The Stager: A Novel (28 page)

“Okay, easy does it, Elsa. You don’t have to take everything out from under there. No, I never met your dad, but I feel like I know him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just from being in this house, seeing his pictures, being around his things. But I also feel like maybe it would be better if I get out of here before he and Nabila get back, assuming she’s found him. He’s coming home after a long trip, and he’ll be tired. The last thing he needs is a stranger in his house.”

“You’re not a stranger. You’re the Stager! The Stranger Stager!”

“Hmm … that doesn’t necessarily sound like a great nickname, does it? It’s been a while, though, since Nabila left. Do you think we should give her a call?”

“No. Really, like I said, this happens all the time. Sometimes my dad goes away for a bit just to clear his head. Sometimes he does that in his room. But sometimes he has to go somewhere. It has something to do with the light. It’s no big deal. He always comes back. And Nabila will find him. He never goes anywhere very far away.”

“Was he always like this?”

“Like what?”

“You know, sort of … sensitive?”

“Only since … Oh, I don’t know. Maybe about three years ago. Around when he hurt his knee the second time and had an operation and it got infected, and he wound up in another hospital, and then another. Then it finally got better but he couldn’t play tennis anymore. Then, one day, he got worse, with the mean reds, and they never went away.”

“The mean reds?”

“It’s from a famous book my mom loves. It means he got depressed.”

“Yes, I know. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, well, it’s okay, because my mom started to make more money than my dad did, so we didn’t become poor or anything. Now she has to work all the time and she’s always away. But I get that it’s not so bad, because we have some kids at our school whose parents work all the time, too, and they don’t even have any money, like Zahara. She’s a refugee from somewhere, and her mom works at a restaurant, but they let her go to our school anyway but I don’t know how she pays because my school costs more than a chair on eBay.”

“She’s probably on scholarship. It’s nice that your school does that. What do you mean, a chair on eBay? The Wassily?”

“The what?”

“The chair in the corner of the living room?”

“Oh yeah. Yes. Where is it, anyway?”

“I moved it to the attic.”

“My dad is going to freak out.”

“It’s just temporary. We can move it back downstairs as soon as we sell your house.”

“No one wants to buy our house.”

“Just watch. They will this time. Here, I think the tea’s ready. It’s kind of hot, though.”

“Put some milk in it to cool it off. That’s what people do in England, where I have to move. We should have some scones, whatever those are. Tea and scones and crumpets!”

“Well, no scones or crumpets lying around, but how about some rice cakes?”

“Yuck. Just tea, please.”

“So do you play with this girl, Zahara?”

The Stager pours some milk in my tea and sets out the rice cakes on a plate, even though I just said I didn’t want one.

“Diana says we should be careful around her because she’s from a country where they have a lot of problems and maybe her parents are going to blow up our school.”

“That’s a horrible thing for Diana to say! What did you say to her?”

“I didn’t say anything. Diana doesn’t always let me sit with her, either, so I need to be careful not to get on her bad side.”

“Maybe you don’t want to be on her good side, if she says things like that.”

“I know. I’ve thought about that, but she almost didn’t invite me to her birthday party this year, and we’ve been best friends forever.”

“Well, things change; maybe you should just move on. Why don’t you invite Zahara over sometime?”

“What’s the point? I have to move to the stupid house in London anyway.”

“Well, you never know. Life is long. Things come around.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just mean that people reappear in your life, strange things happen, you reconnect unexpectedly. So maybe someday Zahara will wind up in London. You just never know. Invite her to sit with you at lunch on Monday, maybe.”

“Yeah, maybe. I’m just afraid of Diana.”

“It sounds like maybe you shouldn’t worry so much about Diana. It sounds like she thinks she’s sort of superior to everyone. That’s not the kind of friend you need.”

“Yeah, my mom says that, too. She says it’s not good to judge people. She said she used to have a friend who was always judging her, who thought she was morally superior.”

“Really? What else did your mom say about the friend? Wow, this tea is … weird. It tastes like flowers. And licorice.”

I blow on it and take a sip. “Yuck! It’s horrible!” I run to the sink and spit it out.

“I don’t know, I kind of like it. Try another sip. It’s like lavender, but with a little … I don’t know, maybe a little hint of yarrow? It tastes like flowers.”

