Philly Stakes, page 15
Before I had gone more than a few feet, he called out. “Mandy!” he said, waving. “One minute.” He came up to me. Laura was near the car. “Since you canceled your vacation, your trip, could I—could we see each other?”
“Laura’s with me for a while. I don’t feel really good about leaving her just now.”
“Then all three of us. I promised I’d cook you dinner, didn’t I? I’ll cook for you both.”
“Well, that sounds…”
“How about tonight?”
“I don’t know, I…”
“Or have you already been booked by your friend, the constable?”
I shook my head. “He’ll be way down yonder in New Orleans.”
Nick rightly took that as a go-ahead.
“Except—you won’t bother Laura, will you?” I asked him.
He looked startled, and offended, and I realized how awful I’d made it seem. “I mean, ask her questions for your article. Things like that.”
He shook his head. “All I’ll do is keep matches away from her.”
“This isn’t a good idea, if you’re going to be like that.”
“It was a joke.”
“It stunk.”
“Listen, everybody knows she started the fire.”
“Let’s forget dinner, okay? It’d be too awkward.”
“Give me a chance. I was only relating public opinion. And anyway, what they think has nothing to do with what you’ll think of my cooking. Give me a chance, okay?”
“Give her one, would you?”
He looked abashed and charged full of energy. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly.”
“Now I’ll ask her if it’s all right.” Which I did. She okayed the idea.
“But you seemed upset by him,” I said. “Don’t feel any obligation.”
“No, I was just…confused. It’s okay. Really.”
“Hold on to all those vegetables, though. You and I retain salad-making rights,” I said. “And our grand production will reek of garlic.” She came close to a grin on that one.
So we were on. Nick would give her a chance and I’d give him one. And he’d see that Laura was not capable of murder, or arson or anything like it.
All the same, I’d keep my fireplace matches under surveillance.
Eleven
“THIS WILL BE UNBELIEVABLY BORING FOR BOTH OF US, BUT I PROMISE I WON’T be long.”
“It’s all right. Honest.” Laura looked as if she actually meant it. Perhaps any normal domestic activity intrigued her because of its unfamiliarity. Or perhaps she was so used to accommodating adult wishes, no matter how unpleasant, that her smile and earnest enthusiasm were reflex actions.
Silverwood was enormous, a complex into which able-bodied seniors moved and around which they were rotated, as the bodies became less able, until they were in a maximum-care custodial unit.
There were energetic folk off to sales on a bus that said Shopper’s Circle on its destination window. There were hearty stay-at-homes braving the cold as they walked the strip of hard December earth encircling the red brick buildings. And somewhere inside, unseen, I knew, were the people who were finished with after-season sales and promenades and who would never, no matter what the sign said, convalesce.
I wasn’t sure where the party room was, so Laura and I trotted behind a woman whose silver Volunteer ribbon fluttered on her chest as she led us, giving a tour as we walked. “And this is our dayroom,” she said when we’d arrived.
I don’t know why they called it that. I would have guessed I was in their twilight room, or their extremely dark plaid room. The floor, the chairs and the love seats were tiled and upholstered in so many subdued tartans it seemed they’d been bought by lot from a Scottish Sofa Outlet. Furthermore, glen plaid drapes were pulled shut, making the atmosphere dusky and the TV picture clearer for antisocial, nonpartying folks. There was no visible day in that room.
Jenny waved at me from the middle of a noisy group, so I thanked the volunteer and walked over with Laura.
We faced a terrifying assortment of temptations, including Sarah and Jenny’s irresistible cookies. “A completely unbalanced diet is permitted during the holidays,” I told Laura. “Forget the four food groups and have fun.” I added our dozen cannoli to the buffet and tried to keep my chomping to a minimum by occupying my mouth with words—compliments for the contributors to Mining Silver, and to those sporting new Christmas finery. I inspected and oohed over hammered silver earrings, a soft rose shawl, a necklace of seed pearls, a silk blouse, a tie patterned with tiny fish and a handbag made of wool carpeting. I talked about writing in general with Maggie Towne, the Tuesday teacher, and with those party-goers who didn’t have gifts to show off. After half an hour of this, I spied Minna White slowly crossing the room in her wheelchair.
