Broken for You (47 page)

"Before I show you all this," she began, "I should tell you that this next installation is more . . . personal, I guess you'd say, than anything I've done before."

"Yes?" Margaret queried. "You say that as if you're worried."

"It's just that we've never talked about how I've . . . changed gears, and the fact that I'm still using tesserae from your things to do it. I've never asked how you feel about that."

"How I feel?" Margaret was baffled. "Why would I—?" In a moment of realization and contrition, she understood. She'd drawn this hapless girl into her cursed world, and now Wanda needed to be released. "I feel fine, just fine, about it. Now show me. Please."

Timidly, shyly, Wanda showed her: dozens of sketches, color drawings, paintings, a detailed model. The work was astounding. Its main subjects were three full-scale figures—man, woman, and child—who defined the points of a huge equilateral triangle. The man and the woman faced one another; the child looked on, unnoticed. The work would be called
Family Recreation.

"I've seen this woman," Margaret said. "Where? How?"

"It's based on a photograph," Wanda said softly, "the only picture 1 have of my mother."

"You keep that photo in your backpack, don't you?"

"I used to. It hangs in the studio now."

"And this man behind the camera. Who—?"

"Da. My father."

"I see. So this little girl with the suitcase must be . . . ?"

Wanda looked down. A sheaf of longish bangs fell across he
r
forehead.

And there she went: behind that wall she ran to whenever she wante
d
to disappear. But for once, Margaret decided to chase her. And there i
t
was: She saw the door.

"I'll have some of that broth, dear," she said, though she was not a all hungry.

Wanda gathered up her things and set them aside. She placed the bee tray across Margaret's lap, smoothed a linen napkin across her chest ladled broth into a bowl, and began to bring warm, gingered soup t
o
Margaret's lips, blowing gently on each spoonful first. "That's delicious,
Margaret said. After swallowing a few more mouthfuls, she asked, "Will you please tell me about that photograph?"

Wanda's eyes grew large with surprise, and then—holding fast to the physical comforts of servitude—she told the story of how Wanda O'Casey became Wanda Shultz. She told it with a great deal of humor, without self-pity, and with a shy, flattered, heart-eased look that made Margaret feel certain she'd been waiting her whole life for someone to ask her that question.

At the Aloha Lanes, Rudy finally hired somebody, a kid in his late twenties who had a love for the sport and didn't seem to have his thumb up his ass. He'd work out fine.

M.J. gave his landlord notice—he'd be leaving on November 25— and started canceling utilities and packing up his apartment. He was surprised by how much stuff he'd accumulated over the past couple of years. But then, he'd been in Seattle longer than he'd been anywhere since 1969. He took most of what he didn't want to the Thriftko. Some of it—his TV, his books, his bike, and all but a dozen or so of his Hawaiian shirts—he gave to folks at the Aloha. The rest of it he set out on the curb with a handwritten sign: "FREE."

Irma hadn't left him any money—she probably had the good sense to know he wouldn't accept that—but she had left him things, things he couldn't possibly sell or give away: her menorah, the scrapbook they'd put together, her Scrabble game, a framed picture of her and Sam. And of course, Lucie's cup. He realized that, even after paring down to the bare essentials, his life wouldn't fit in his backpack anymore. He'd have to travel with a box, go through baggage claim.

He wouldn't go to Idaho; Joyce lived there. Oregon would be too much like Seattle. He wanted to get away from water. Maybe he'd go southeast, to one of those desert states.

By October, Margaret's sight had started to fail, and she grew even more sedentary. She was still dimly aware of the life of the household, comings and goings above and below and around her—breakings, assemblings, meals, music, voices—but more and more, she felt drawn to the calm,
shadowy company of the dead. There was something she had to do
(what?)
before they would take her in, but The Star was growing quickly now. She wasn't sure how much longer she could hang on.

"Family?" Margaret breathed. "How going?"

"All right," Wanda said.

"Really well," Troy added.

"When finished?"

"Ten years at the earliest."

"Maybe fifteen."

"Liars, both of you," she whispered, then laughed and closed her eyes, imprinting the watercolor image of their twining faces on the canvas of her eyelids.

The next thing she knew, Gus was there.

"Margaret?" he was saying gently. "Lassie? Are you awake?" He was holding the telephone. "Do you want to talk? I think it's long distance."

"You," she exhaled with a rasping effort. "Please."

His replies were short, but his face reflected a mild degree of shock. He thanked the caller and hung up. "That was Sylvie." He was reaching for the nightstand drawer, pulling out the phone book. "She sent out letters a few months ago. To Holocaust research centers." He was thumbing through the pages. "They ask survivors to tell their stories— 'oral histories,' they call them—and put them on video. One of the centers answered Sylvie's letter and told her that Mrs. Kosminsky did this for them, some time ago." He found the page he was looking for. He helped Margaret sit up; then he sat down on the bed and put an arm around her. With his other arm, he drew the opened phone book into her lap.

"All right, lassie," he said, slowly and clearly, "we've got one more search before us now. Have you got it in you? We're going to start looking under 'K.'"

"'K'?"

He put his cheek against hers. It was wet. "'K' for Mrs. Kosminsky, dear heart," he said. "Her last known address is in Seattle."

The day before he was supposed to leave, M.J. was saying his good-byes. Parting company with the customers and staff was hard enough, but
then around three-thirty Roxie showed up. When he told her he was leaving, she was pissed as hell.

"Rudy'll be happy to give you lessons." "Yeah, right."