“Flower tea.”

“Yes. Flower tea. That’s a good name. It makes me think of the ‘Flower Duet.’”

“What’s that?”

“It’s from an opera. It’s a stunning aria. It’s one of those pieces of music that, if you carry it around inside of you, it feels like you’ve been transported to some holy place.”

“My God! I want to hear it! Are you okay? You look a little funny.” The Stager’s eyes are getting kind of glassy, and she’s slumping in her chair, like Molly upstairs. She looks like she’s drunk.

“Can you get me my bag?” she asks. “It’s by the front door.”

I go to get it. It’s on the table where the naked starving person and the pig are supposed to be. I give it to her, and she digs around inside and pulls out her lipstick. She puts it on, but she doesn’t do a very good job, and it smears below the bottom lip, making her look a little like a clown.

“Why are you putting your lipstick on? Are you going somewhere?”

“My lips are dry,” she says, smacking them together loudly. She pours herself another cup of tea and drinks it straight down, even though I can see the steam coming out of the cup.

“Stranger Stager?”

“Yes, my darling?”

“Are you okay? Isn’t that really hot? Did you burn your tongue?”

“I’m so okay, you have no idea. What did your mom say about the friend?”

“What friend? Zahara, or Diana?”

“No, the judgmental friend.”

“Oh, my mom’s friend, you mean? My mom said she made one mistake, just one simple mistake, and the friend would never speak to her again.”

“A simple mistake? Only one? Is that really what she said?”

“Why? Do you know her?”

“Know who?”

“The friend?”

“I feel a little like I’m floating. Do you?”

“No.” I suddenly realize it’s the tea. I was right. The tea is not tea. Or maybe it’s not just tea. The tea is drugs, and the Stager is pouring herself another cup.

“No more tea for you,” I say. But she picks up the cup and drinks it down quickly, even though it’s very hot.

“What else did your mom say?” she asks.

“Something like that the friend was bitter and jealous and not very attractive, and she couldn’t get over the fact that my mom was beautiful and happy and successful.”

“I can’t believe she said that! It’s so not true. On top of which, well, there are different ways to measure these things, right? What about someone who lives an honest life? Is there any reward for that? Probably not, it seems. I mean, look at these people who just keep on going, taking whatever they need, and never look back at the wreckage along the way?”

“Are you okay? I think you should try to sit up.”

“I’m starting to get upset.”

“I see that.”

“I need another cup of tea.”

“That’s not a good idea. You’ve had too much already.”

“No, tea is very comforting. You’ll see when you get to England. Whenever anything bad happens, anything at all, they say, ‘Here, love, let’s have a cuppa.’ Even if something terrible happens, like someone gets hit by a car, or even dies, they say, ‘Put the tea on.’”

“I believe you. But I think you’ve had enough.”

“But the tea is making me very happy.”

“What else makes you happy?”

“Music. I love music. Sometimes I just put my headphones on and blast music. It’s like a drug.”

“Okay. Great idea. Let me get my iPod and we can play some music.”

“You have an iPad and an iPhone and an iPod? That’s a lot of iThings.”

“Only three! What do you want to hear?”

“I totally want to hear the ‘Flower Duet,’ to go with the flower tea.”

I run upstairs to get my iPod and live-stream the “Flower Duet.” When I come back downstairs, the Stager is lying on the kitchen floor. I put my iPod in the dock with speakers, and the music starts to play. It sounds almost like perfume. Or like a perfume commercial.

“Whoa … I’m dancing.”

“You’re not, actually. You’re lying on the floor.”

When we talked about marijuana in our DARE class, no one explained it would be this bad. I thought it just made you hungry. Maybe this isn’t even marijuana. There are other, worse things, but we are going to discuss those when we get to middle school, and since I’m not going to the middle school, I don’t know if I’ll ever learn. Who knows what kind of drugs they have in London.

The Stager tries to sit up, but she’s having trouble. I take her hand to help, but she’s heavier than she looks, and I can’t get her to move.

“I have an idea,” she says. “Let’s go dance in the street.”

“Sure,” I say, even though she doesn’t look like she’s going to be able to dance in the street for a while.

