Broken for You (52 page)

Wanda hadn't been entirely truthful on the day they christened the carriage house. Of course, she always strove for reverence and detachment when breaking Margaret's things, but sometimes her work incited—and over the years, she realized now, purged—a very personal anger. It was perhaps for that reason she was able to approach the man before her with an unclouded heart and an absence of malice, and speak to him as she was about to.

" 'A woman's a two-face,'" he was singing," 'a worrisome thing who'll leave you to sing the blues in the night.

Wanda uttered a single, quiet syllable. Mr. Striker turned around.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ!" he said. "You gave me a helluva start!" He wiped his face with a handkerchief. "You're awfully dressed-up, girl. Where have you been?"

She couldn't ask him, not yet.

"Wanda?" he said. "What is
it?"

She inhaled shoe leather, paste wax, percolated coffee, remembered smells of bubble bath and Old Spice aftershave. She lowered herself slowly to kneel next to him.

"What are you doin'? You'll be gettin' your lovely dress all dirty."

"Do you remember asking me about my first memories?" she said.

He nodded, puzzled. "In a bowling alley. They weren't good ones, I take it."

She paused again. "There's no chance you'll be leaving, is there?"

"I'm not scheduled to work at the Aloha till Monday. Why?"

"What I'm asking is . . .
here.
Will you be leaving
here
?
"

"Wanda, what are you talkin' about?"

She marveled at her stupidity. Looking into his eyes—the eyes of a tortured poet, a brawler, an atheist, lit up with love as pure and good and sacrificial as God's own—she couldn't imagine how she hadn't known him at once.

"I broke my arm when I was four," she began. "I remember my father . . . Da . . . giving me a bath, and singing to me, that song that you were singing just now. I wasn't supposed to get my cast wet," she went on. "He laid out a towel on the side of the tub so it would be soft for me. It was such a little thing, for him to do that, but I've never forgotten. So, you see, my memories, they aren't all bad."

Mr. Striker had started to cry.

"She was the great love of your life," Wanda said. "I understood why you left."

"There was great love where I was," he answered firmly. "I wish to God I'd stayed."

Her sclerosed heart was softening, finding its pulse, filling with blood. The dam behind her eyes was in danger of giving way.

"There's nothing wrong with you," he said, looking at her now with an unequivocal steadiness. "Never was. Never will be. You have to know that." He took her by the shoulders, moored her to his chest, and the storm of tides came then—blood to her heart, saltwater to her eyes— and he held her tight and would not let go.

"Is everything okay, Mike?"

It was Troy, coming out of the main house.

M.J. nodded. Troy smiled and went on his way.

Wanda watched him go, and then looked to her father. "How long has he known?"

M.J. cupped the precious, marred face of his only child in his hands. "He's on his way to the hardware store," he said. "You can probably just catch him, if you run."

Wanda kissed her da. She struggled to her feet. "Troy!" she called. "Wait!" She started running, as fast as she was able.

Michael O'Casey stood up and took inventory of his life to this point. He turned over a few memories, considered some of the things that were part of who he was: Gina, laughing; Maureen holding one of the babies; Irma throwing a strike; Mr. Kosminsky singing the
hamotzi;
his daughter, a newborn asleep in his arms and a million other memories of her right up to this moment; her faithful boyo's face in the street that night, and now, turning to see her as she stumbled toward him; the tangle of their bodies as they joined and kissed. He'd never seen two happier souls in his life.

And as for him, it was a sure thing that no man living was luckier.

"There's different ideas about that particular custom!" Bruce yelled. With him in the kitchen were Susan, Augie, and several Crazy Plate
Academy volunteers. The adults were scrambling to finish assembling numerous artistic hors d'oeuvre platters before the ceremony began. Augie, the ring-bearer, had given up trying to hold a pillow and walk at the same time; he was lying on his back under the kitchen table, eating a cracker and trying to pull off his new shoes. A shlemozzl of violins, clarinets, saxophones, trumpets, trombones, cymbals, drums, and singing came from the dining room, where the musicians were practicing, while upstairs Wanda, M.J., Troy, and Gus were getting dressed.

