Little Fires Everywhere (15 page)

On Monday, she sent the children to school and dawdled at home until Mia arrived to clean. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, but she needed to see Mia in person, to look her in the eyes. “Oh,” Mia said as she came in the side door. “I didn't expect you to be home. Should I come back later?”

Mrs. Richardson tipped her head to one side and studied her tenant. Hair, as always, unkempt atop her head. A loose white button-down untucked over jeans. A smudge of paint on the back of one wrist. Mia stood there with one hand on the doorway, a half smile on her face, waiting for Mrs. Richardson to respond. A sweet face. A young face, but not an innocent face. She didn't care, Mrs. Richardson realized, what people thought of her. In a way, that made her dangerous. She thought suddenly of the photograph she'd seen at Mia's house that first day, when she'd invited Mia into her home. The woman turned arachnid, all silent, stealthy arms. What kind of person, she thought, would transform a woman into a spider? What kind of person, for that matter, saw a woman and even thought
spider
?

“I'm just leaving,” she said, and lifted her bag from the counter.

Even years later, Mrs. Richardson would insist that that digging into Mia's past was nothing more than justified retribution for the trouble Mia had stirred up. It was purely for Linda's sake, she would insist—her oldest and dearest friend, a woman who'd only been trying to do right by this baby and now, because of Mia, was having her heart broken. Linda did not deserve that. How could she, Elena, stand by and let someone ruin her best friend's happiness? She would never admit even to herself that it
hadn't been about the baby at all: it had been some complicated thing about Mia herself, the dark discomfort this woman stirred up that Mrs. Richardson would have much preferred to have kept in its box. For now, the newspaper still in her hand, she told herself that it was for Linda. She would make a few calls. She would see what she could find out.

M
rs. Richardson's first step was to read up on Pauline Hawthorne. She'd heard of Pauline Hawthorne before, of course. When she'd taken her art electives in college, Pauline Hawthorne had been
the
hot new thing, much talked about, much imitated by the photography students who wandered the campus with cameras strung around their necks like badges. Now that she saw the photographs again she remembered them. A woman seen in the mirror of a beauty parlor, half her hair wound neatly in curlers, the other half streaming loose in a tousled swirl. A woman touching up her makeup in the side mirror of a Chrysler, cigarette dangling from her lacquered lips. A woman in an emerald-green housecoat and heels, vacuuming her goldenrod carpet, the colors so saturated they seemed to bleed. Striking enough that even all these years later, she remembered seeing them flashed up on the projector screen in the darkened lecture hall, catching her breath as for a moment she was plunged into that vibrant Technicolor world.

Pauline, she learned now, had been born in rural Maine and moved to Manhattan at the age of eighteen, living for several years in Greenwich Village before bursting onto the art scene in the early 1970s. Every art book Mrs. Richardson consulted described her in glowing terms: a
self-taught genius, a feminist photographic pioneer, a dynamic and generous intellect.

About her personal life Mrs. Richardson could find very little, only a brief mention that she had maintained an apartment on the Upper East Side. She did find one interesting tidbit, however: Pauline Hawthorne had taught at the New York School of Fine Arts—though apparently not out of need for money. A few years into Pauline Hawthorne's career, her photographs had been selling for tens of thousands—quite a lot for a photographer of that time, let alone a woman. After her death in 1982, their value skyrocketed, with MoMA paying nearly two million to add one to its permanent collection.

On a hunch, Mrs. Richardson looked up the number for the registrar at the New York School of Fine Arts. The registrar, when presented with Mrs. Richardson's credentials and told she was verifying some facts for a story, proved to be extremely helpful. Pauline Hawthorne had taught the advanced photography class at the school for many years, right up until the year she had died. No, there was no Mia Warren in any of Professor Hawthorne's classes in those last few years. But there had been a Mia Wright in the fall of 1980; might that be who Mrs. Richardson was looking for?

Mia Wright, it turned out, had enrolled that term in the School of Fine Arts as a freshman, but in the spring of 1981 had requested, and been granted, a leave of absence for the following academic year. She had never returned. Mrs. Richardson, doing some quick mental math, calculated that Mia—if this was even the same Mia—would not yet have been pregnant with Pearl that spring. So why would Mia have taken a leave from school, if not because she was pregnant?

The registrar balked at giving out student addresses, even fifteen-year-old ones. But Mrs. Richardson managed to learn, through some
artful questioning, that the address on file for Mia Wright had been a local one, with no parents listed.

