The Puppet Maker's Bones (19 page)

“Nor did I,” Pavel said.

“You have never?”

“Never. Only you.”

“Well, Pavel Trusnik.”

“Yes, Žophie Trusnik?”

“I think we should do this some more, don’t you?”

Pavel laughed again. How Žophie made him laugh.

“Shall we have a bath, first?”

“Is there a bath?”

“Every modern convenience for my bride. No expense spared. I did, after all, promise your father.”

Later in the bath, finally naked, they bathed each other, each staring at the other as they explored and touched and admired each other’s bodies.

“I think the corset is a horrible invention,” said Pavel.

“You are not alone in that thought,” she said, and seemed pensive. “You never went to those houses in town—”

“Never.”

“I don’t believe you. How do you know what to do, to do that—”

“I do not spend all my time carving the faces of marionettes or putting on puppet theatre, you know. I have read a book or two.”

“There are books about—”

“Everything. Why do you think this theatre rat is so good at drawing up plumbing design plans for the construction of your new bath? What do you think of your bath, by the way?”

“It is beautiful. I plan on spending my entire life in here.”

“I hope not!” He pulled her to him and kissed her again.

“What day were you born?” she asked.

“What?”

“What day of the week were you born?”

“Wednesday, I think. I don’t know.”

“
Wednesday’s child is full of woe.
Are you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Pavel.

“The poem!
Monday’s child is fair of face, Tuesday’s child is full of grace, Wednesday’s child is full of woe, Thursday’s child has far to go, Friday’s child is loving and giving, Saturday’s child works hard for a living, But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day is bonny and blithe and good and gay.
”

“So if you’re born on Church Sunday, all is well?”

Žophie snuggled into him. “It’s a poem. But you do sometimes appear sad to me. Are you sad now?”

“I think sad and woe might be different, but no, I am not sad now. I am the happiest I have ever been in my entire life. And that is saying something.” He laughed.

They made love again, facing each other in the tub, the water splashing over them. Pavel had never been so happy. He looked into her eyes.

“I love you.”

At that moment, Žophie’s nose started to bleed.

Kevin: Present Day

K
evin examined the contents of a cigar box he’d found when looking through the backpack he’d stolen from the generic boy from the bike shop. The backpack would serve as a souvenir of his day, slumming in Reseda. He did not go there very often. A blighted area. Very neglected. Graffiti sprayed not only on fences and walls, but on trees. What kind of person tags a tree? It had been raining when he left Reseda, and when he returned to Pasadena, the sun was shining and there was no sign of a storm.

He studied the cigar box, which was old and more than likely, had belonged to someone else before the generic boy got ahold of it, a grandparent, perhaps. He lifted the lid and found a rolled up length of red embroidery thread, and an expired passport. Generic boy must have gone somewhere with his family? He turned the pages to look for stamps. Guatemala, Peru, Mexico. Guess the family had a thing for South America. He read the name. Josh Aloyan. Armenian. He found a stack of post-it notes with words scrawled on them. They appeared to be random quotes from children’s stories by authors such as Lemony Snicket and Hans Christian Andersen, for the authors were credited next to the quotes on the post-it. They meant nothing to him.

“Honestly,” Kevin said aloud. “Why do people save this shit?”

Kevin used his sleeve to wipe down the cigar box and tossed it into the garbage can near the cafe by the bus stop. Enough food would be thrown away in the garbage can that the cigar box, and its contents, could be destroyed within a day. He had second thoughts about keeping the backpack and went around to the dumpster located in the parking lot behind the cafe. He wiped down the pack with his sleeve while wearing his skater gloves, then tossed it in the dumpster, along with the gloves.

He skated home and ascended the stairs. He took a moment to look at the Victorian across the street. No flutter of drapes. As usual.

“You’re just in time for dinner!” called his mother.

“Great! What are we having?” he responded, ever the dutiful and perfect son.

“Turkey meatloaf.”

“‘Meatloaf, smeatloaf, double-beatloaf. I hate meatloaf,’” Kevin quoted from
A Christmas Story
as he walked into the spacious kitchen. Unlike the perfectly preserved Victorian across the street, Kevin’s parents had done a remodel on their kitchen that included the requisite Sub-Zero refrigerator drawers, glass-fronted cabinets, and granite countertops, the latest suburban remodel trends.

Kevin’s mom, a young-looking woman in her mid-forties, playfully swatted him with the spatula. “You love meatloaf,” she said.

“I know. I just like saying that. It’s funny,” he said. “Dad home yet?”

“He has to work late. It’s just us. Can you handle it?” His mother set down the plates, added a large bowl of salad to the center of the table and poured herself a glass of Pinot Noir.

“Can I have a glass?”

“Don’t push it. Get yourself some water.” Kevin poured himself a glass from the filter in the door of the refrigerator.

“How was soccer practice?” his mother asked.

“Oh. You know. Same old.” Kevin had not played soccer in months, but his parents had no idea. Their schedules did not allow them to attend games, so Kevin’s entire extracurricular schedule was free to do as he pleased during those times they thought he was at practice or at a game. No one at the school had reason to contact them regarding his withdrawal from the team.

“I so totally nailed one guy in the face,” Kevin said.

“Kevin! Is he all right?”

“You mean, will he live?” Kevin burst out laughing and didn’t answer the question. He stuffed meatloaf in his mouth and watched his mother drink her wine. On the nights his father worked late, he could count on her finishing the bottle and going to bed early.

It was turning out to be a perfect and wonderful day. “Hey, Mom, so, have you ever met the old guy across the street?”

