Rare Objects (44 page)

He glared at me. The idea that he was enigmatic was clearly precious to him. “You wouldn't understand,” he assured me.

“No, I wouldn't. I've never been in a war. But what is it you think? That you should've done something differently?”

Apparently no one had ever challenged this perception, or probably any conviction he'd held before.

He glowered at me, but I stood my ground. After a minute he gave up. Instead he stared at his shadow in the glow of the streetlamp as it stretched far beyond the limits of his natural form, reaching out to touch the darkness around us. “My brothers shouldn't have died, Fanning.”

“No, probably not.”

“And I shouldn't have survived without them. They were better men than me,” he said quietly. “They will
always
be better men than me.”

“That's not possible,” I said.

“I hate to disabuse you—”

“Don't talk rubbish. Besides, how would you know what kind of man you are?”

He considered this a moment before finally saying. “I was given special treatment. It wasn't fair. I don't deserve it.”

“You were lucky.”

“Luck?” He gave a hard laugh. “I would rather die from honest effort and endeavor!”

“Well, then maybe I'm the lucky one.”

I could feel him looking at me, but I avoided his eyes, kept mine firmly on the ground in front of me.

We walked on, taking the long way back through the steep, narrow cobblestoned alleyways that wound through the night. Open windows brought sounds of radios, music, and laughter; of other lives, close and yet removed in their private world.

Finally we reached the shop.

I caught sight of myself in the window and remembered my first day with my new blond hair, imagining myself to be different. Tonight the weightless curls seemed contrived, faintly ridiculous.

Mr. Winshaw shoved his hands deep in his pockets. “You must navigate by means of your own natural compass.” It was the only piece of advice he'd offered me all evening.

“And if my compass is broken?”

“Then you must learn to compensate. Sail a little crooked, make adjustments, but you must set your own course, or the journey is meaningless.” He took out another cigarette, sat down on the front steps. “But for what it's worth, Maeve, I don't think your compass is broken.”

“You called me by my first name.” I sat down too.

“I must be tired.”

I yawned, leaning my head against his shoulder. He still smelled of far-off shores and distant lands, but also of Peking duck, strong, earthy sweat, and the powdery sweetness of laundry soap. “Why do you have to keep leaving?”

“You and Kessler don't need me here. Besides, someone has to go out and land the big fish.”

“Are you going to speak in maritime metaphors all night?”

“I have a few more good ones left. I'm working on one with a lighthouse and a ship in a storm.”

I closed my eyes. “If I didn't know any better, I would think you were trying to impress me with the adroitness of your mind.”

He said nothing, but put his arm around me. My body relaxed against his, and I fell asleep.

Just before dawn, a chorus of birds began. I woke up, neck stiff, Mr. Winshaw's arm still round me, only now it was limp and heavy, a dead weight. I wriggled out from underneath, and he shifted, automatically readjusting himself against the doorjamb.

Someone had left a nickel on the pavement in front of us, taking us for homeless. Rubbing my neck, I looked down at Mr. Winshaw, curled on the front steps, his face a picture of perfect contentment. He had the knack of wearing his circumstances with ease; even sleeping rough, he managed to appear in his element. Kneeling down, I tapped his shoulder. His eyes flicked open. “What is it now, Fanning?”

“It's time to go home.”

Folding his arms into his chest, he closed his eyes again. “I'm fine.”

“No, you're not.” I shook him harder. “Someone will see you.”

Eventually I got him into the shop, where he immediately stretched out on the floor as happily as if he were lying on a pile of down mattresses.

“Good night, Fanning,” he said, shutting his eyes.

I opened the door. “Good morning, Mr. Winshaw.”

I got home just as the early dawn light began to bleed into the night sky. The flat was still, Ma asleep. Outside, the street was peaceful too; it was Sunday, the one day of the week in the North End when business was not as usual.

