Broken for You Read online

  Margaret opened the large kitchen cupboard with the everyday dishes. It was a remarkably well-ordered cupboard by anyone’s standards and she was pleased to show it off. There were a dozen plates with a simple blue and white floral pattern, upended, evenly spaced, and held in place by a ridge near the back. There were twelve cups suspended at regular, measured intervals. Twelve cereal bowl-soup bowl-salad dishes. Salt-and-pepper shakers. A soup tureen. Gravy boat. Water pitcher. “These are the dishes you can use,” she said. Wanda hummed appreciatively, but asked no questions. “They’re Pfalzgraff, actually,” Margaret elaborated. “They’re very sturdy. We’ve had them for years.”

  In the dim light of the cupboard, hung there in their orderly fashion on specially rubberized hooks, the cups resembled a natural history display and made Margaret think of dinosaur bones. Then she noticed that something was wrong with one of the cups. “Well, look at this,” she said, taking it down. There was a hairline fracture where the handle met the cup, and as she grabbed the handle she heard a gritty, unstable sound.

  Then Wanda made a kind of pained exhalation, as if she’d been slapped. As Margaret turned around to see her running down the hall (was she leaving?), the cup fell away to the tile floor, breaking into several pieces, and Margaret was left holding the chunky, rounded handle.

  She walked down the hallway, following the sound of short, muffled intakes of breath that sounded like crying—although she supposed it could have been laughing. She hoped it was laughing. She stopped at a respectful distance in front of the closed powder room door.

  Wanda was definitely crying, and in a gasping sort of way that made Margaret wonder if the girl was asthmatic. “Uh … hello?”

  The crying ceased.

  “Excuse me? Wanda? Are you in there?” It was strange not knowing the girl’s last name. Margaret would have much preferred to say, “Miss So-and-So, are you all right?”

  There was a long, silent pause, and then Wanda blurted, “I’m wondering, do you have a pipe wrench?”

  “Sorry?”

  “I just noticed a small leak in here. Under the sink.”

  “Oh!”

  “I think I could fix it. I mean, I know I could fix it. If you have a wrench, that is.”

  “I have a small tool kit for minor home repairs, yes.”

  “Great! I’m sure there’s something in there I could use. I’ll have this taken care of in no time.”

  “No need to rush.”

  “This bathroom is just beautiful,” Wanda went on. “Is this a Limoges hand mirror? …” Her voice trailed off and she began whimpering quietly.

  Margaret tried to think of something comforting to say. “You know, the room upstairs has its very own bathroom!”

  “That’s wonderful!” Wanda blubbered. “I’ll check the pipes up there, too, if you’d like.”

  “How very kind of you.” Margaret looked down and realized she was still grasping the cup handle; she examined it from various angles, wondering if it could be put to any practical use. “The tool kit’s in the kitchen. I think I’ll fix some tea while I’m at it. Do you drink tea?” From inside the bathroom, Wanda continued to make sounds very like those of a shamed puppy. Margaret waited a while longer, but when no further human utterance seemed forthcoming, she headed to the kitchen pantry.

  She placed the cup handle on a jar of brandied peaches; the jar was well over a decade old, its contents certainly inedible, but because it bore a Christmassy label which read “Happy Holidays! With love from our home to yours,” Margaret had been unable to throw it away. It mattered not a bit that she no longer remembered who’d given her the peaches. “That’s typical,” Margaret muttered aloud, with mild self-disgust. She fetched the small metal toolbox and scanned the pantry. I’ll have to remember to clear some shelves in here for whoever takes the room, she thought. On her way out, she grabbed a fresh box of tissues.

  From behind the powder room door, and much to Margaret’s relief, came the sound of pipes squeaking as water was turned off and on. No whimpering. Having a plumbing project must have made the girl feel better.

  To each her own, Margaret thought. After placing the box of tissues and the tool kit on the floor, she cleared her throat energetically and then retraced her steps to the kitchen.

  Margaret was slicing lemons and waiting for the teapot to whistle when she remembered about the other kind of pilgrim. The kind that makes a long journey on foot, carrying little or nothing, to see someone, or something. Like a roadside shrine. Or a miracle: Jesus’ face in a billboard ad for SpaghettiOs, the Virgin Mary etched in a cracked windshield, a statue crying blood … Or a relic: the Shroud of Turin. Do they let ordinary people see that? Margaret wondered. Or just scientists? The Vietnam War Memorial—That’s a kind of shrine, isn’t it?—or John Kennedy’s grave, or the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier … Of course. The kind of pilgrim that Wanda meant traveled to places where saints were enshrined, or where miracles had occurred. Margaret herself had never gone on a pilgrimage. She had never allowed herself a journey of any kind, for that matter.

