Broken for You (18 page)

They were home from the theatre. They'd taken a walk through the neighborhood—it was a cool and starry night—and were now standing on the porch.

"I'm practically retired," Gus continued. "I stay on at the hotel mainly to train the youngsters. It's important to the administrators that the valet staff maintain a certain tradition of service and style."

"I see." Margaret was trying to buy some time. She hadn't reckoned on this, on feelings of. . . attraction. Not at her age.

"What I mean to say is, I have a good deal of free time during the days and so forth."

Margaret felt her eyes widen.
What could he possibly have in mind?
"Yoga," she blurted. "I'd like to learn more about yoga." It seemed like a safe response, and the best one she could come up with.

He beamed. "You would be welcome to attend my class, anytime. I could show you some breathing techniques. They'll add years to your life, I guarantee."

That would be nice,
Margaret mused.

"And sun salutes," Gus went on, excitedly. "They're marvelous, just marvelous. The kind of yoga I practice is called
vinyassa,
or flow yoga, and sun salutations are a key component. Tremendously important. And beautiful! You wouldn't believe it. Like a dance."

She so enjoyed listening to him.

"Vinyassa
is much more than a form of exercise," he went on. "It's a meditation. A metaphor for life."

His passion—for the Hotel Orleans, for French language and culture, for books and ideas, for yoga, for art, for staying young—was infectious.But more than that: It was fortifying—in the way of weight lifting, she supposed, or running a marathon. "How so?" she asked.

"The intention," Gus said, "is to move as if everything is transition. As if nothing ends."

That was it, she concluded. Spending time with him was the spiritual equivalent of building bone mineral density. With a companion like Gus, it would be difficult—maybe even impossible—to give up on anything.

"You'll see," he concluded. "When you come to class." 1 can t wait.

He was moving closer now, taking her hands. Margaret could smell his aftershave. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm talking far too much. I do that when I'm nervous."

There was a sweet warmth accumulating in Margaret's belly.
Oh, Lord,
she thought.
I
thought I was all through with this.
"I had a wonderful time," she said.

He gave her a serious, considering look. "You know," he said, "ever since I saw this house of yours, there's been something I've wanted to say."

"What is it?"

Inclining his face close to hers, he whispered urgently, "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your long hair!"

His words broke all the spells that had been cast upon her, so that by the time they kissed for the first time, Margaret was full of light, and laughing.

Margaret went to the kitchen and put on water for tea. It was very late— she hadn't found herself awake at this time of night for years—but she knew she'd never be able to sleep if she couldn't quiet her mind. Wanda had told her about this aspect of a theatre person's life—how difficult it is after a performance to wind down and relax. Margaret had half-expected to find Wanda still awake, perhaps even in the kitchen.

But the house was quiet, and Margaret figured she must already be in bed and asleep. She'd beaten Margaret home; the Volvo was parked in the driveway when she and Gus had pulled up, and the lights in
her room were off.
Poor dear,
Margaret thought.
She had such an emotional night. I hope she sleeps late tomorrow.

While the tea brewed, Margaret walked the main floor rooms, turning off lights, bidding good night sleep tight to her things.

So much was happening, and so suddenly, too. She'd opened the door of her house to one person, just one, and now there were others who wanted to come in. Never mind that none of them had made overt requests; she heard their beseeching cries as clearly as she heard the prayers of the gravy boats. It was as if she'd been playing poker with the house and its contents and they'd called her bluff.
"Be careful what you wish for"
—
Isn't that what they say?

And what had she wished for? Company, yes; not necessarily intimacy, but shared experience; laughter; conversation. She must have wished for danger, too, in a sense, since she and her valuables had been tucked into this house, untouched by other human hands, for decades. Preserved from discovery and natural disaster. Now
they
had wishes. They wanted something too. "Once the door is open," they seemed to be saying, "you can't shut it again, impose limits, set degrees of openness. There are no half-measures now. And you can't invite danger without accepting it in all its forms."

Wanda—this unhappy young woman who wore her heart on her sleeve—had been the first to answer Margaret's invitation. Out of all the others who could have come, who
did
come, but weren't chosen, she was the one who'd been set down firmly and squarely in the center of Margaret's world. Who knew why. It didn't matter. Margaret had been given the privilege of bearing witness to Wanda's life and the very particular color of her heartache. And now Wanda was pulling other energies in her wake. Of course. It couldn't be avoided. Not everyone was an island; Wanda was connected to other people, and now those people were connected to Margaret.

"We don't 'grow old,'" Gus had said. "It's the wrong expression. When we stop growing, we
are
old."

Margaret had almost finished her rounds on the main floor; she stood in front of one of the glass-fronted etageres in the dining room, the one housing her wedding china. Reaching into her pocket for a tissue, she pulled out two theatre ticket stubs, Bruce's business card, a gum wrapper, bread crumbs. She gazed at these commonplace bits of debris; they
all had meaning. She studied her wedding china; it was exquisite, and
utterly false.

After saying a last good-night to what had once seemed flawless, Margaret turned out the light in the etagere and started making her way back to the kitchen. The tea would be ready. She hoped it would help her sleep.