I didn't bother to go to bed but instead ran a hot bath and scrubbed away the sweat and city filth, lathered my hair until the water rinsed clear. Then I lay soaking, staring up at the peeling paint on the ceiling, and thought about James Van der Laar, about how being with him had been like being drunk—unable to see straight and think clearly. And how seeing him with his wife had been like waking up someplace strange, coming to and discovering the horror of what I'd done.

And then I thought about Mr. Winshaw; of his arm around my shoulders and the way he would pause just a little, the light in his eyes sharpening, before he launched off on yet another tangent, like a man scanning the horizon for his next destination.

I sat in the bath until the water went cold and my fingers wrinkled, remembering his warm smell.

Afterward I made coffee and dressed. While the coffee was brewing, I dug around among the books underneath my bed until I found something I hadn't looked for in years—my old cigar box. Crammed right into a corner under a pile of old magazines, it was covered in a thick layer of dust. I opened it. There were the stacks of gold and silver chocolate wrappers, ticket stubs, long faded, stray buttons, and scraps of ribbon. Buried at the bottom was the bowtie. I took it out. It was older and cheaper than I
remembered; in my childhood mind I'd believed it was made of black silk, shiny and smooth. But it was just cotton. I had made it into what I wanted it to be. There was nothing here of any value. But I couldn't bring myself to throw it away. So I put it all back and placed it under my bed again.

When Ma woke up, I was in the kitchen, beating eggs.

Pulling her dressing gown tighter, she stood in the doorway, confused. “What are you doing?”

“Making breakfast.” I took down a skillet, put it on the stove. In the oven, slices of bread were toasting. “Sit down. It'll be ready in a minute.”

She sat down. I scrambled eggs and poured her a cup of fresh coffee.

“You're never up this early on a Sunday,” she said.

I divided the eggs and toast between two plates and set them on the table. “I thought I'd go to early mass with you.”

She seemed more wary than relieved. “Really?”

“Uh-huh.” I pushed a jar of plum jelly across to her. “I want to go to confession.”

“I wasn't sure you believed in that anymore.”

“I believe in believing in something, Ma.”

I hadn't realized I thought that until that moment; until I'd been sitting across from her with no distractions, no noise, no James Van der Laar devouring all the space in my head. For weeks I'd avoided being alone with her; my anger and hurt were too raw. But out of nowhere, out of time and distance and loss, came this simple conclusion: it was better to believe in something than in nothing.

She'd given me that.

And not even Jack Carney could take it away.

I reached for the butter. “How's work?”

“Fine.” Ma took a bite of toast. “Miss Craddox is getting married.”

“Good for her. Are you going to apply for her job?”

“I don't know.” She shrugged. “Maybe.”

I felt a sudden wave of tenderness. “They don't deserve you, Ma.”

She scowled, unused to sentiment. “You know, you're not looking after yourself. We need to dye your hair again.” She waved her fork at me. “Your red roots are starting to show.”

“I've been thinking. It's too difficult to keep up.”

“No!” Horrified when I dyed my hair in the first place, now she was appalled that I might stop. “But you can't! What about your job?”

“Jeez!” I laughed. “I thought you hated it! Besides, isn't there something we can use—some rinse?”

“You mean henna? It's like mud!”

“So we cover me in mud, Ma.”

“It's hardly dignified, changing your hair color like a vaudeville actress!” Shaking her head, she took another bite of toast. “Well, I always said, Maeve, you never should've done it. You should have listened to me in the first place.”

“You're right. I should have.”

The air changed; an autumn chill settled over the city in the mornings, and the leaves began to fall. It had been weeks since I'd heard from Diana; after her party she became caught up in the whirlwind of wedding arrangements and all but disappeared within the world to which she was raised. So I was surprised when
out of the blue she rang me at the shop and asked me to meet her at the apartment one evening after work.

It was odd to be back at Waverly Mansions. I hadn't been to the apartment in months. It looked exactly the same, still pristine and new and oddly impersonal. Once it had been a haven, but now the space and freedom felt only empty and abandoned. I suppose we were the ones who were different.