"Technically," Bruce went on, hollering over the hubbub, "it's supposed to remind us of the desecration of the Temple."

Susan called out in cheering tones, "However! Feminists insist that it symbolizes the breaking of the hymen on the couple's wedding night."

"Personally," Bruce continued, "I think it's just another one of those Jewish guilt things. I mean, God forbid there should be one day in your life when you're happy! God forbid we shouldn't be suffering! It's supposed to remind us that happiness is transient."

"Oh, God!" Susan yipped suddenly. "Where's Augie?"

"Under the table. Relax, Susie-Q."

Susan squatted, extracted Augie from his hiding place, and hoisted him onto her hip. "You are being such a big boy about all this. But me? Utterly terrified. Mummy's never been in a wedding. What do you think? Do I look all right?"

Augie popped a fig in her mouth and giggled. "Dance, Mama!" he said. "Daddy too! Do boom-boom-boom!"

Bruce put down the serving tongs and held out his arms, ballroom style. "Assume the position, Mama."

Susan joined him and started to sing:
"'Shall we dance?"'

"Boom-boom-boom!"

"
'On a bright cloud of music shall we fly?'
"

"Boom-boom-boom!"

Within moments, the musicians took up the cue and began improvising a raucous accompaniment; they plunged single file into the kitchen, where they were greeted by a small village of people dancing the polka and booming. Augie laughed and clapped and gleefully plundered the platters of hors d'oeuvres.

Suddenly one of the Crooning Clansmen bustled in, his brow as crimson as his kilt, his garters askew. He grabbed an enormous metal funnel, banged on it several times with a slotted spoon, and then spoke into it as if it were a megaphone: "I think Wanda's relatives from Chicago just arrived," he announced. "All of them!" He patted at his flushed brow with a handkerchief as everyone caught their breath. "Step lively, people! We're gonna need a helluva lot more chairs out there."

Look now. Look at what you value, what you hold dear. Objects, first. And not necessarily because of their innate value (although that might figure into it), but because they are endowed—by your mind and imagination, by your memories—with what is known as "sentimental value."

Sentiment has been defined as ascribing a value to something above and beyond what its value is to God. This presumes a belief in God, and furthermore a belief in a kind of God that passes judgment on the inexplicable fondnesses of the human heart; there is an expression, isn't there: "the object of my affections." But perhaps you do not believe in that kind of God, or any other, for that matter.

Look then at the faces and bodies of people you love. The explicit beauty that comes not from smoothness of skin or neutrality of expression, but from the web of experience that has left its mark. Each face, each body is its own living fossilized record. A record of cats, combatants, difficult births; of accidents, cruelties, blessings. Reminders of folly, greed, indiscretion, impatience. A moment of time, of memory, preserved, internalized, and enshrined within and upon the body. You need not be told that these records are what render your beloved beautiful. If God exists, He is there, in the small, cast-off pieces, rough and random and no two alike.

Wanda and Troy celebrated their wedding in the backyard of Margaret's house under a billowing white canopy. It was a very big wedding, with the volunteers, Aloha Lanes staff and clientele, Babara Cohen, students of the Crazy Plate Academy, the Crooning Clansmen, Troy's mother and sisters, M.J.'s lady friend Joyce, and the entire Schultz clan all in attendance.

Augie, the fledgling toddler, tripped several times, but persevered with lionesque courage until he successfully delivered his pillow to the groom. Wanda's ring was lost somewhere along the way, but they recovered it later. Susan was maid of honor; Gus, in kilt and garters, stood
up with Troy. A solo violin played "The Nearness of You" as Wanda walked down the aisle arm in arm with her father.

As a blessing, M.J. read from "A Prayer for My Daughter" by William Butler Yeats: "O may she live like some green laurel rooted in one dear perpetual place."

And at the end of the service, in a gesture mirroring Jewish ritual but reflecting traditions entirely their own, they smashed Irma and Lucie's tete-a-tete. The crowd huzzahed and clapped, and the festivities and dancing began.

Upstairs, dreaming, Maurice stirred, rolled over, and jostled an eighteenth-century tripod table, sending a trio of Worcester inkstands— circa 1830 and valued at roughly three thousand dollars each—careening over the edge and onto the floor.