She would have to work the problem from the other end, then. And soon an opportunity presented itself, in the form of a much-anticipated letter. Since Thanksgiving, Lexie had checked the mail first thing when she came home, and at last, in mid-December, a fat envelope bearing the Yale logo in the corner finally landed in their mailbox. Mrs. Richardson had called all their relatives to share the good news; Mr. Richardson arrived home with a cake.

“Lexie, I'm taking you out for a fancy brunch this weekend to celebrate,” Mrs. Richardson said at dinner. “After all, it's not every day you get into Yale. We'll have some fun girl time.”

“What about me?” Moody said. “I just get to stay home and eat cereal?”

“She said
fun girl time.
” Trip laughed, and Moody scowled. “You want in on fun girl time?”

“Now, Moody,” Mrs. Richardson said. “It's like Trip said. This is just to celebrate Lexie. We're going to get dressed up and have a little girls' morning out. ”

“Then what about me?” Izzy demanded. “Does that mean I get to come?”

Mrs. Richardson had not anticipated this. But Lexie's eyes were already alight, Lexie was already chattering about where she wanted to go, and it was too late to say no. And then, that evening, as she was washing her face before bed, an idea occurred to Mrs. Richardson, a way this luncheon might serve another purpose, too.

The next afternoon she came into the sunroom just before dinner. Under normal circumstances she left the kids alone, feeling that teens needed their space, that they were entitled to some degree of privacy. Today, though, she was looking for Pearl. As always, she was sprawled on the couch with Lexie and Trip and Moody, all of them half sunk into its
overstuffed cushions. Izzy lay on her stomach on the armchair, chin propped on one armrest, feet in the air over the other.

“Pearl, there you are,” Mrs. Richardson began. She settled herself gingerly on the arm of the sofa beside Pearl. “The girls and I are going out for brunch on Saturday, to celebrate Lexie's good news. Why don't you come, too?”

“Me?” Pearl threw a quick glance over her shoulder, as if Mrs. Richardson might be talking to someone else.

“You're practically part of the family, aren't you?” Mrs. Richardson laughed.

“Of course you should come,” Lexie said. “I want you to.”

“Go tell your mother,” Mrs. Richardson said. “She's in the kitchen. I'm sure she'll say it's all right. Tell her it's my treat. Tell her,” she added, “that I insist.”

Across the room, Izzy slowly pushed herself up on her elbows, eyes narrowing. It had been over three weeks since her mother had promised to look into Mia's mysterious photograph, and when she'd asked about it, her mother had said only, “Oh, Izzy, you always make such a big deal out of nothing.” Now her sudden interest in Pearl struck Izzy as strange.

“Why'd you invite
her
?
”
she demanded, once Pearl had skipped out of hearing.

“Izzy. How often does Pearl get to go out to brunch? You need to learn to be more generous.” Mrs. Richardson rose and straightened her blouse. “Besides, I thought you liked Pearl.”

This was how Pearl found herself at a wooden table in the corner next to Lexie, across from Mrs. Richardson and a sulky Izzy. Lexie had chosen the 100th Bomb Group, a restaurant out near the airport where the family
went for very special occasions, the most recent being Mr. Richardson's forty-fourth birthday.

The 100th Bomb Group was crowded that morning, a dizzying swirl of activity and a bewildering buffet that stretched the length of the room. At a carving station, a burly man in a white apron sliced roast beef from an enormous rare haunch. At the omelet station, chefs poured a stream of frothy golden egg into a skillet and turned out a fluffy omelet filled with whatever you desired, even things it had never occurred to Pearl to put in an omelet: mushrooms, asparagus, coral-colored chunks of lobster. All over the walls hung memorabilia of the men from the bomb squadron: maps of major battles against the Nazis, their medals, their dog tags, their letters to sweethearts at home, photographs of their planes, photographs of the men themselves, dashing in uniforms and cadet hats and the occasional mustache.

“Look at him,” Lexie said, tapping a photo just behind Pearl's ear. “Captain John C. Sinclair. Wouldn't you just love to meet him?”

“You realize,” Izzy said, “that if he's still alive, he'd be about ninety-four now. Probably has a walker.”

“I mean, wouldn't you have wanted to meet him, if you'd been alive back then. Way to split hairs, Izzy.”

“He probably bombed cities, you know,” Izzy said. “He probably killed lots of innocent people. All these guys probably did.” She waved a hand at the expanse of photographs around them.

“Izzy,” Mrs. Richardson said, “let's save the history lesson for another time. We're here to celebrate Lexie's achievement.” She beamed across the table at Lexie, and by extension at Pearl, who sat beside her. “To Lexie,” she said, raising her Bloody Mary, and Lexie and Pearl raised their goblets of orange juice, luminous in the sun.

