Rare Objects (39 page)

“No,
defective
!” she insisted. “Cripples don't choose to be lame,
but they are, nonetheless, and we help them, don't we? We don't allow them just to hobble along when we can operate and make their legs straight! Well, maybe some people are simply born abnormal. Their characters are defective the way some people's bodies are. But if I don't try to change—I mean
really
try—then I won't know what I'm capable of.”

She'd obviously been thinking about this for a while, but her arguments had the hollow sound of someone else's labored logic. She was only fighting with me so she could convince herself.

“What about the No Way Out Club?” I asked. “What about the freedom to do as you like, regardless of what others want?”

Suddenly doubt shadowed her face; her borrowed resolve faltered. “Some things are more important than freedom.” She turned, staring again at the little boy on the other side of the lake. “They say Dr. Alder works miracles. So who knows? Maybe he can even cure me.”

It was a wet, dreary afternoon, full of summer thunderstorms. Charles Street was all but abandoned. The rain beat endlessly against the tin shingles on the roof, and Persia sat crouched like a sphinx by the open front door, staring at the gutters overflowing with water.

Still in his overcoat and hat, Mr. Winshaw had just arrived from the train station. He'd spent several days in Philadelphia, discussing a future expedition in Turkey with colleagues at the University of Pennsylvania. The meeting had gone well. Plans were being drawn up; a proposed alliance with the British Museum had been suggested. Now, despite the dreary weather, excitement crackled around him like electricity.

“So”—he tossed his hat on top of a filing cabinet in the corner,
smiling at his own skill—“with any luck we'll be able to leave in another month or so. The Germans have dominated that site, but there's room for expansion on our part. It's an enormous undertaking. I've no idea how involved it will be. It could take years.”

“Years?” I hadn't realized he was leaving again so soon, and for so long. “What site exactly? Where?”

“Oh? Didn't I say? Pergamon, the ancient Greek city that legend says was founded by Arcadians. One of the most remarkable and complete Greek remains in the world. In the book of Revelations, it's called one of the Seven Churches of Asia.” He put his feet up on his desk and popped a square of chocolate into his mouth. “Do you know the library of Pergamon was second only to the library of Alexandria in the ancient world? They've already excavated a theater, Roman baths, several temples . . .” He sat up, pointed to its location on his map. “Here we are, right on the Aegean Sea. The landscape in that area is magnificent!”

Mr. Kessler and I watched glumly as he stuck a pin into it.

“Actually”—he took a deep breath—“I've got a lot to get in order and not much time.” He rummaged around on his desk. “My passport papers are here somewhere. They need to be reviewed. I should contact the British consulate and get a visa extension. You type, don't you, Fanning? You can help with that.” He moved an old shoebox out of the way. “What's this?”

“Oh! That's mine,” I said quickly, taking it from him. “I left it there this morning. I'm sorry.”

“Been out shopping?” He gave me the sort of indulgent smile that was akin to a pat on the head.

“No, it's just some . . . well, actually”—I opened the lid to show them—“I broke one of my mother's teacups. I thought there might be some glue here to repair it.”

Mr. Kessler picked up a few of the pieces. “A Staffordshire willow-pattern design. Very nice. But you seem to be missing quite a bit. It's been seriously damaged.”

“I know.” Every time I looked at the broken remains, it reminded me of our argument, and our disappointment in each other.

“Actually, there's a legend behind this design,” Mr. Kessler said. “Do you know it? A pair of young Chinese lovers, betrayed. They die in the end, and the gods are so touched by their love, they take pity on them and immortalize them as doves. Though”—he looked doubtful—“I'm not certain this poor example will ever have a second chance.”

“Leave it with me,” Mr. Winshaw said. Obviously his good fortune had put him into a magnanimous mood.

“What's the point, if it can never be used again?” I put the lid back on.

“Fanning, I'm an archaeologist! I spend half my life piecing broken things back together!” He took the box from me, tucked it underneath his arm. “I think I can repair a teacup.”