“I brought you a treat,” I told her, “but it’s really from my mother.”
She clapped her hands. “I didn’t think you’d do it! No, I didn’t think it at all! What a wonderful Christmas gift!”
So my mother had not bamboozled me, at least not by pretending she’d made me a date. I was still peeved with her machinations, but relieved that I’d honored the commitment, especially since I got the sense that Minna hadn’t been otherwise showered with presents.
The wheelchair swiveled around and Laura and I were scanned by Minna, a diminutive woman with blue-white hair and spectacles so thick as to make her eyes blurred enlargements. “And who are you?” she said, squinting. “I’m blind, you know. Legally, at least. When there’s no party, I come in here to hear the TV and the people. Can’t see much at all. What’s your name?”
“Laura. I’m with Miss Pepper.”
“Well, welcome, both of you. It’s so good to have company. Come, let’s talk over there.” The Tuesday people’s party was progressing nicely, and I excused myself. Laura and I sank into a yellow, brown and black tartan love seat facing Minna.” Shall I ask those people to turn off the TV?” she asked. “Nobody pays attention to it, anyway.”
“No, please,” I said, although it was true that Laura and my ratings were way ahead of whatever soap opera was on. Thirty faces aimed in our direction, and I nodded, feeling vaguely royal. “I hope your taste buds are in good working order,” I said, ignoring our audience, “because I brought cannoli.”
Minna clapped her hands again. Her tiny size and choice of gestures gave her a childlike quality that contrasted with the wheelchair and thick slabs of spectacles. “Thank you! So kind of you! Your mother said you might, but I didn’t let myself count on it. They smell like heaven. Help yourself—eat some—take some!”
“We bought our own,” I said. “At that little store at the Italian Market. These are all yours.”
She sighed, and looked wistful, and I could almost see through those impenetrable glasses into her mind, where memories ran like home movies of times when she, too, was mobile and could decide to visit the best cannoli baker in Philadelphia. “Is the market the same?” she asked.
“Pretty much. There are some Asian vendors now, and it feels like there’re more geegaws—barrettes and ruffly socks—what my Aunt Flo calls ‘chotchkes,’ but otherwise, it’s still noisy and crazy and wonderful.”
“Well, I can’t wait. It’s been years. I’m having one right now,” she said, carefully undoing the string and finding one of the crisp cylinders. “Tell me,” she said before biting in, “do you ever see anybody from Brooke Street?”
I shook my head, then remembered she could probably not see me. “I was about seven when we moved. I don’t really remember a whole lot about it.”
“I keep thinking you and Junior are the same age, but I remember now, my Dom, my first husband, died the year you moved and Junior was fifteen, so he’s much older than you.”
“And how is Junior?” It wasn’t hard making conversation, as long as you didn’t mind discussing things or people that held no interest.
Minna took me seriously. She put her cannoli down on the pastry box and considered. “He’s…taking a long time to—how do they call it now?—find himself. He had a bad marriage, a lot of jobs that didn’t work out. Not an easy time of it, you understand? Born with that wine stain on his face, kids making fun of him and all. Then his father dying early, and our losing the house, that was the real thing. And then my second husband, well, the two of them weren’t the best combination, maybe. So…” She stared down in silence for a moment.
Junior sounded like an overgrown baby, throwing tantrums because life wasn’t fair. I was relieved, and surprised, that Minna didn’t try to arrange a date for me with him. Perpetual babies are always being fixed up because they are always in need of repair.
The next former child in the spotlight would be me and the next topic why I hadn’t yet married, so I changed tacks. “I read your story,” I said. “It’s really good.”
One of the TV watchers had quietly moved closer for a better view or an invitation or simply as a way of breaking the monotony of her day. “Yes,” she said now, “Minna is quite a storyteller.”