“To Lexie,” Izzy echoed. “I'm sure Yale will be all you've ever wanted.” She took a swig from her water glass, as if wishing it were something stronger. At the table beside them, a baby slammed its chubby palms on the tablecloth and the silverware jumped with a clatter.

“Oh my god,” Lexie mouthed. She leaned across the aisle toward the baby. “You are so cute. Yes, you are. You're the cutest baby in the entire world.”

Izzy rolled her eyes and stood up. “Keep an eye on her,” she said to the baby's parents. “You never know when someone might steal your baby.” Before anyone could respond, she headed across the room toward the buffet.

“Please excuse my daughter,” Mrs. Richardson said to the parents. “She's at a difficult age.” She smiled at the baby, who was now trying to cram the fat end of a spoon into its mouth. “Lexie, Pearl, why don't you go ahead, too? I'll wait here.”

When everyone was back at the table, Mrs. Richardson began the delicate work of turning the conversation by degrees. As it happened it was easier than she'd expected. She began with that trusty topic, the weather: she hoped it wouldn't be too cold for Lexie in New Haven; they would have to order her a warmer coat from L.L. Bean, a new pair of duck boots, a down duvet. Then she turned to Pearl.

“How about you, Pearl?” she said. “Have you ever been to New Haven?”

Pearl swallowed a forkful of omelet and shook her head. “No, I never have. My mom doesn't like the East Coast much.”

“Really,” Mrs. Richardson said. She slid the tip of her knife into a poached egg and the yolk ran out in a golden puddle. “It's a shame you've never been able to travel out there. So much to see. So much culture. We
took a trip to Boston a few years ago, remember, girls? The Freedom Trail, and the Tea Party ship, and Paul Revere's house. And, of course, there's New York, so much to do there.” She gave Pearl a benevolent smile. “I hope you'll be able to see it someday. I truly believe there's nothing like travel to broaden a young person's perspective.”

Pearl felt stung, as Mrs. Richardson had known she would. “Oh, we've traveled a lot,” she said. “We've been all over the place. Illinois, Iowa, Kansas, Nebraska—” She paused, casting about for something more glamorous. “We've even been out to California. A few times.”

“How wonderful!” Mrs. Richardson refilled Pearl's glass from the carafe of juice on the table. “You really
have
been all over. Quite the traveler, actually. And do you like it, moving around so much?”

“It's okay.” Pearl stabbed a piece of egg with her fork. “I mean, we move whenever my mom finishes a project. New places give her new ideas.”

“You're growing up to be a real citizen of the world,” Mrs. Richardson said, and Pearl, despite herself, blushed. “You probably know more about this country than any other teenager. Even Lexie and Izzy—and we travel quite a bit—even Lexie and Izzy have only been to a handful of states.” Then, casually, “Where have you spent the most time? Where you were born, I imagine?”

“Well.” Pearl swallowed the egg. “I was born in San Francisco. But we left when I was just a baby. I don't remember it at all. We never stay in any place too long.”

Mrs. Richardson filed this piece of information away in her brain. “You'll have to go back someday,” she said. “I believe in knowing where your roots lie. That kind of thing shapes your identity so much. I was born right here in Shaker, did you know that?”

“Mom,” Izzy said. “Pearl doesn't want to hear all of that. No one wants to hear all of that.”

Mrs. Richardson ignored her. “My grandparents were one of the first families to move out here,” she said. “This used to be considered the country, can you believe it? They'd have stables and carriage houses and go riding on the weekends.” She turned to Lexie and Izzy. “You girls won't remember my grandparents. Lexie was only a baby when they passed. Anyway, they moved here and stayed. They really believed in what Shaker stood for.”

“Weren't the Shakers celibate and communist?” Izzy asked, sipping her water.

Mrs. Richardson shot her a look. “Thoughtful planning, a belief in equality and diversity. Truly seeing everyone as an equal. They passed that on to my mother, and she passed it on to me.” She turned back to Pearl. “Where did your mother grow up?”

Pearl fidgeted. “I'm not really sure. California, maybe?” She poked her omelet, now gone rubbery. “She doesn't talk about it much. I don't think she has any family left anymore.” In truth, Pearl had never had the courage to ask Mia directly about her origins, and Mia had deflected her roundabout questions with ease. “We're nomads,” she would say to Pearl. “Modern-day gypsies, that's us. Never set foot in the same place twice.” Or: “We're descended from circus folk,” she'd said another time. “Wandering is in our blood.”