Authors: Juliette Fay
Shelter Me (36 page)
Malcolm was in the middle of guiding his two fingers out into midair to catch the sacred butt, when he turned abruptly toward her. “How’d you know about that?” he demanded.
“It’s me, Janie,” she said. “I type your letters.”
“Oh, it’s you!” he said with a grin that blew out as fast as it lit. “Oh…” He reached inside his scarred jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. The letterhead said,
Jacobson, Herlihy & Ostrow, LLP.
Down the left side was a list of principals in the partnership. The address included a suite number.
Re: Your sister
Dear Malcolm:
Thanks for your letters. Mom died last Thursday. She said to tell you, “I’ll leave a candle in the window of our new home above the stars.” I’m not sure quite what that means, but I assume you do.
Regards,
Dean Ostrow
“Oh, Malcolm,” said Janie. “I am so sorry.”
He handed her the cigarette and she took another puff. “Yeah,” he said. “All’s I keep thinking is, ‘Now what?’ Isn’t that the stupidest thing? I can’t figure out what to do next. Like there
is
something, but I just don’t know what.”
Janie nodded. She stared out across the parking lot. He smelled like booze and pee and smoke and the most incredibly rancid body odor. But she didn’t even care.
Now what?
she thought.
What other question is there?
I
T SNOWED ON
W
EDNESDAY
, the weak flakes huddling together on the frozen ground. Not enough to make snowballs, much less a snowman. Keane came over for a playdate and the boys rolled around in their jackets and snow pants and hats with earflaps, claiming all the white they could. They came in wet and tired and unsatisfied.
“The fitting’s tonight,” Janie groaned to Heidi when she came to retrieve Keane.
“The bridesmaid dress? God, is there anything worse?”
“Oh, like you’d know,” said Janie. “You’d look good in a painter’s tarp.”
“First of all, that is completely untrue. Second of all, the next time I see you, I will bring you PROOF.”
“Oh, what? A ball gown that was a shade off?”
“No, smart-ass. You’ll have to wait and see.”
“And what’s with the trash talk?” said Janie.
“Hanging around you too much, I guess,” Heidi smiled.
Aunt Jude came over to babysit, nearly pushing Janie out the door to make the appointment. As she drove down Route 9 looking for the dress shop, she considered buying a pack of cigarettes.
Now what?
she thought, remembering Malcolm.
How can House of Happiness Bridal Salon possibly be the answer to that question?
When she walked in the door, the satiny pinkness of it, and the remnants of a hundred women’s perfumes hit her like a rogue wave.
Please, God, help me,
she found herself praying.
Keep me from the temptation to scream out bad words. Or purposely rip my dress. Or hurt Barb’s feelings. Please God, help me be good.
“Janie!” Barb called giddily from a doorway across the room. The sound went up Janie’s spine.
Smile
, she ordered herself.
Approach
.
Once inside an even pinker room, Janie was introduced to the seven other bridesmaids.
The pews will be empty,
she thought.
We’ll all be up on the altar.
She immediately forgot all of their names, but
she did not fail to notice that they were all approximately a decade younger than her. Most were taller with perkier figures and better haircuts. Two were light-pole-thin and had clearly had some work done. Those breasts were just too round and high.
“And this is my godchild, Stephanie. She’s a junior bridesmaid, right honey?” said Barb, drawing out a girl of about twelve from behind a high-backed shiny upholstered pink chair. The girl’s brown hair hung like broom-bristle around her face. She looked miserable.
Janie delivered her only genuine smile of the evening. The girl smiled back, flicked her gaze around the room, and rolled her eyes to Janie.
You and me, both,
thought Janie.
The dresses were unveiled with more pomp than an inauguration. They were brought out by a phalanx of bridal salon workers and hung on tall mirrors around the room. Janie had to admit they were beautiful. And surprisingly simple. Sheath-style with delicate lace straps, and made from several different pastel-colored silks, they hung there just begging to be tried on. The other women began to disrobe immediately. Stephanie gave Janie an imploring look, and Janie replied by cocking her head in a surreptitious “come over here” gesture. Stephanie scurried over behind her.
