Web of Angels (11 page)

“Mental illness—” Mimi began

“How’s the tofu teriyaki?” Sharon asked.

“You bought it, didn’t you?”

“Yes. But it’s just the same as if I marinated it in teriyaki sauce. All the vegetables are organic and I didn’t use canned beans in the salad.” Mimi believed that metal was toxic for Jake.

“You should make the sauce yourself. How do you know what’s in it?”

“I can take the package out of the garbage and show you.”

“No, don’t bother.” She dumped his teriyaki into her bowl, and served him bean salad over rice instead. She
approved of rice, heaping bowls of it. “You aren’t having any rice, Eleanor?” she asked.

“I’m on a diet.”

“Even the best wife can’t make miracles out of a pantry without rice. What kind of rice cooker is that?” she asked, staring at the microwave rice cooker on the counter. “It’s so small.”

“I got it for them. It’s just the right size,” Eleanor said. She turned toward her husband, arguing with him in a whisper. He replied in a testy undertone. Their eyes locked. Even with his bad back, they would manage to make up later. There were ways. Through the wall they could hear the teenage son next door playing the saxophone.

Mimi peered over at the kids, pushing up her square glasses to see better. “The girls look very nice today. You, too, Judy. Even with running shoes, you have a nice sweater. Your Auntie Sharon picked a good colour and a good style to make for you. Put the hood back so everyone can see your face.” Judy screwed up her nose, but obeyed. She took after her father, wiry, unmusical, allergic to wheat. “There is nothing wrong with looking nice,” Mimi went on. “Josh’s friend knows how to dress. Very dainty. Did someone make your sweater, Cathy?”

“No, Mrs. Lewis.” A polite tone, a polite smile. “My mother bought it.” The sweater was pale pink, with a knit collar and three glitzy buttons. Her jeans had the same buttons on the fly and the pockets. “She buys all my clothes. My closet is stuffed.”

“Lucky girl.”

“I hate my clothes. I wanted Heather’s, but they got rid of everything.”

Looking over her shoulder, Sharon saw Cathy stiffen. The little girls were pinching each other.
Mommy! She hurt me! Mommy, she started it!
And then Judy, whose interest in makeup was new and unsure, having spent a good chunk of her childhood learning how to use her father’s tools, waved her hand in front of her face and drawled, “Who cut the cheese?”

Their grandpa was sniffing the air. “I farted,” he said, and added with wonder, “It was a silent one, but it stinks more than the noisy ones.” Everyone stopped talking. He looked surprised by that and pleased. “Someone else’s farts always smell worse than your own,” he said, since they were interested. “Why is that?”

“Zaidey!” Judy said.

“God makes all the farts. Why should anybody’s stink worse?”

“Some people’s don’t stink at all,” Cathy mumbled.

“My wife’s do,” Jake beamed. “I love you. And you. And you. And you.” He pointed to each of his grandchildren, to Cathy, to his children and their spouses, to the floor, to the glass doors, to the tofu that his wife had disdained. He moved his gaze and blessed his wife with an impish smile. “And you most of all. Even your loud farts. Why shouldn’t I? God brought you to me. All the way from China.” He smiled at Cathy. “You only had to come from around the corner.” For a moment Mimi suspected he hadn’t lost any marbles at all and in her gratitude left well enough alone.

After dishes were cleared, the kids decided to arm-wrestle.
Emmie watched while Nina took on Judy, and Josh wrestled Cathy, whose blonde hair fell over her face, the part no longer ruler straight. Her back was bowed as she leaned into her arm, other hand pressed against the table, trying not to slip on the tablecloth. She put her all into it, for one contest was all contests, and Josh was equally in earnest, his hand clasping hers, bare feet flat on the floor. When he won she swore, and Sharon nearly laughed to hear the expletive burst from those perfectly glossed lips. Cathy called for a rematch, but Josh just laughed at her.

The sun had set and the sliding glass doors were a mirror now, reflecting her family, the one she had married into and made. At the sink, her mother-in-law was singing a popular song from her childhood:
wo yao hui jia, Shanghai is scary, I want to go home, Mama
. The kitten crept out of his hiding place between the fridge and the washing machine to slurp his supper. The kitchen smelled of soy sauce, vinegar, cinnamon and baking apples, lemony dish soap, and all of it, each separate smell, even the sulphuric odour that had emanated from Jake, was the smell of love. And if it wouldn’t have seemed absurd, Sharon might have cried, because, inside, there was such longing to have had a family like this.