Minna White tilted her head, as if to verify the speaker. Then she smiled. “Don’t you listen to Rose Levitt. What does she know? This is a schoolteacher, Rose. So watch yourself. Let me introduce my friends, Amanda and, ah—”
“Laura,” I said.
“You can join us, Rose, but you cannot have my cannoli.”
Rose accepted the deal. “So, Minna, did you tell them what your storytelling got you?” She turned to me and repeated the question. “Did she tell you about her beau? Scheherazade, we call her. You know, the gal who told the stories and kept the fellas interested?”
“Such talk!” Minna said, shaking her head.
“Am I lying?” Rose eyed the pastry box, I knew what she was looking for—broken off corners, crumbs and crumbles that didn’t count as official “eating.”
Eventually, Rose dislodged a cannoli corner, and quietly, quickly popped it into her mouth, winking at Laura and me. “So,” she said, “you want me to tell them, or will you? Everybody loves a love story, right?”
“Some love story. They aren’t going to make a movie out of this one,” Minna White said. “Don’t tell your mother, Amanda. It’s not nice. I’ve had two husbands, that’s enough. And besides, he was so interested, so interested, right? And have you seen him lately, Rose?”
Rose shrugged eloquently. “Do I know everything you do? Do I follow you? Am I in your bedroom? Ignore that remark, young lady,” she added for Laura’s benefit while Minna gasped.
“Take a cannoli and be quiet, all right?” Minna turned her milky lenses toward me. “You liked my story, then?”
“It was unusual. Not like anything else in the collection. I’m not sure if I understand it completely, though.”
“You weren’t supposed to understand it. Not exactly. Not all the way. Uh-uh. I know what happens to writers, about being sued. So I didn’t use any real names. Except Etienne’s, and that didn’t matter because Etienne was dead. And I changed everything and made it a fairy tale. The creative-writing teacher suggested that. And everybody says they like it.”
“Inmrsfhk—”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Rose!”
Rose swallowed and smacked her lips. “Including Mr. Wonderful, so tell her about him.”
Minna shrugged. “There was this special program last Tuesday during class. We read our things out loud and had cookies and tea. Everybody was invited, and we could bring guests. Even Junior came. And this man. He called himself my secret admirer. He lives somewhere near here, maybe even here at Silverwood. I don’t know. I never met him before, even though he said he comes here for book reviews and special events. Good times. He saw my story in Mining Silver and he said he came to the reading to meet its author. Very elegant sounding, I thought. Very gentlemanly. My friends said he was handsome, too. I couldn’t tell—he could look like the Phantom of the Opera, for all I’d know. Or care. That’s a nice part of being blind, you know. You don’t worry about some of the things anymore.”
“Is that all you’re going to tell them?” Rose had finished her cannoli and was surveying the box for crumbs.
Minna sighed and shrugged. “Not much of a story. He complimented my writing style and imagination. Said the story haunted him. That’s exactly what he said. Then he said he had known an Etienne once, too, so he wondered about mine. Being such an unusual name and all. And we talked. That’s all. Mr. Secret Admirer, Junior and me. Actually, the two of them did most of the talking. They really hit it off. So that’s the big deal, big story. Satisfied, Rose?”
“What about the flowers?” Rose dipped her forefinger into the filling of both remaining cannoli.
“Mandy, you’re thirty years old and you aren’t married—your mother told me—so I’m sure you know how men are. Rose is a little bit older than you, like two and a half times, and she still doesn’t understand that men are only interested until you’re interested back. Then they disappear.”
“I heard it was until they had their way with you,” Rose said tartly.
Minna waved away the suggestion with disgust.
“What happened to Mr. Wonderful?” I asked.
“He came calling the next day. He brought me flowers, wonderful scents, and acted like he really was interested in me. Not a whole lot of men listen, you know? But I have some good stories. Not just the fairy-tale version. There was lying and cheating and stealing and a murder to cover it up, and my Dom ruined because of it.”
“Next time, stick to fairy tales,” Rose said. “Men don’t like women with sad stories.”