“Oh, Elsa. Elsa, Elsa, Elsa, this is such a brilliant idea! We’re dancing! We’re flying!”

Actually, she is lying spread-eagled on the ground. “You really don’t look so good,” I say.

“Why? Is it my hair? My hair is so unfortunate. I didn’t have time to dry it, and it’s still damp.”

“No, your hair is fine. You just look kind of…”

“Wait, I have an even better idea. Before we dance, let’s paint! And then let’s bake! Let’s just do everything you’ve ever wanted to do in your whole life!”

“How about let’s finish the picture of Dominique in a chair? His ears are really crooked, and he looks kind of insane. I don’t know what to do to fix it.”

She seems motivated to get up. She grasps the table leg and pulls herself into a sitting position, and after that, I take both her hands and pull as hard as I can. We get her almost up, but then she falls down again. The second time is easier, and we finally get her on her feet, even though she looks like she’s not very steady.

“You look a little wobbly.”

“Me? No, I’m fine. Not wobbly at all.”

She gets up the stairs by hugging the banister, and at one point, halfway up, I worry that she’s going to fall asleep and fall down, so I keep talking to her, coaxing her along.

“Do you want to lie down?” I ask, once we reach my room.

“No, I want to paint. Let me see what you have so far.” She stares at my crooked rabbit. At first I think she’s going to say something negative, but then her face lights up.

“I have an idea. Instead of just painting on the canvas, what if we paint some rabbits on the wall? It can be kind of a Dominique memorial.”

“Um, I really like that idea, but since the open house is tomorrow … I don’t know … Didn’t you say we were supposed to
depersonalize
the house? Isn’t this sort of the opposite?”

“No, Elsa. It will just make the house more special! I mean, how many houses have rabbits on the wall?” She’s already opening the lid on the paint, and then she stops and says, “I should probably do an outline first.” She takes a black Sharpie pen and draws an outline of a gigantic rabbit on the wall. It’s amazing how good it is. I could have spent the entire day trying to get the ears right and the tail right, and in five minutes, she’s drawn the largest, most perfect rabbit I’ve ever seen in my life.

“That’s
fabulous
,” I say. “After we finish painting the rabbit, can we dance in the street?”

“You know we can, honey. We can do anything you want. This is your special day.”

We both start laughing again, and I really can’t remember having ever met anyone who is this much fun. The Stager is such a happy person, and I’m lucky that, of all the stagers in the world, she’s the one who has come to stage my house.

LARS

The minor subplots and broader themes are bleeding out. All that’s left is memory, spare and sepia-toned: me and Bella on a rusty swing set at dusk in the weedy back garden of a motel. Because we are partial to five-star hotels, I’m having trouble locating this scene. Why are we here? It must be family-related, a random stopover along the way from there to here. A funeral, perhaps? A visit to one of her cousins in the Midwest? I can’t say for sure. But I do know there are fireflies, and they are just beginning to light. We swing high, me and Bella, legs pumping, synchronized. Cicadas sing in the background. I don’t know at the time that in the end it may be that this is all that’s left of our marriage.

We always think there will be more—a nice assisted-living suite, a connected burial plot—but it’s possible the whole thing will implode and we’ll be left with only disembodied memories, as indistinct as the loose change that rattles in your pocket, with no reminder of when and where you split the last dollar bill. That said, tender memories are nothing to sneeze at. It’s not nothing, a firefly memory, even if the narrative is thin.

“You okay, Lars?” The rabbit is standing on my chest, slapping me. “You look a little pale. I think you should try to get up.”

My spleen has grown cold. It feels like a hunk of liver you might acquire from the butcher. Surely this is just a bad dream.

“I’m actually not feeling so well.”

“Oh, Lars, quit complaining. Just get a grip.”

“You seem weirdly unconcerned about my physical condition. It makes me wonder if you really care about me. You’re as bad as Bella that time I couldn’t stop throwing up and she didn’t even have time to drive me to the pharmacy. Do you have anything to at least help stanch the bleeding?”

“Oh, Lars, enough with the self-pity. Don’t break my heart. I care about you deeply, my brother. That’s why I brought you here. I have this towel you can use, but it’s kind of dirty. I wouldn’t want you to get an infection.”