“Forget it, Ally.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“I’m not scary.” She stamped her foot.

“Lils aren’t allowed out.” Alec had her by the arm, pulling her back.

“Oh come on,” Lyssa said. “Nobody has to know. Let her have some ice cream. She won’t talk.”

“I won’t,” Ally said. “Promise!”

Her teddy bear wanted ice cream. Two kinds. With chocolate sauce on it. And marshmallows. And sprinkles. And cherries. But no nuts. Oh, and caramel sauce. And cookie pieces. And M&M’s. And gummies. And Nerds.

Cathy was putting two huge scoops on her cone. Joshy said she couldn’t eat it all and she was saying you bet, just watch and she made her mouth big, taking big bites. Ally liked that girl. The daughters ate their ice cream slow. Jake sneaked some when Mimi wasn’t looking and she said, Jake! Everyone sat together at the blue table. The little girls on laps and big kids squished in. Danny licked his ice cream fast like a cat. He made Ally laugh and the laugh comed out of the mouth and Sharon went to wash a dish in the sink.

“Later,” Alec said. “When there’s no one around.”

“Hey,” Lyssa said. “Don’t look so sad. You’ve got Echo and the other lils and all of us. Singletons don’t have anybody. They’re all alone inside.”

They pushed her away and she slid down to the playroom. Some of the lils were playing in a tent, and others with the castle and someone was swinging but Echo was sitting on the teeter-totter, waiting for her. A wall was pink, a wall was blue, a wall was yellow and a wall was green. If she wanted paints, she could have paints, and with her fingers polka dot
the walls and nobody would get mad because it was inside and it was their room. “I don’t want to play,” she said. But she did. With real playdough squished in her fingers. She could make a turtle. She could make a hat. She could put the hat on the turtle. Outside.

“You don’t like me anymore,” Echo said.

“I do so.” She got on the teeter-totter.

“Why are you mad?”

“I’m not.” She made the teeter-totter bump hard.

She liked to go everywhere with Echo. Except sometimes. If she was let outside with her outside people that she loved. She’d do that. Nina, Emmie, Joshy, Danny, Jake and Mimi. Her peoples. But she wasn’t let. She wasn’t supposed to be alive.

M
agee’s Family Restaurant, established 1931, had previously been the lunchroom for women workers at the Ford Motor Company on Hammond Street, where they’d eaten opposite the showroom with its potted trees and chandeliers and the latest Model Ts. Later the building had been taken over by Planters’ Peanuts. On the main floor, newsmen from the
Evening Telegram
had eaten lunch at Magee’s and bought cigars from Jake. Now where his shop had been, smartphones were sold. Debra Dawson’s pediatric practice was on the second floor, Dan’s office on the fifth. But the exterior of the building was the same, with its great arched windows and oxidized copper, built when machines and factories were made beautiful to celebrate the glories of industry.

“Do you think Dad misses the store?” Eleanor asked. It was the second Tuesday of the month, breakfast club at Magee’s, and she’d got her sister-in-law to agree to come by running with her first.

“Maybe,” Lyssa said. “I bet a part of him still remembers.”
She’d dressed in leggings and leg warmers to run, an undershirt, sweater, sweatband, clothes she’d dug out of drawers that held nothing pretty. She yanked off the sweatband, pushed back her hair. “Let’s get a seat. I’m starving.”

Four tables were pushed together for the breakfast club. Some of the women were dressed for the office, others in moms’ going-out attire: makeup, earrings, the sexy top (so called because it actually fit and had no stains on it). The menu used to be on paper placemats, but was now in a book of laminated sheets with a red and gold cover. The walls were still covered with autographed pictures of famous hockey players and actors in cheap frames.

“Who’s next?” Harold Magee was asking, a gnomish man with a knobby nose and a fringe of grey hair. Only the lower part of his mouth moved when he spoke. He always took the orders himself for breakfast club.

Lyssa plunked herself in the chair that Ana—in a blue sari today—pulled out for her. In her sari and heavy gold jewellery, thick hair in a long braid, her smile modest, Ana looked deceptively traditional. But she was a chemist, and her best friend was Laura Anderson because she loved Ana’s baby. Taking the empty chair that was opposite Lyssa’s and beside Debra Dawson, Eleanor sat down to study the “Healthy Choices” section of the menu.

