Broken for You (17 page)

"The facilities manager," Margaret replied. "Mrs. Marley."

"Is it near?" the bald woman asked, wearily. She reached out from
beneath her cape and touched Margaret's hand; Margaret felt as if she'd

been dusted with a light, dry snow.

"It's just around the corner," she replied. "You can't miss it. Good luck."

The bald woman started off. "Come along now, Golda. It's very late." "Use the MEN'S ROOM?!" Golda griped. "I've never HEARD of such a thing!"

She grabbed the wad of necklaces around her throat and tried to pitch them over her shoulder. They flew back at her with a loud, jangling hostility; one of them smacked her in the chin. "SHIT!" she hissed, and waddled away.

As soon as Margaret closed the outer ladies' room door, Wanda began keening again, louder and more uncontrollably than ever. Margaret walked quickly through the lounge and into the bathroom to stand in front of Wanda's stall.

"Have you any writing paper?" she asked.

There was no change in the volume or intensity of Wanda's lamen
t
ation, but her backpack slid out from beneath the stall door and thenlay in a morose heap at Margaret's feet. She unbuckled the straps and opened it; among the many things she found inside were:

1
. A yellow legal pad on a clipboard, the top page of which contained a mysterious list with items like: "#i6A—s/b 5 ct. fade instead of 4" (the word "GODDAMMIT!!" was also scrawled across the bottom of the page and underlined numerous times). Other pages were filled with sketches—very good ones, too—of figures, hands, faces, one of which was Troy's.

Margaret tore off a clean sheet of paper, and using one of the Magic Markers wrote: "Out of Order. Ple
ase Use the Men's Room. Your Co
operation Is Especially Appreciated. Thank You. The Facilities Manager." Extracting the chewing gum from her mouth, Margaret divided it into four dime-sized wads, which she affixed to the corners of the paper. She walked back into the lounge, opened the outer door a crack— there was no one outside—and posted the paper. Then she barricaded herself and Wanda inside with one of the lounge room love seats.

She was out of breath. Her forehead was clammy; her skull was starting to constrict. Lowering herself onto the love seat, she closed her eyes and listened.

Wanda's cries were rhythmic now, harshly percussive. They had the inexorable force of a drum, but one that was playing itself. The poor drummer had lost all control.

I suppose it's also me in there, isn't it?
Margaret thought.
That's familiar too. The memory of me, crying behind a closed door. But then there was Daniel, and the doors were open for a time. All the doors: open and close, open and close. . . One of the first things children delight in, isn't it? One of the first concepts they grasp: "Door open! Door closed! Door open! Door
closed! Watch your fingers, sweetheart!" It's also one of the first ways they
hurt themselves. Dresser drawers and cupboards, and the inner doors of houses:
old ones, especially, so huge and heavy, the dreaded fear of crushed fingers, fractured bones, it comes so soon after they're born, before they're walking even, they find the doors, fascinated with the way they can move something so big, fascinated with that treacherous sliver of space that extends from the top to the bottom, that place where their fingers shouldn't go. "No, NO, sweetie! Not there! Hurt baby! Hurt!"

And then, later still, no one outside the door: a small room, with the door closed, inside a bigger room, with the door closed, inside a house, with the entrance locked. A door within a door within a door.

Margaret opened her eyes. She glimpsed a pale green haze hovering on one of the upholstered chairs in a corner of the lounge.
What are you doing here?
she asked.

You got out,
Margaret's mother answered petulantly.
Why shouldn't I? I haven't been to the theatre in years. I thought it would be pleasant. But my God! Doesn't anyone dress anymore? Different times, different fashions. And the play! So grim!

What did you expect, Mother? After all, it is O'Neill.
Margaret sensed her mother slide off the chair and glide toward the bathroom door. She wasn't wearing one of her peignoirs this evening; instead, she modeled a classic, two-piece suit from the 1930s, with a pert, flouncy peplum and padded shoulders. It was the color of key lime pie, and had a little pearl-trimmed hat and veil to match. Standing just outside the bathroom, Margaret's mother looked coolly in the direction of Wanda's stall and began slipping off her gloves.
What is it she does, exactly?

She sits in a little booth,
Margaret replied, vaguely,
and... manages things. That's hardly impressive.

She's very important, Mother. They couldn't do it without her. That may well be, missy
—
and you needn't get so huffy about it with me!
—
but you can't convince me that she's doing anything creative. She's not an artist!

Margaret's mother paused, then executed an elegant spiraling motion with her spine that allowed her to examine the backs of her seamed stockings.
She has to watch the wretched thing every night?
Margaret's mother went on.
No wonder she's depressed.

Margaret's mother sighed, then settled on the love seat next to her daughter.

You look nice,
she said.

Thank you, Mother. So do you.

Are you going to stay out here, or are you going to go in there and make yourself useful?

I'm going in.

Good. I'll see you at home. Wait a minute. . . .
Margaret felt her mother lean closer. /
remember those earrings. I've been looking for them. Have you been into my things, Margaret?

They're all
my
things now, Mother. Remember? You're dead.

Margaret's mother got up and slipped her gloves back on.
No need to gloat, Margaret. Ticktoc
k
, tick
t
ock
.

And she was gone.