Minna shrugged. “He loved the story. He came the next day, too, smelling of extra after-shave, kissed me on the cheek—on the cheek, Rose—and said I should wish him good luck because today was his big test. Like in fairy tales, like in mine, he said, you know? I said, Oh no, that’s for young people and fools. That’s what I said, I don’t know why. Maybe it was too rude. I didn’t know what he meant, anyway. I thought maybe another woman. I still think so, because he never came back. Not even today, even though this is another special event, isn’t it?”
How had we leaped from Minna’s story—the one with lying, cheating, robbery and murder to the overfamiliar ancient one of how men are cads? “About your story,” I said, “the real one. Did you say murder?”
“I did indeed. Etienne was murdered. Didn’t you get that? They found his letter jacket, you know how boys win one for sports in high school? See, I changed it to a cloak in the story, get it? But it was true. He loved that jacket. It was like it was a piece of him. I don’t care if nobody ever finds him, and it was a long time ago. I know he was murdered, and I know why. And—I know who did it.”
“You and that story!” Rose said. “No wonder he ran away!”
“It’s my story. I never told anybody till now. But when that teacher said What do you remember, what will you never forget, out it came, like it had been waiting. Besides, Amanda asked me, so why shouldn’t I tell her about that no-good thief! Who am I hurting?”
“Do you realize there’s a child here? You’ll frighten her!” Rose winked at us and mocked a yawn, using eloquent sign language to tell us she was bored silly.
“What child? Amanda’s a full-grown—”
“I think Rose means my friend, Laura Clausen,” I said. “Except that Laura’s not a child at all. She’s fourteen.”
Minna had slammed back in her chair as if yanked.
“I’m not frightened, Mrs. White,” Laura said, “so do go on.” The Laura I’d known was so webbed in by silence, I was again surprised, although in the last few hours I had noticed that words, few though they still were, were falling out at random, filling up what I kept expecting to be silent crevasses.
“That’s an unusual last name,” Minna said. “Are you by chance related to…well, I mean, the news stories lately, all I hear…is—was he…?”
“Laura is Alexander Clausen’s daughter.” Even without Laura here, I would not have brought up his name, no matter what my mother had suggested, if Minna herself hadn’t touched on it. With Laura here, it seemed nearly impossible to pursue it, however. She’d be glad to see him dead, my mother had said, more or less, and that hardly seemed a topic to explore in front of his daughter. Well, it was ancient history, anyway.
“Your father,” Minna said. “Oh, my. He was—well, this is a surprise and… My condolences, of course.” Her hands were clasped on the top of the pastry box in her lap, and her head swiveled from one to the other of us.
“Mine, too, you poor dear,” Rose said. “And we don’t have to hear any more sad stories. I tell Minna all the time—there’s enough sad things in the news every day. We need to be cheery, to laugh a little instead.”
“I hope I didn’t say anything to upset you.” Minna seemed truly worried. “I didn’t realize who you were, or I would never have…”
“Of course not.” Rose leaned over to pat Minna’s shoulder. “Minna is a sweet old thing. And a sexpot.”
“Rose!”
“You’ll see. That man will crawl back to you, to woo you. I know men.”
We were again deciphering male behavior, a futile game I had played and lost often enough. A good time to bid farewell.
“Will you come back sometime soon?” Minna seemed to have lost a few vertebrae during the course of our visit. Her voice was low and meditative. “I get lonely. Junior’s never here.”
“But you said he was here last Tuesday.”
“Almost never. And that last time, he talked to my new friend, that man, the whole time. But I don’t like to complain.”
Why don’t people who say that ever mean it? “I’ll be back,” I promised. “With more cannoli.”
She clapped her hands, reinvigorated. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll let you know what my favorite flavor is. That way, next time, no matter which one Rose steals, the ones left over will still be my favorite.”
I said goodbye to the Tuesday group after telling them again how much I’d enjoyed their writing and cooking, and then I returned to tell Minna I was leaving. She grasped my hands and pulled me close. “Thank you, dear,” she said. “Thank you for visiting an old lady. And I hope—I sincerely hope I didn’t say anything wrong. I had no idea.”