T
hirteen

The First Breaking

When she was sure Wanda was awake—it was mid-morning—Margaret went upstairs and knocked quietly on her bedroom door.

"Come in."

Margaret found her lying on her bed. It was littered with crumpled tissues. A box of Kleenex was on the bedside table, next to a large bouquet of daffodils. Buttery yellow and optimistic, the flowers were incongruous with Wanda's pale, tired face.

In front of her on the bed was the small red and black book that Margaret had noticed last night. From the way Wanda shoved it aside— rapidly; one might even
say furtively—
and placed a protective hand over it, Margaret guessed that it must be some kind of diary.

She's a bit old for that sort of thing, isn't she?

Mind your own business, Mother,
Margaret countered, crossly.
Diaries are lovely.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay." Wanda glanced up at Margaret with eyes that were red-rimmed and glassy. Sitting up briskly, she shoved the red and black book into a bedside table drawer. Then, with a single, efficient gesture, she swept the tissues to the edge of the bed and deposited them in the wastebasket."I kept a diary when I was young too," Margaret offered.

You did?
asked Margaret's mother.
I
never knew that.

Wanda pressed her lips into an unenthusiastic grin. She pulled at her left eyebrow. "What's up?"

"I'm sorry to trouble you," Margaret said. "Is this is a bad time?"

"No. I wasn't doing anything important."

Margaret stood in the doorway and glanced around the room. It had been weeks since she had seen Wanda in this setting, and she was struck by how out of place Wanda seemed, how much her human presence was subjugated by the room's decor: the heavy Victorian bedroom suite; chair, ottoman, and chaise lounge, all upholstered in worn black, pink, yellow, and turquoise floral chintz; matching floor-length curtains topped with limp, ruffled valances; and walls so insistently pink that they looked as if they were flushed with a life-threatening reaction to shellfish. "Who decorated this room?!" she exclaimed, as if seeing it for the first time.

"Excuse me?" asked Wanda.

"However can you stand it? It's smothering!"

You lifted it well enough when you were a little girl,
said Margaret's mother.

"No I didn't," Margaret said. "I never liked it." She actually felt her lungs constricting, and had to fight off the impulse to rush into the room, tear down the heavy curtains, and throw open the windows. "Don't you find it smothering?"

"I hadn't really thought about it. . . ."

See? She likes it, anyway.
Margaret's mother swept in and and took up residence on the settee, arranging her limbs, robe, and facial features in a way suggesting that John Singer Sargent was about to paint her portrait.
It's a charming room! A perfectly lovely room!

"Well," Margaret went on, frowning. "If you're sure this isn't a bad time—"

Where exactly did you k
ee
p this so-called diary?

" 1 have a
project,"
Margaret enunciated, "that I could use some

help with."

"Uh-huh," Wanda said dully.

What project?
asked Margaret's mother, sitting up so quickly that the hem of her robe caught on one of the settee legs and tore slightly.

"There are some things that I'd like to clear out of the house."

What things?
demanded Margaret's mother, springing off the settee and crossing the room with urgency. She and Margaret stood face-to-face.

"Ah," said Wanda. "Well, I'm good at packing." She got up wearily and raked a hand through her hair. "Are they going to the Goodwill?"

"They're downstairs. Are you sure you don't mind doing this now?"

Doing what?

"No. Not at all. This is a good time. Let's do it."

What are you up to, Margaret?

Why don't you check the attic, Mother} There's a loose floorboard just under the east window. I believe you'll find one of my diaries hidden there.

You had more than one?
Margaret's mother squeezed past her.
Why didn't I know this?

Margaret's mother scuttled toward the attic staircase. The flimsy, torn robe of her peignoir ruffled crazily behind her, like a hopelessly insubstantial mainsail.

As Wanda followed down the stairs, Margaret said, "You should feel free to change your room in any way you'd like. So that it suits your personality.
It's your
room now. I hope you know that. I might not have made that clear when you moved in."

Of
course
you didn't make it clear, you ninny,
Margaret chided herself.
You made the poor girl feel anxious about using the Tupperware, for goodness' sake. Why would she
think it was all right
to redecorate?

"You should also know," Margaret continued, "that it's perfectly fine for you to have houseguests. At any time. Day or night." She waved her hand airily. "Girl friends. Gentlemen friends. Assistants. Whatever."

"That' s very nice of you," Wanda replied.

"I occasionally might have guests myself."

Wanda stopped, mid-step. "You might?"

"Occasionally, yes." Margaret continued her brisk, capering descent and spoke with exaggerated nonchalance. "The gentleman you met last night, for example."

"Mr. MacPherson?"

"Yes! Mr. MacPherson! You might possibly be seeing more of him!" Margaret reached the bottom of the stairs and turned to look up
at Wanda. "He's offered to give me breathing lessons." Margaret did a half-pirouette and walked through the foyer until she was out of sight.

"Wow," Wanda said to herself, and then chased after her.

By the time Wanda arrived in the dining room, Margaret was already standing in front of a freestanding cabinet containing a set of china. Using a delicate brass key, Margaret opened the cabinet doors. She stood back and hugged her arms close, as if she suddenly felt a chill.