Mr. Kessler drifted back into his office, but I lingered. Picking up a stack of outgoing letters, I pretended to be checking their return addresses. “What a thrilling opportunity. You must be excited.”

“Can't wait.” He pulled out some files and rummaged through them for his passport papers.

“It's not dangerous there, is it?”

“The whole world is dangerous, Fanning. What difference does it make?”

“No difference.” His glibness was irritating. “It's just a shame, that's all. That you're leaving so soon.”

“What else am I going to do?” He closed the file cabinet; his search had been unsuccessful.

“Stay.” I pointed out the obvious. “Why do you own a shop if you never want to be here?”

“Poor planning, I suppose.” He picked through his desk drawers. “The sad truth is I'm feral, and there doesn't seem to be a cure. People have tried to housebreak me, but it's never stuck.”

“What people?”

He looked up, surprised. “It's not like you to be curious, Fanning.”

“I'm not.” I backtracked. “Not really. I'm just trying to understand you.”

“Oh. Well, I wouldn't bother. Look, if you like I'll clear all my things out. Give you some room to work while I'm gone.”

I couldn't imagine the office or even the shop without all Mr. Winshaw's books.

“But this is your office, your things!”

“Yes, but—”

“You're coming back, aren't you?” It came out panicked and sharp.

“Of course.” His eyes searched my face, perplexed. “You could always write,” he said softly.

My whole body flushed from embarrassment and, even worse, excitement. Was he teasing me? Or was he serious?

I turned away so he couldn't see my face. “Honestly, Mr. Winshaw. I don't know where I'd find the time.”

“Ouch!” Ma winced. “Take it easy, Maeve! That's a comb, not a rake!”

“Then sit still,” I reprimanded, forcing her to face front. “Honestly, you're like a child who has to look at everything!”

She was sitting on a chair in the center of the kitchen with a towel over her shoulders, the floor covered in newspaper. “I don't know why you want it so short anyway.” I stood behind her, trimming her wet hair. “It would suit you better long.”

“Not when you get older. As one ages, one must adopt a more conservative appearance.” It sounded like something she'd read in the pages of
McCall's
again.

I concentrated, biting my lower lip hard. Her hair was as thick as mine, with natural waves that she tamed every night with pin curls. Every time I cut a bit off, her hair bounced back even more unruly and full, like a mythical hydra. “Maybe you should've gone to M. Antoine.”

“I have complete faith in you. Oh, look!” She strained to see out of the window. “Is that Mrs. Marinzano, wearing a new hat? My goodness, she's let herself go! I hardly recognize her.”

“Stop moving!” I pushed her back into her seat again. “I nearly took your ear off.”

“Why are you in such a bad mood?”

“I'm not in a mood.”

“Yes, you are,” she insisted. “You've been in a mood for weeks.”

I knew she was right. I'd been irritable and anxious, even though I was trying my best to contain it. In fact, the only time I wasn't on edge was when I was either about to meet James or with him. When we were together, I could lose myself and forget about anything else. But as soon as we parted, my thoughts spun out of control. I'd never been jealous before, but now I was fearful and suspicious. I couldn't concentrate on anything else for more than a few minutes at a time. The sound of his voice had the power to
send my heart racing with excitement. But by the same token, silence devastated me, leaving me empty and alone.

“It's nothing,” I told her. “I'm tired, that's all.”

“That's what you always say!”

“And it's always true!”

I didn't want to fight with her, really I didn't.

“Well”—she folded her arms across her chest—“I don't know what I've done wrong to make you snap at me!”

I decided to change the subject. “So, I've been thinking, Ma. Would you want to see a play with me?”

“A
play
? You mean, in a theater?”

“Of course in a theater! Where else do they have plays?”

She turned to look at me, again nearly losing her other ear in the process. “Since when do you go to the theater?”

“It's just something I wanted to do. You know, to broaden my mind.”

“What kind of play?” she asked cautiously, as if I were about to subject her to something distasteful.