Back in the bathroom, Margaret heard restless foraging noises and sniffles; she pictured Wanda within her stall as a mournful, undernourished chipmunk at an abandoned campsite.

Margaret slid a box of tissues under the stall door and waited while Wanda blew her nose several times.

"You lied about your name," Wanda said, finally—but in her congested, overwrought, and weakened condition, it came out sounding like, "Ooh eyed a bower dame."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Barley,"
Wanda tried to enunciate. "Ooh toed dim urn Amos
barley.
"

"Excuse me?"

"I taught id was honey. You sub-eyed me."

"I'm so sorry!" Margaret replied.

"Israelite," Wanda said quietly—her most baffling utterance yet. "Dank ooh. Dank ooh forte aching guerre ami."

Wanda fell silent, and Margaret could tell that whatever had just transpired had been somehow comforting. Still, she felt uneasy about initiating any further conversation.

Wanda gave her nose a final, robust honk, and then asked, in comprehensible English, "Have you been waiting in the lobby?"

"Yes!" Margaret chirped, thrilled
by the return to mucus-free con
versation. "I've been worried about you. So has that nice young man." "Who?"

"I think he said his name was Troy." "Oh. Him. My assistant." "Yes! He
seems very considerate."

"Huh," Wanda grunted, and the conversation sputtered. "I enjoyed the show," Margaret offered. "You did?"

"Very much. Mr. MacPherson enjoyed it too. Thank you again for the tickets."

"It's a good production, I think. But. . ." Wanda's voice began to quaver. "I messed up three cues, the sound levels in Act Four were way off, and the characters . . . They're so . . . damaged!"

The backpack landed next to Wanda's feet with a dull phalumpf!
The stall door swung open, and Wanda—as if borne on the wave of a
miniature tsunami—flew out and fell sobbing into Margaret's arms.

Oh dear,
Margaret thought as she petted Wanda's hair.
I bet she doesn't
weigh ninety pounds soaring wet.

Wanda's face was tear-streaked and blotchy, her upper lip was sheeny with snot, and her eyelids had the white, puffy look of a dead fish's underbelly. Margaret was reminded of the way that very young children cry: fearlessly, shamelessly, with a total, noisy, self-centered commitment to grief that makes no apologies nor any effort whatsoever to contain the natural outflow of bodily fluids. The fact that Wanda was able to cry this way made Margaret feel sure that she had not cried much as a child. It was as if she were making up for lost time.
She's an orphan,
Troy had wisely observed, which summed up everything and explained a great deal.

Wanda's sobs were starting to subside, and Margaret sensed an arising discomfort in her birdlike body.

Margaret gently extricated herself and started dabbing at the smudges of mascara under Wanda's eyes. "Why don't you take some time to freshen up," she said. "I'll wait for you at the top of the stairs."

Wanda sniffed. "You really liked the play?"

"I really did." Margaret took a few steps toward the lounge and then stopped herself. "Oh! I almost forgot." Pulling off her pearl earrings,
she placed them in the saucerlike curve of Wanda's small hand. "Wear these, dear. They'll look beautiful on you."

When Wanda emerged from the ladies' room a few minutes later, sans backpack, Margaret noticed for the first time what she was wearing: a floor-length, sleek black dress with long fitted sleeves and a neckline that draped from one shoulder to the other in a soft, hammocklike curve. The dress was slit high up on each side to reveal beautifully shaped, athletic legs, as well as the high-fashion shoes that had languished so pitifully in the bathroom only minutes earlier. Wanda looked stunning. Margaret was certain that if she hadn't come across her in the bathroom, she wouldn't have recognized her.

"I'm sorry about all that." Wanda smiled weakly. "Opening night jitters."

"No need to explain. You'll feel better once you have something to eat.

The lobby was starting to empty; aside from one actor who was still hovering at the food tables devouring the last of the buffet, the few other people who remained were getting ready to leave.

Gus and Troy had found each other, Margaret was happy to see, and had been joined by Wanda's acquaintance, the caterer Margaret had spoken to earlier. They formed an agitated trio at the foot of the stairs.

Margaret waved to get their attention. "Hello everyone!" she sang out. "We're back!" They looked at her with lost puppy eyes.
Poor dears,
she thought.
So helpless without leadership.
"Is there any of that marvelous food left? This girl could use some nourishment."

The men snapped into action. Introductions were made, hands were shaken. The caterer bustled back to his station—his name, Margaret finally learned, was Bruce; Gus set a chair for Wanda at the end of the catering table; Troy brought her a fresh napkin, silverware, and a glass of water.

"Gus and I will be leaving now," Margaret said. "Thank you again for the tickets."

"I'll see you at home." Wanda waved as Bruce set a feast before her: hazelnut Gorgonzola angel hair pasta, arugula salad with caramelized pears, rosemary bread, lemon bars.
Wanda tucked into this cuisine with a surprising amount of zeal, Margaret observed, and she wondered if the caterer might be interested in permanent employment. On the way out, she picked up one of his business cards (the heading read, "Kosher Katz: I cook, you eat") and slipped it into her pocket.

"When you get to be my age," Gus was saying, "there's no point in goin' round the barn. You're a delightful lass, Margaret Hughes, and I'd be honored if you'd consent to spend more time with me."