Broken for You
• Selection of the Today Show Book Club
• Winner of the Washington State Book Award
• Winner of the 2005 Pacific Northwest Bookseller Association Award
• A Library Journal Best First Fiction Novelist
• Quill Book Award Finalist—Debut Author of the Year
Praise for Broken for You:
“I absolutely fell in love with this book. … There is a message here about creating family in the most unusual places. … I promise you this: you will not be sorry you read this book … there is a wisdom and soulfulness there. … It’s a wonderful, engaging story.”
—Sue Monk Kidd, author of The Secret Life of Bees
“Theater veteran Kallos debuts with a dazzling mosaic of intersecting lives and fates. … Kallos has a rare, deft way with whimsy, dream sequences and hallucinations. Comparisons to John Irving and Tennessee Williams would not be amiss in this show-stopping debut.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“Well-crafted plotting and crackling wit make this debut novel by Seattle author Kallos a delight to read and a memory to savor. The compelling story highlights the losses and disjointedness of life and the many paths back to healing for those who seek the way. … The clever plot and luminous characters are not all that place this novel at the head of the class. Ghostly characters only Margaret sees and heaps of broken porcelain provide powerful metaphors for the sins of the past and the need for personal sacrifice. Book groups will enjoy discussing the layers of meaning, the stylistic nuances, and the powerful message of hope secreted in these pages.”
—Jennifer Baker, Booklist (starred review)
“Tikkun olam is a Hebrew phrase that means ‘repair the world,’ and this imperative serves as the narrative catalyst of Broken for You. … This is a novel of redemption.”
—Susan Coll, The Washington Post
“This is ultimately a work of repair and redemption. … Kallos has given us a compelling, richly layered story reminiscent of works by John Irving and Anne Tyler in its bittersweet humor and well-drawn characters. Carol Shields also comes to mind for the sharp attention to domestic detail and insight into the tenuous relationships of contemporary life. … Recommended for all fiction collections.”
—Jenn B. Stidham, Library Journal (starred review)
“Sweetly rich with detail, and when romance sneaked into the book, I was sure it was a story of redemption and second chances. … Broken for You is moving and endearing, painful and satisfying, put together in just the right shape.”
—Susan Hall-Balduf, Detroit Free Press
“A story of growth and redemption filled with a delightfully offbeat cast of characters … Kallos writes in a chatty, breezy style that fits the quirkiness of the characters. … There’s an almost magical feeling to this story.”
—Ann M. Colford, The Pacific Northwest Inlander
“Refreshing and delightful … sincere in its originality, fun in its engagement … In her acknowledgments, Kallos states that the novel took her seven years to finish, and there is a definite sense that this is a book that has been well-raised. Care has been taken in its telling. … Nothing feels rushed, the timing and pace just right.”
—Lacey Galbraith, Nashville Scene
“Kallos … has taken well-developed and honestly imperfect characters who were once strangers, and intertwined them lovingly in a beautiful mosaic that may forever hang in readers’ minds and remind them of why some things must break before they can become a part of something truly beautiful.”
—Colleen Dougher, Sun-Sentinel (Fort Lauderdale)
“A series of reunions, tragedies and newfound friends highlights Kallos’s sparkling first novel, but the author’s attention to detail leads the reader to believe she’s a longtime novelist. A supporting cast of characters colors the story and reinforces the theme of love and family—both by blood and by choice.”
—Michael Bratcher, The Sunday Oklahoman
“[A] dreamy, powerful tale of familial warring, secrets and redemption … This haunting and memorable debut is reminiscent of early [Margaret] Atwood, peopled by lovably imperfect and eccentric characters.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Artful meandering is only part of the magic. … A wondrous tale, peopled with quirky characters and implausible plot twists, but no cheap tricks. … If you open yourself to the world Kallos has created, you may not have the foggiest idea where she is taking you, but you will willingly go, as she pulls you along, piece by piece.”
—Cindy Lange-Kubick, Lincoln Journal Star
“Stephanie Kallos’s lovely and heartfelt first novel is a gift. A story of broken hearts and broken promises, it is also the story of the ways we put things back together—messily, beautifully, and ultimately triumphantly. Kallos is a writer to watch, and one who, mercifully, still believes in happy endings.”
—Sheri Holman, author of The Dress Lodger and The Mammoth Cheese
“Let the angels in! With this story of transformative friendships, Stephanie Kallos calls us to leave the dreary wisdom of our lives and seek the company of souls adrift. Good things come in pieces.”
—Nancy Rawles, author of My Jim
“In this sparkling debut novel, Stephanie Kallos has created an extraordinary testament to the power of love and forgiveness. Broken for You is a bighearted book that pulses with life.”
—Tova Mirvis, author of The Outside World and The Ladies Auxiliary
“A seventy-six-year-old woman who’s just learned that she has a brain tumor takes in a thirty-four-year-old woman who’s just been dumped by her boyfriend. Can this be funny? Yes. Painfully funny, beautifully written, and completely original. I love this novel.”