Before either of them could catch up, the other women were completely naked.
What the hell?
thought Janie. The bridal workers were handing out “body stockings,” panty hose that rose up to the armpit, creating what Barb referred to as “a sleek line.”
An older woman, apparently the manager, approached Janie, still standing there in her bra and underpants. “Wait, just a moment,” she said politely in a foreign, possibly Portuguese, accent. “I will get you something with more…support.”
Janie glanced down at her stretch marks and slightly drooping breasts. Many curse words formed in her head. She looked at Stephanie, who hadn’t even taken off her shirt. “Let’s just get through this,” Janie said.
“Okay,” breathed the girl.
When the manager returned, she held out the “supportive” body stocking to Janie.
“You know—” began Janie.
“Follow me,” said the manager, sweeping up two pale blue dresses as she walked.
Janie and Stephanie were ushered into a smaller dressing room. When the curtain swished closed behind them, they both began to laugh. “I’m going to kill my mother!” said Stephanie. “I didn’t even want to be in the stupid wedding. And SHE doesn’t have to be in it because she’s PREGNANT!” Stephanie puffed out her cheeks and hooped her hands in front of her.
They struggled into their body stockings, Janie’s with extra tension around the stomach and breasts, and helped each other into the dresses. She studied Stephanie, her tender body budding through the smoothness of the silk. Janie felt emotional all of a sudden. The sweetness of the moment, the imperfect, authentic beauty of the young girl. “Your mother must be so proud of you,” she murmured. And she thought,
This is why I’m here. This is Now What.
Stephanie smiled shyly and nodded. “You look really hot,” she added.
“For an old lady,” Janie teased.
“No, really. For anyone.”
S
HE DREADED
T
UESDAY
. I
T
had been two weeks since she’d seen Tug, and she’d spent the previous Tuesday struggling mightily not to be home. She knew he wouldn’t come. Why should he? And it was just too hard to be there, in the absence of him. It was harder than six o’clock was anymore. She went to a paint store and spent an hour and a half choosing new paint for her living room. Not that she had any plans to paint her living room.
This Tuesday, Carly had fallen asleep uncharacteristically early. Janie was trapped in the house. She was actually starting to
consider painting when she saw the mail truck pull up. There was never anything good, just bills and flyers and credit card offers, but she went out, anyway. It would kill a minute and a half.
A letter was addressed to her in what she thought of as nun’s handwriting; perfectly formed letters, curling daintily at the ends, knit together in perfect lines of art. The return address on the back flap of the stationery was raised, and gave the sender’s name as “Mrs. Frances J. Seagrave.” She lived on Pelham Heights Lane. “Dear Mrs. LaMarche,” Janie read as she walked back toward the house.
I hardly know how to begin. I suppose it is my duty to inform you as to my identity so that you may determine whether you have any further interest in this letter. My brother is Emmett Daly, the man who caused the death of your husband.
If you continue to read, please first let me express my family’s deepest, most heartfelt sympathy about the loss of your dear husband, and our profound regret on behalf of my brother at having been the cause of such an unimaginable tragedy. It is well within the bounds of reason if you were never to have anything to do with us.
However, I write to inform you that I fear for my brother. Since the accident, he has become unable to care for himself, not because he can’t but because he seems to have no desire to do so. I have insisted that he come to live with me so that I may do my best to insure that no serious harm comes to him. This is becoming progressively more difficult. He eats and sleeps very little. He refuses to engage in almost any activity whatsoever. His wife passed away several years ago and his children are far flung across the country. I believe, Mrs. LaMarche, that my brother has lost the will to live.
Not withstanding the event of January past, he is a kind and decent man. When his good old dog, Nancy, was at the end of her natural days and unable to rise, he could not bear to have her put down. I had to take the animal to the vet myself. All this to say, please do not, under any circumstances, think that your husband’s
death conformed to a pattern of recklessness or lack of concern on my brother’s part. To the contrary, I know of no other man who would be less likely to be involved in such an act. Needless to say, he no longer drives. He will barely ride in a car at all. Not that any of this is the least concern of yours, of course. I understand you have two very young children. It fills me with pain even to think of it.