Debra was wearing more makeup than usual, but she was managing to keep up with her routine. Her suit was fitted at the waist. On its lapel, she had a silver and gold pin, the silver hand-beaten so nobody could mistake it for base metal. She never missed breakfast club with the moms, not
even after her daughter’s death. That was the kind of person she was. Everyone said so. She lived here in Seaton Grove even though she could afford a bigger house just south of the original village.

Lyssa picked up a bun from the breadbasket, spreading it thickly with butter, ignoring the chat all around her.

I can’t decide what to have. What are you having? A cheese omelette, egg whites only. How’s your mom doing? Better thanks. Did you hear that someone bought those two boarded-up cottages near the school? It’s about time they were torn down. Where are you putting your kids this summer? I’m not sure about the others, but Rupert will go back to the boys and girls club. He’s used to it
.

This last was Sofia speaking, the homeschooling mom. Her youngest kid was autistic. She wore the coolest retro cat’s eye glasses. That was what Lyssa would get if she wore glasses. She liked Sofia’s jacket, too. It was black with green lining and flared sleeves with green silk-covered buttons along a slit at the cuff.

“Your jacket is cool. Where’d you get it?” she asked as her eggs and fries arrived.

“Chinatown. You aren’t going to eat that, are you?”

“Why not?” Lyssa dipped a fry in the yolk.

“It’s loaded with cholesterol.”

“Is it?” Like she fucking cared. Eleanor had ordered fruit salad and was digging through it for something that didn’t taste like cardboard.

“You’ll give yourself a heart attack. You have to start thinking of these things when you get to a certain age.” Sofia appealed to Debra. “You’re a doctor. Talk to her. She’s killing
herself.” The chatter stopped. The women looked at each other or down at their plates or anywhere that wasn’t Sofia, who gasped, “Oh. I am so sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Debra said graciously.

Coffee cups clattered, forks clinked on plates. Nobody knew how to get over the hump of awkwardness, and so they said nothing until Eleanor finally asked, “How’s the baby?”

“Doing well.” Debra’s lips were imprinted on the rim of her coffee cup; she was wearing lipstick too dark for her fair skin. “The nurse will stay until I can finalize arrangements for my practice and then I’ll take a mat leave.” Debra smiled and the other women smiled back gratefully as they slid into quiet talk, murmuring about their own children, how a cough in the kids’ rooms woke them instantly and they’d sit up until they heard steady breathing again, how they’d secretly walk behind their children their first time going to school alone, how bicycles terrified them, and cars. Now it was Debra’s turn for silence, staining the rim of the coffee cup as she drank. The west wind sheared through the parking lot, picking up loose bags and paper, ramming the branches of trees and the sky, clearing off the clouds.

Eleanor reached to pick a french fry off Lyssa’s plate. “Did you tell Debra about the sweater?”

“What?”

“The sweater.” As Lyssa continued to look blank, Eleanor added, “The green sweater. That you made for Heather.”

“Really,” Debra said, no exclamation mark in her voice, only civility. A lady, even a lady doctor, was always polite.

“She worked on it a long time. It’s beautiful. Different.” Eleanor picked up another french fry.

“Is that so?” Debra probably hadn’t had a french fry in years. Maybe never.

“She worked a pattern of flowers and leaves just by changing the stitches.”

“I’m sure somebody would appreciate that. I’ve got a bag for Goodwill and I could add the sweater.”

“That really wasn’t …” Eleanor’s face reddened, but she kicked her sister-in-law under the table, warning her to stay out of this. “I thought maybe Cathy would like to have it.”

“Of course I should repay you for the materials.” Debra touched a napkin to her lips. “How much was it?”

“The angora wool? A hundred I think,” Eleanor replied.

“Fine. I was planning to head up to Goodwill after work. Let’s see.” She tapped her BlackBerry. “My first patient isn’t until nine thirty. I could come over right now. Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today.”

While she went to the cash register to pay, Lyssa leaned forward to hiss at Eleanor. “I don’t want any money for it!”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Eleanor whispered back. “It’s not like it was ever worn. At least get your materials cost.”

Lyssa didn’t want anything to do with it, but okay. Whatever. She took a twenty out of her pocket and left it on the table. She liked the high wind and wanted to walk, but Debra insisted on driving them home in her Lexus hybrid. Naturally she found a parking spot right across from the house with the peaked roof like a witch’s hat and vines growing up the front.