“There's a production of
A Midsummer Night
's Dream
opening soon. The balcony seats seem reasonable, especially if you wait and buy them on the day.”

“A
Midsummer Night's Dream
.” Her voice became reflective. “That's the one with the fairies, isn't it? And the donkey?”

I was impressed. “That's right. How do you know that?”

“There was a woman I knew who used to read Shakespeare to the children when I was growing up, at the public library. I guess that one stuck with me.”

Ma almost never talked about her childhood. I'd asked many times, but she was staunchly evasive, claiming she couldn't remember anything or that the details were so unremarkable that
they weren't worth repeating. But now, out of nowhere, a random gem spilled out. This was the first glimpse into my mother's past that I could recall in a very long time.

“She used to read to you?” I prompted.

“That's right. On a Saturday afternoon. I went with my brothers. The children sat in a circle on the floor in front of her, and she did all the voices of the characters. That was in the days before radio; it was like magic to us. Of course, after my mother died, all that stopped. Father never let us go anywhere.” She took out a cigarette and lit it. “But sometimes I used to sneak off anyway. It was warm and dry between the library shelves, and if you were holding a book, they couldn't kick you out.”

“Didn't you go to school?”

She shook her head. “Not until later. But one of the librarians took pity on me. She gave me a job cleaning the ashtrays, sweeping floors, stacking books, and in return she taught me how to read.” She took a thoughtful drag. “Miss Caroline Frears.”

“And what kind of books did you read?”

“Novels. Serials. Dickens and Collins.” She laughed. “Miss Frears thought they were lowbrow! She called
Bleak House
‘unspeakably vulgar'!”

I was fascinated. “You never told me that.”

“She had very particular ideas about what constituted good taste.”

“What was she like? Was she pretty?”

“No.” She smiled. “But she was elegant. She told me, ‘Act like a lady, and you'll be treated as one.'”

“That's what you say to me now!”

She nodded. “Once a month, on a Sunday afternoon, she would invite me to tea. She showed me how to pour and serve and hold
my cup.” She imitated the stiff-elbowed posture. “Like this, just so. And not to gulp my cake!” She chuckled, remembering. “She had a tea service very much like ours. Only it had all the pieces, right down to a matching sugar bowl.”

I was hungry for more.

“And your brothers? What were they like? What happened to them?”

She gave a little shrug. “I'm not sure.”

“What was your mother like? Was she kind? Did she look like you?”

“I don't remember.”

“What was your father like?”

Her face changed. “He was a beast.”

It came out hard as stone, an iron door, slammed shut.

I'd asked too many questions. The conversation was over.

Suddenly irritated, she ran her fingers through the hair on the side of her head. “You've not cut that short enough, Maeve. I can't sit here all day—I've got things to do!”

I combed it out again and began trimming off the ends.

“You know”—Ma flicked the ashes of her cigarette into her palm—“those plays are awfully long. You should go with someone else. I think I'm too old for fairy tales.”

I was alone in the shop one morning when a gentleman came in, dressed in a boldly fashionable blue seersucker suit and lavender tie. His straw boater was tilted at a rakish angle, and he moved with a certain barely contained energy, as if he might burst into dance at any moment. His eyes were lively and sharp, his mouth curved automatically into a smile, as if he were forever enjoying some private joke.

He sashayed up to the counter. “Good day. I believe Mr. Kessler is holding something for me,” he said, giving me a sideways glance, as if we were involved in a secret alliance. “My name is Mr. Tresalion.”

“Certainly, sir. I'll have a look.”

Mr. Kessler hadn't mentioned anything, but after searching, I found a box under the counter with a card on top of it, Mr. Tresalion's name written on it in Mr. Kessler's spidery hand.

“Here we go. This must be it.” I opened it up.

Mr. Tresalion reached inside and pulled out a tiny blue-and-white porcelain container with a silver stopper. The entire thing fitted neatly into the palm of his smooth, manicured hand. “Oh, yes!” He beamed enthusiastically. “What have we here?”