Mrs. LaMarche, I do not know you, or anything about you. But I find myself wondering—hoping desperately, in fact—if you might be the kind of person who would be able to forgive my brother. I know that this favor may be unimaginable. I tremble as I ask it. And yet, I love my brother. I would do anything to ease the excruciating mental anguish he experiences every day, even if it involves a request of such magnitude to a stranger. If I have over-stepped the limits of decency in your eyes, I hope you will find it in your heart to understand.
Most sincerely yours,
Fran Seagrave
Janie had sunk down onto the floor of the porch. Her fingers ached with cold, and yet she could not move farther into the house until she’d finished reading. Emmett Daly. That name came back to her. He was an older man, the police had told her, but not too old to drive. He’d called the paramedics himself from his cell phone, and he was sitting on the ground, holding Robby’s lifeless hand and weeping when they arrived.
It was unknown as to whether he’d gone through the stop sign or if it had been Robby who’d blown through his own stop sign on the cross street. Mr. Daly couldn’t remember, and wouldn’t defend himself. He’d been charged with manslaughter. It was unlikely that he would serve any time, they had warned her, given that there was no evidence of recklessness.
Not reckless. That’s what his sister had said. It was just an accident, like Robby forgetting the helmet.
We need that day back,
was all Janie could think.
More of us than I ever realized.
S
HE PUT THE LETTER
on her dresser. She had every intention of responding, and yet when she thought of what “responding” might mean, she got a little queasy. Should she write him a letter? That would be the easiest way, if she could think of anything at all to say other than, “You’re forgiven.” Who would even believe a note like that? She could call, but that seemed even weirder, like some disembodied voice coming at her over the phone: “I killed him.” Then she would say, “It’s okay. I forgive you.” It wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay. Maybe she didn’t really forgive him after all.
T
HURSDAY
, D
ECEMBER
13
I got this letter. The sister of the guy who hit Robby thinks he needs forgiveness. Well, actually, it seems that he might need a lot more than me forgiving him at this point in the game. He’s in pretty tough shape.
The more I think about it—and I seem to be obsessed with it since I got the letter—the more I’m not even sure I really know what forgiveness is. Is it some big cosmic do-over? Like no harm, no foul? But there was harm—big, hairy, serious harm. Robby doesn’t get a do-over, and neither do I or the kids. Things are broken now that can’t be fixed. How come the other guy gets a Get Out of Jail Free card?
Alright, but it’s not like he hasn’t paid. His life is decimated, I get that. He will never not be a guy who killed someone. And when I think about it that way, it’s worse than jail, and there’s no free pass, no matter who says nice words to you.
So what does forgiveness really do for you? Is it even a real thing? Or is it something humans just made up to make our
selves feel better? Or is it like the concept of time, something that actually exists, but our little brains can’t really comprehend it, so we just measure it and give the pieces names until we’ve dumbed it down for ourselves?
S
UNDAY
,
SHE WENT TO
Immaculate Conception in Natick with Aunt Jude, as usual. Father Octogenarian gave a mercifully brief homily about it being the third Sunday of Advent. The pink candle in the Advent wreath could now be lit. “And for those of you who’ve already gone ahead and lit the pink candle,” snarled the priest, “well, you’ve ruined it.”
The pink candle was for Joy.
Fuck joy
, thought Janie.
B
Y
T
UESDAY MORNING
,
EXACTLY
one week after the letter had arrived, and three weeks since she’d last seen Tug, Janie had had about enough.
I AM turning into Mike,
she told herself.
I’m obsessive and hypersensitive, except without the world-class artistic talent. It sucks.
Lunchtime was fast approaching and she had no errands to get her out of the house—except Christmas shopping, which any normal person would do, but Janie couldn’t even force herself to consider. She had the admittedly certifiable idea that if she bought presents, Christmas might actually come.