—Lolly Winston, author of Good Grief
BROKEN FOR YOU
BROKEN FOR YOU
Stephanie Kallos
Copyright © 2004 by Stephanie Kallos
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003 or permissions@groveatlantic.com.
Published simultaneously in Canada
Printed in the United States of America
Lyric permissions for Broken for You by Stephanie Kallos:
“The Nearness of You,” words by Ned Washington, music by Hoagy Carmichael. Copyright © 1937, 1940 (Renewed 1964, 1967) by Famous Music Corporation, International Copyright Secured; All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.
“Shall We Dance?” Copyright © 1951 by Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II, Copyright Renewed; Williamson Music owner of publication and allied rights throughout the World; International Copyright Secured; All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.
“April in Paris,” by Vernon Duke and E. Y. Harburg, Copyright © 1932 Kay Duke Music (ASCAP)/Universal Polygram International Publishing, Inc. All rights for the U.S. on behalf of Kay Duke Music (ASCAP) administered by BMG Songs, Inc. (ASCAP). Published by Glocca Morra Music (ASCAP), Administered by Next Decade Entertainment, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.
“Blues in the Night” by Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer. Copyright © 194
1 (Renewed) WB Music Corp. All Righs Reserved. Used by Permission. Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc., Miami, Florida 33014.
“I’m a Little Teapot,” written by Clarence Kelley and George Sanders. Copyright © 1939, renewed 1967, Marilyn Sanders Music LLC. All Rights Reserved. Protected under international copyright conventions.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kallos, Stephanie.
Broken for you / Stephanie Kallos.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-1-5558-4657-2 (e-book)
1. Landlord and tenant—Fiction. 2. Aged women—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3611.A444B76 2004
813’6—dc22 2004040631
Grove Press
an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
841 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
Distributed by Publishers Group West
www.groveatlantic.com
For my children, Noah Gregory Johns and Samuel Liam Johns
They’re so much more than objects. They’re living things, crafted and used by people like us. They reach out to us and through them we forge a link with the past.
—Guendolen Plestcheeff, decorative arts collector (1892–1994)
… He took Bread; and when He had given thanks, He brake it, and gave it to his disciples, saying, Take, eat, this is my Body, which is given for you.
—From the Prayer of Consecration, Holy Communion
BROKEN FOR YOU
Prologue
While the woman sleeps and dreams of all that breaks, come into this house of many rooms. Once your eyes adjust to the darkness, beginning to take in what is visible, you may notice a silence that is not quite silent. There is another language being spoken here, a tongue that emanates from white clay, fire, the oils of many skins, the fusion of rent spirits and matter. The woman hears this language always, even in her sleep, because she is guilty, and because those who speak to her are never silent. But for you, the innocent, there may only be a humming, a distant drone.
You might wander the rooms, wondering at its source. If you touch something, even lightly—that small figurine on her writing desk, say; the plump porcelain leprechaun from Belleek—you will perhaps become aware of a subtle change, a quickening that animates the molecules around you and sends them skittering across your skin. Pick up the figurine, trace its cool, silky contours with your fingers, and this feeling intensifies. The distant drone becomes louder, less indistinct, giving you the vague impression of an evolving language, heard from far away. Something in your awareness might start to take shape, something vaguely unsettling. Perhaps you shouldn’t touch anything. You put the figurine down, possessed by the sudden certainty that you are being watched.
But no. Somewhere, the woman still sleeps—she is weeping now. There is only her and you, and whatever else this house contains. Moonlight, streetlights, headlights, starlights … All find a way inside and refract off thousands of glazed and polished surfaces. The light does not beautify what is already beautiful. It does not caress. No, it is sharp, random, erratic. Everything looks panicked. In this shooting light, even the stolid, bulbous soup tureens seem fearful.
Leave now. Come back later, when the house is not bereft and its inhabitants are not desperate. There will be employment for you then. You’ll feel more at home. Your hands will have a purpose, your relationship to these objects and their guardian will be clear and comfortable. Come back when you’re ready. You’ll find what you’ve been looking for.
PART ONE
One
Margaret
When Margaret Hughes found out she had a brain tumor, she stared at the black-and-white images illuminated on the screen behind her physician’s desk—“slices,” he called them. She was surprised to see that her brain looked like two halves of a desiccated walnut.
Her physician spoke of cisterns, vessels, ventricles, a star. Of cells that had forgotten how to die. It was so complicated, so difficult to understand, but in all fairness she had no one to blame but herself. She was the one who’d insisted on seeing the images, made him promise that he’d be straightforward, tell her the names of things, explain why she’d been experiencing these headaches, these slips of the tongue, errors in cognition, apparitions. The fact that he continually referred to the images as “slices” only made matters worse; Margaret had already been so flustered before her appointment that she’d left home without finishing breakfast.