"He'll be a much better teacher than I am, believe me. He's got kids of his own." "Whatever." "Just remember to—"

"I know, I know. 'Let myself be led by the ball.' Whatever the fuck that means." "Roxie—"

"Have a good life. Write if you get work." She turned around and walked out without looking back.

Jean called him to the front desk, where she was holding the phone
with one hand and petting Maurice with the other. He was stretched
out next to the
cash register, looking listless and ungroomed. "For you."

"Thanks." Jean's eyes were red and watery. M.J. hoped she wasn't
allergic to Maurice.

It was Irma's lawyer. "I'm so glad I've been able to reach you," he said. "Your home phone number has been disconnected." "Yeah. So. What's up?"

"Someone looking for Mrs. Kosminsky has been in touch with me. Apparently they have in their possession one of her belongings. As the sole person named in her will, it comes to you." "What is it?"

"I haven't the faintest idea." "But I'm leaving town tomorrow afternoon."

"That's fine, Mr. Striker. I'm sure they won't mind if you come in the morning."

"I have to go there?" M.J. protested. "But it's Thanksgiving Day. They'll be . . . basting, or carving, or something, won't they?"

"The party indicated that it's crucial you get in touch as soon as possible. Do you have a pencil and paper? Here's their name and number." M.J. looked at Maurice. Maurice squeaked, feebly.
Shit,
M.J. thought. "Yeah. Go ahead."

The day before Thanksgiving, Margaret was in bed—on this occasion not watching a movie, but a videotaped interview on loan from the Washington State Holocaust Education and Resource Center.

A woman's face was projected onto the screen. Her hair was a riotous, bottled shade of red. She was dressed in tropical colors and wearing large dangly earrings. In a deep voice that was almost comically bullfroggish, she was telling the story of her evacuation from Paris, her internment in Drancy, the death of her daughter, her subsequent transport to Auschwitz, her experiences there, in other camps, and after the Liberation. She cried, but she also smiled. She laughed. It was hard to believe she was dead.

They had just missed her, as it turned out. Her name was there, in the Seattle phone book, plain as day, along with her husband's: Samuel and Irma Kosminsky. But their number had been disconnected. So Gus called the Holocaust Center which in turn made some inquiries and discovered that Mrs. Kosminsky had died a month ago.

But was there kin? A surviving heir? Someone to whom they could return something that belonged to the Kosminsky family? It was an emergency, Gus explained, using the full force of his diplomatic powers.

U
ne histoire de miracles,
Sylvie had said.
Petits et grands.

Yes, they were told, Mrs. Kosminsky had named someone in her will.

Margaret closed her eyes and listened. Her mother held her hand. Daniel snuggled up next to her and drove his race car, quietly.

Gus came in. He picked up the remote control and pressed the "pause" button.

"Hang on, lassie," he said, stroking Margaret's forehead. "I just got off the phone with Mr. Striker. He'll be here tomorrow."

Margaret smiled up at Gus; his face was a moon-shaped, glistening blur.

Then she looked past him, to the television screen, where the stilled image of a redheaded woman looked back at her and laughed.

Thi
rty-two

We Gather Together

If you're coming to the Hughes house for the first time—whether you're an unsuspecting solicitor, substitute mail carrier, FedEx driver, or fledgling volunteer, and whether your visit represents a perfunctory business matter or the proverbial end of the line—here's the way it goes:

You'll arrive—on foot, by car, van, taxi, train, plane, bus, or a combination of methods—and you'll stare. It's all right; everyone does. It will take a while for the size and grandeur of the house to register.
This is it?
you'll think as you walk up, incredulous. This can't be the place. It's unreal. It's a big house. An un-fucking-believably big house. Whoever thought that somebody like you would get to see the inside of a house like this one?

As you come closer, you'll notice what at first looks like small drifts of snow. Closer still, and you'll see that it's piles of shattered china, mostly white but sprinkled here and there with touches of color, shimmers of silver and gold. The pieces are everywhere, scattered through the flower beds and around the trees like an exotic garden mulch. Fragments line the sidewalk leading up to the front porch and the paths winding through the grounds; in other places the pieces have collected into dense mounds, little multicolored islands of varying sizes and configurations. Their presence in the landscape has the appearance of being both randomly chaotic and exquisitely designed. Pay attention. Let your mine embrace metaphors. It's your first clue about what goes on here.

Reaching the porch, you'll ring the doorbell. You'll be greeted b) someone—a young woman, you think—wearing work clothes and protective eyewear. She holds an old teacup, saucer, dessert plate, something like that. It doesn't look especially valuable.

"Welcome," she'll say, and offer up to you the small thing in he
r
hands. Maybe you'll take it, maybe you won't.

"Hello. I'm M.J. Striker. I'm here to see Mrs. Hughes."

Instead of getting a normal response, without so much as a how-do-you-do or we're-not-buying, the small fr
agile thing will be pressed into
your hands. "That belonged to a woman named Alta Fogle," you might be told. "She was the child of Norwegian immigrants who owned a farm in northern Minnesota. Harsh country. Cold country. The Iron Range they call it. Alta's mother died in childbirth—the cup you're holding was part of her dowry—and Alta was raised by her father. Sometime; they went ice fishing. They'd sit in the bob house and drink hot cocoa. Out of that cup. The one you're holding in your hand. Alta never married. She never left Minnesota. She kept the farm after her father died. When she was ninety-two, in the middle of February, she took a thermos of hot milk and brandy out to the bob house, put in a line, and died She left behind a farmhouse full of t
hings: abandoned, alone, with no
heirs to claim them."

"Jesus Christ," you mutter.