“Mr. Trusnik?” his mother said.

“You
have
met him? You know his
name
? I never knew that.”

“I know his name, not him. I can’t remember who told me. One of the neighbors. He’s been here longer than anyone on the street, though how long that is, I don’t know. He inherited the house from his family, according to neighborhood talk. He has family members who are supposedly the original owners. They go back several generations to when Pasadena was not even Pasadena yet.”

“They said something about that at school. Iowa Colony, Indiana, something like that?”

“Something like that—that’s all you got? Listen harder.”

“Whatevs.”

Kevin chewed his meatloaf. He looked expectantly at his mother for more information.

“In answer to your question, no, I’ve never met him. I hear he’s a shut-in since his wife died.”

“Oh. When did she die?”

“Not sure. Before our time here.”

That confirmed to Kevin that there was only one person in the house.

“So nobody has ever seen him? How can that be?”

His mother became impatient. “Why all the questions about an old man? I thought your generation didn’t care about old people.”

“Our generation. What is that?”

“I don’t know. Why do you want to know about him?”

Kevin answered, nonchalant. “Well, he’s our neighbor, isn’t he? I mean is he okay over there by himself? Does he need anything?”

“I’m sure his family or someone takes care of him.”

“Have you ever seen anyone go over there?”

“Kevin, I really haven’t given it much attention. I don’t spend my time staring at the neighbors’ houses. Nor should you. It’s rude.”

“Whatevs.”

“‘Whatevs?’ What is that? You can’t finish words already dismissive enough? You’re dismissing the dismissive word. Boggles the mind. What
ever
, yourself. Eat your dinner.”

Kevin considered the new information supplied by his mother.
Mr. Trusnik
. He had a name. Kevin could use that when he let himself in.

“Speaking of the neighbors,” said Kevin’s mother, “did you hear the Hague’s cat got killed by a coyote last week? And the Nelsens lost their dachshund as well. Terrible.”

“Good thing we don’t have a pet,” said Kevin.

His mother poured another glass of wine. “It’s terrible. You never know. I hear they travel in packs. One will approach and then the others come from out of nowhere and surround the animal before they tear it apart. I heard that a man was walking his dog in Hollywood and was approached by a coyote and then another came out from under a parked car right there on the street. They tore his dog right off the leash in front of him.”

“That’s kinda cool,” said Kevin.

“Okay, no it’s not.”

Kevin thought about Sprinkles, the Hague’s cat, that had been so stupid and trusting when it came up to him and rubbed against his leg. He had snapped Sprinkle’s neck without thinking about it. He took it behind his house and started on the carcass with his scalpel, then used the butcher scissors from his mother’s knife block to do the rest of the job. He wanted to make it look like a coyote had been lurking in the neighborhood. He kept the eviscerated and decaying body in a plastic bag behind the gardening shed for a couple days before going out at night and dumping it in the Hague’s yard—a little something horrible for the kids to see when they left for school the next day. Kevin used to play soccer with the youngest Hague boy, Lance. Kevin didn’t like Lance.

As far as the Nelsen’s dog, Fred, that was not Kevin, but probably a coyote. Coyotes got credit for a lot of things Kevin did, but they did do a fair amount of damage on their own. Kevin smiled at the thought.

“What are you smiling about?” asked his mother.

“Nothing. I was thinking about something. What’s for dessert?”

“Nothing. Eat a banana or something. There might be some cookies in a drawer. Go help yourself.” Kevin’s mom was starting to get a bit snarky, something she did after a few glasses of wine. It was time for Kevin to make his exit. He would wait after darkness had descended for a few hours before crossing the street.

1884

Ž
ofie lay in the hospital bed, her wasted body pale and thin, blood drying in the cracks of her lips which could no longer be kissed without causing excruciating pain. Pavel, a young man appearing to be all of eighteen, stood in the waiting area, watching her ravaged form through the filter offered by the distance of the waiting room to her hospital bed. He could see her hospital bed and her wasting body through a sliver of an opening in the doorway. Everything was off. The interior walls were an industrial off-white, the octagonal tile also off-white and scarred with scratches and gouges. The lights flickered from overhead oil lamps giving everything a mottled and distorted appearance, and the air was thick with the smell of human frailty in all its forms: blood, urine, sweat, vomit, disappointment, impatience, and grief. None of this should be happening. Pavel stood, powerless. He focused on a section of Žofie’s arm to shut out the smells and the despair, the anguish masked by alcohol baths and powdered cleansers.

A voice spoke from behind Pavel’s shoulder.

“It isn’t easy, is it, knowing you’re responsible?”

Pavel spun around to see a man standing behind him in the corridor. The man was large, with red hair. He seemed familiar to Pavel, but in his grief he could not place where he might have met him or where he had seen him before. The red-haired man held a hat in one hand and had an overcoat draped over his other arm, which was unusual for the warm weather of Pasadena. Pavel could not discern his age, maybe thirty, maybe fifty. Pavel had never been good with that sort of thing. The stranger held the countenance that Pavel had seen on countless hospital clergy since his and Žophie’s arrival, a combination of knowing resignation and hope that only a person in the profession of religion could effectively get away with without appearing to be ridiculous. This particular man, however, had something very different about him. It was his eyes. Where the pupils should be, with their unrevealing darkness surrounded by iris, instead appeared a flickering glow, bluish at first and then amber, then red, then back to blue again and ever changing. Pavel started, for he knew those eyes. The constant changing color and intensity emanating from their center, generating out into the irises, gave them an unnatural depth and knowing quality that frightened Pavel. Yet he thought the eyes seemed familiar—Trope?