Dr. Leising pointed out the mass effect of the enhancing something-or-other as seen on Coronal Slice #16. Margaret’s stomach rumbled.
I can’t believe it, she thought. I forgot to eat my jelly toast.
Her physician concluded his speech and asked Margaret how she wished to proceed, what interventional options she wanted to pursue, and was there anyone she’d like to call. “Stephen perhaps?” he suggested, rather too lightly. “Mightn’t he want to know?”
Well, of course her ex-husband would want to know. Couples don’t go through what she and Stephen had without forging some kind of enduring connection—even (although few people understood this) a complicated, battle-comrade kind of love.
But there was something irritating in Dr. Leising’s tone—as if he didn’t think she should hear his prognosis in the absence of a male shoulder to weep on. As if she couldn’t handle things without the benefit of counsel by some father-by-proxy. Margaret had managed her own affairs nicely for most of her life. She wouldn’t be railroaded, pitied, or bamboozled now. I might look like a nice, diffident old lady, she thought, but I’m not about to be treated like one.
She asked a few pointed questions. Dr. Leising gave answers which she considered unacceptable, evasive, patronizing, and then launched into yet another discussion of her “slices.” Would it never end?
Margaret couldn’t listen anymore, so she excused herself to the rest room, took the elevator down to the street, and walked until she came upon a café with the words “Desserts, Etcetera” painted on the windows. She deliberated. On the rare occasions when she had to leave the house, she made sure to have as little contact as possible with other people; on the other hand, she was so hungry that she felt nauseous. Peeking through the window, Margaret saw that the café was open but empty of customers. This was satisfactory, so she went in.
Inside was a display case filled with artfully presented pies, cakes, cookies, and an assortment of French pastries. Margaret whispered their names: Génoise à l’orange. Mousse au chocolat. Crème Brûlée. Roulade à la confiture. She felt better already. Hanging over the counter was a menu written on a large chalkboard which included sandwiches and soups as well as desserts.
An anorexic-looking girl with short blue-black hair and black lipstick was talking into a telephone behind the counter. “I don’t give a shit, Jimmy,” she was saying, her voice tense and hissing, “You CANNOT use the juicer at three o’clock in the morning, I don’t care HOW aggravated your ‘vata’ is!” Margaret waved to get the girl’s attention. “Gotta go. Bye.”
The girl hung up and loped to the counter. “Yes,” she enunciated through clenched teeth. “What can I get for you?”
“It all looks so good,” Margaret said. On closer inspection of the girl’s face, Margaret was alarmed to see that she was wearing a gold ring through her right nostril. She tried not to stare at it. “What is your soup of the day?”
“Split pea,” the girl said, and sniffed.
God, Margaret thought, I hope she doesn’t have a cold.
“Well, in that case … I’ll take a slice of raspberry cheesecake, a slice of pear ganache, the crème brûlée, and the caramel flan.”
“For here?”
“Yes, please.”
Nose Ring began punching the buttons of a small calculator. Her fingernails were painted dark blue and sprinkled with glitter. They looked like miniature galaxies. “Do you want whipped cream on your flan?”
“Excuse me?” Margaret said. “Whipped what?”
“Cream. On the flan.”
&nb
sp; “No, thank you,” Margaret said without thinking, but then, “I mean yes! Why not? Whipped cream!”
“Will that be all?”
“Tea, perhaps. Do you have peppermint tea?”
“Have a seat,” Nose Ring said. “I’ll bring it out when it’s ready.”
Margaret awaited her desserts. On the café walls there were several black-and-white photographs of empty buildings, streets, docks, parks. Margaret didn’t much care for them. There were no people in the photographs, and something about the time of day the photographer chose or the angle at which he took the photos gave even the most benign landmarks—the Seattle-to-Bainbridge ferry, the pergola in Pioneer Square, the Smith Tower—a menacing, doomsday appearance. They made Seattle look like a ghost town, and they reminded Margaret of an old movie. … What was it? It took place in New York City; it was about the end of the world. … She had found the movie very disturbing, although she couldn’t say why. She couldn’t for the life of her remember the name of it.
“The World, the Flesh, and the Devil,” said Nose Ring as she arrived at Margaret’s table.
“What?”
“That old black-and-white movie about the end of the world. You were saying that you couldn’t remember the name of it.”
“I was?”
“Uh-huh.” Nose Ring began unloading dishes and tea things from a large tray. “Harry Belafonte, Inger Stevens, and Mel Ferrer. The World, the Flesh, and the Devil.”
“Oh. Yes.”
“Unless you mean On the Beach.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Gregory Peck, Ava Gardner, and Fred Astaire? Directed by Stanley Kramer.”
“No … I would’ve remembered Fred Astaire.”
“Or you could be thinking of Fail Safe. With Henry Fonda as the president.”
“I think you were right the first time.”
Nose Ring stood up straight and announced, “I’m a film student.”