffee. On the stove was her French press coffeemaker; Margaret was already pouring her a cup. A meal had been set out on the kitchen table: tuna salad sandwich on white bread, cut into four neat triangles; a cup of tomato soup freckled with oyster crackers; a glass of milk; a shiny green apple, and three Fig Newtons. Wanda was ravenous, and her head was pounding. "Aren't you having anything?" she asked.

"Not right now," Margaret replied. "Please, sit down and eat."

"Thanks, Margaret. This is really nice of you."

Margaret sat, pencil and paper in hand. "Help me write an advertisement, will you?"

"Did you decide to sell the rest?"

"The rest of what?"

"Your things."

"Oh, no. It's for the boarders. How do you think the ad should read ?"

Wanda sipped her coffee. Perfect. The mere suggestion that caffeine was on its way instantly defogged her brain " 'Two crazy women seek additional crazies to join our asylum. Must have good throwing arm. Cooking skills and caffeine addiction a plus.'"

Margaret laughed. "Really, though, are you sure this is all right? You'll be sharing your bathroom with another person."

"Sharing a bathroom?" Wanda said. "With one other person? Believe me, Margaret, it's no problem." As Margaret looked on, she dug in and ate everything, down to the last bite.

Inside the theatre, the house and work lights were turned off, and one of the Act One cues was set up. Troy was standing at the top of a large ladder in the middle of the stage. He had his arms over his head and was adjusting a lighting instrument. Normally, Wanda would have appreciated the early presence and initiative of an assistant; instead, she felt testy. She needed to confront him, and soon, about this tension between them, this unspoken
thing,
whatever it was.

She called to him from the back of the house. "Hey. What's up?"

He looked out across the darkened audience, shielding his eyes from the glare. "Hey," he said, as if he'd been expecting her. "It's this instrument. It's still not aimed right. You wanna stand where Nora is, for her special?"

"Sure." Wanda dumped her backpack and sprinted down the aisle. When she arrived at the lip of the stage, she planted her hands on the stage floor, pushed strongly, swung her legs to one side, and launched herself up over the edge. She stationed herself left of center stage, precisely where the actress playing Nora stood when she gave her speech. Food and coffee had left her feeling fortified. Her competence was restored, her confidence was back, it was business as usual. What a relief.

Troy began tilting the lighting instrument, working with a patient, minute precision that reminded Wanda of the way a musician tunes a violin. She closed her eyes. A fragmented cobalt-blue image, like an exploding comet, danced across the inside of her eyelids. As Troy continued to try and find the exact placement for the light, she felt a subtle warmth gliding across the planes of her face.