When I arrived, Diana was already there, sitting on the sofa, smoking, wearing a light blue linen traveling suit. Her shoes were kicked off, feet curled underneath her. A suitcase was waiting by the door, keys and a train schedule on the table. Her hat and gloves were laid out neatly on the back of the armchair.

“Thank you for coming, May.” Her tone was strangely formal.

Outside it began to rain, a sudden gust of wind rattling the window.

“What's all this?” I nodded to the suitcase as I sat down. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Just for a few days before the wedding.” She attempted a smile, but there were dark circles under her eyes, and her skin was drained of color as if she hadn't slept in days.

“How nice!”

“Yes.” She took another drag. “Lucky me.”

I could feel the tension pull tight between us, though I wasn't sure why.

“Diana—” I began.

But she cut me off. “You know, I never use the place anymore, do you?”

“No.”

“That's strange! You see, I came here the other night, for the first time in ages. I had to get away from my family. I wanted to
be alone, to think.” She paused. “But I wasn't alone for very long. Someone knew just where to find me.”

I felt the bottom of my stomach disappear and my head grow light, as if all substance had suddenly drained away inside.

“He got the doorman to let him in.” She gave me a wry smile. “James got to you, didn't he? I told you to stay away from him, but he always manages somehow.”

I opened my mouth to deny it but couldn't.

The full weight of my accumulated lies and betrayals settled upon me. In the moment when I'd needed them, they'd appeared deceptively light, justifiable, even harmless. But now they threatened to overwhelm me.

She gave a hard laugh. “That brooch. That stupid, bloody brooch! I knew the instant I saw it, but I didn't want to believe. You're not the only one, you know. He used to get them in by the dozen!”

She meant to hurt and humiliate me, and she succeeded. I couldn't blame her for her bitterness.

“I'm sorry!” I tried to explain. “But he said that if you were in danger . . . that you'd done things in the past and you would again. . . . He was worried that he wouldn't know where to find you . . .” My thoughts knotted, tangled and confused.

“What else did he say? That I was a liar? Crazy?” Her voice was oddly calm. “I thought I could trust you.”

“You can!”

“And then, of course, there's this.” She placed the black agate ring on the table between us—the ring of Nemesis. “The cleaning lady found it under the bed. Am I mistaken, or doesn't this belong to you?”

I wanted to look away but couldn't. Instead I blinked stupidly at it.

He told me he'd lost it.

Leaning forward, she stubbed her cigarette out. “I could've sworn that you were wearing it the first time I met you at the house, May.”

“It belongs to James. I wasn't here, Diana. I swear.”

I could tell she didn't believe me. “Is this where you two meet? Here in the apartment I pay for?”

He'd used the apartment, but not for me.

“Go on.” She pushed it closer. “You can have it back if you want. Something for your jewelry collection.”

Her sarcasm was almost as painful as my sense of self-loathing.

“I don't want it.”

“How noble!”

My anger flared. “That's not fair! It's not mine—it's his! And I wasn't here, Diana! Not without you!”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“No! I don't expect you to believe anything I say!” I got up, headed for the door. “But then, you never really trusted me, did you?”

“What are you talking about?”

I turned. “You always held me at arm's length, always kept me on the outside of your life! If he was able to come between us, it's because you let him!”

“Is that what you think?” She sounded incredulous. “That your duplicity is
my
fault?”

“You're just as manipulative as he is!” I shot back. “Coming and going as you please. Never telling anyone the whole truth. People like me are just toys to be picked up and tossed down whenever you tire of them. You have no loyalty, no true depth of feeling for anyone else but yourself!”

Her face changed, and her tone grew lethal. “You have no idea what you're talking about!”

“Of course I don't!” I paced the floor. “How could I? You never tell me anything!”

“You're not the only thing in my life, May. You're not the only person I have to consider!”

I laughed. “Now who are we talking about? Max? Charlie Peabody? Your posh new friends? Who is it this time?”