Being deaf as a post, the crash did not wake
him.

Acknowledgments

It would not have been possible to sustain the seven-year effort required to write this book without the unflagging help of many kind, generous, funny, smart, loving, and infinitely patient people. It gives me great pleasure to finally recognize their efforts and express my gratitude.

I am thankful to the following authors, whose books were tremendously helpful during my research: JoAnn Locktov and Leslie Plummer Clagett
(The Art of Mosaic Design),
Richard Chesnoff
(Pac
k
of Thieves),
and Seattle artist Gizel Berman and her husband, Nick
(My Three Lives).
For giving me an inside look at two of Seattle's wonderful Capitol Hill mansions, I am grateful to the Shafer-Baillie staff, and to Sylvia Jones and the residents of PRAG house.

For directing me to the best of bebop, thanks go to poet, DJ, and activist Paul Nelson.

Catherine Walton graciously agreed to check my French; Erin McCarger Schilling and Jennevieve Schlemmer shared their vast knowledge of the artistic and technical aspects of mosaic-making, and gave me the courage to grout.

I owe Stephen Sandweiss for introducing me to the concept of Tikun Olam, and Deborah Frockt for illuminating the
real
reason behind the glass-breaking at the end of a Jewish wedding!

Thanks to Jerry Hahn for taking the time to answer all my questions about bowling, and to the staff of the Leilani Lanes for throwing the best birthday parties ever.

I'm indebted to the many people who ushered me into the larger writing community: Nancy Rawles, Joan Rabinowitz, Anita Montgomery, and the Jack Straw Foundation; Nancy Nordoff, the staff of Hedgebrook Farm, and my "sisters" in residence: Lynne, Anju, Jourdan, Roberta, and Merlie.

Thanks also to the Group Health Radiologists who were so generous with their time and knowledge: Dr. Daniel Winder, Dr. Maurice Miller, and Dr. David Hillier.

Miriam Greenbaum and Jennifer Wood of the Washington State Holocaust Education and Resource Center were enormously helpful in sharing their remarkable knowledge and extensive resources. Their contribution to this book was vital.

I am deeply grateful to Sheri Holman, who so graciously consented to read an early draft. Her keen insights into the craft of novel writing were invaluable; her kindness and encouragement meant so much. Sheri, you will always be my "Hero!"

To the members of my writing group, The Commoners: Craig English, Ellen Parker, Michael Maschinot, ChiChi Singler, and Ron Pellegrino. Thank you for having faith in me, and for making me a better writer than I ever could have been on my own. This book wouldn't have seen the light of day without your constant support. I love you all.

Melvin Sterne, editor of
Carve
magazine, was the first person to publish my work; I will always owe him a special debt for his early support and encouragement.

Thanks to Tom Cherwin, my copy editor, for his careful eye and kind words, and to all the folks at Grove/Atlantic for taking a risk on this fledgling novelist.

Shary Kopyt, survivor, was one of the unseen angels who made sure that Irma's story was told. Her granddaughter, Lauren Wein, edited the book with marvelous intelligence, grace, and affection. She guided me through the process of rewriting with respect and utter clarity; I learned so much from our collaboration.

To the fabulous Daniel Lazar, who found me, and my agent, Simon Lipskar of Writers House: you boychik geniuses are the best. The se
r
endipity that brought us together is enough to make a person believe in miracles. Thank you for your Talmudic scholarship, wisdom, jokes, recipes, music, and Yiddish lessons. I am one lucky writer.

My deepest thanks go to my family: my mother, Dorie, who instilled in me my love of books and reading; my father, Gregory, who always encouraged me to reach for my dreams; my husband, Bill (the nicest little old Jewish man I know) for reading all my rough drafts and staying married to me anyway; and finally, to my beauties, Noah and Sam, for giving Mommy time to work on her "big book," for carrying my laptop, supplying me with peeps and jokes and Hot Wheels cars, for being my most valued teachers and greatest sources of inspiration. Now you'll always know where to find me: in the library, under "K."