  Margaret heard Wanda coming out of the bathroom and down the hall. She realized by the sound of the steps that Wanda must be very light indeed.

  The girl offered up the tool kit with both hands as she approached. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, but when she spoke her voice was completely composed.

  “I’m sorry I disappeared, Mrs. Hughes. It’s not like me to be so emotional. You must think I’m a loon.”

  No need to worry, Margaret thought, stifling a laugh. I talk to eighteenth-century chamber pots.

  “Anyway,” Wanda continued, “I took care of that leak.” She couldn’t seem to look at Margaret directly; her eyes roamed the kitchen, randomly at first, and then settling on the cup, which had rolled underneath the kitchen table. “Oh, no!” she said, getting down on the floor. “Did I do this?”

  “Not at all. Just leave it.” Margaret waved dismissively. “What kind of tea do you like?”

  “Anything herbal is fine,” Wanda replied, still kneeling, turning the pieces over in her thin-boned, freckled hands. Her nails were short and unadorned. Her hair was cropped close too—clean, but unkempt; its style reminded Margaret of the way Audrey Hepburn looked at the end of The Nun’s Story, right before she left the convent. From this perspective, looking down on her, Margaret could also see that Wanda was not a natural blonde.

  “I’ve just got to get off the caffeine. It’s so toxic to your immune system. I’ve been thinking of doing one of those barley grass detox fasts.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You know, this isn’t bad.” Wanda was still scrutinizing the cup. “We could fix this easy. Do you have any epoxy?”

  “In the pantry. But really, just leave it, dear.”

  Wanda got up suddenly and strode into the pantry with breathtaking authority. “Found it!” she called out triumphantly. “The handle, too!” She came out cradling the glue and the cup tenderly, as if she had a handful of newly hatched chicks.

  “Really, it’s not necessary.”

  “Let me do this,” Wanda insisted. “I’m good at fixing things.”

  They sat at the kitchen table for half an hour. They drank a pot of tea. Wanda repaired the cup while Margaret studied her references; these consisted of a recent copy of her bank statement (Wanda may have abandoned all her earthly goods, but she’d had the good sense to hang on to her savings—which were quite impressive), a resumé (Wanda told Margaret that she was an “Equity stage manager,” and whatever that was Margaret could see that she’d had extensive experience at it), and a list of job interviews she’d scheduled over the next month.

  Wanda also volunteered a few other bits of personal information: Separated from her mother and father at an early age—she did not say how early, nor what had happened to her parents—she had been raised by an aunt and uncle and had grown up in Chicago. Her uncle was a plumber. Her last name was Schultz.

  After they finished touring
the house, Wanda went back into the kitchen. She carefully transported the mended cup across the room and set it on the counter in an out-of-the-way location. “Don’t touch this for several days, okay? The epoxy has to dry thoroughly—I mean absolutely thoroughly. I think it’s going to take. I think you might even be able to use it again.”

  “Thank you. It was really unnecessary.”

  “Well, don’t thank me till you test it.” Wanda began to help Margaret clear the tea things. “Do you know how soon you’ll be making your decision?”

  “By the end of the week. I’ll call you either way.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hughes.” Wanda clasped Margaret’s hand. Again, Margaret was struck by the lightness and delicacy of this girl’s bones—like a bird’s, like something meant for flight. “I hope it works out. I think I could be really happy here. And useful, too, you know?”

  Margaret interviewed several other respondents over the next few days: Deirdre, a would-be writer wearing a gray moth-eaten sweater and smelling of BO and French cigarettes; Sarah, a born-again Christian who looked exactly like Squeaky Fromm and who informed Margaret that she’d be leading weekly Bible study sessions; Candy, a newly divorced ad executive whose husband had custody of the children; and Eunice, a large-breasted woman who pretended to be surprised about the “no pets” part of the ad. She was covered in cat hair, and stomped off the porch. Margaret was afraid she might spray the front steps before she left.

  Margaret sat at her writing desk and, setting aside the Belleek leprechaun, laid the applicant files out in front of her. Obviously, Eunice was a no-go. As far as the other candidates were concerned, Margaret tried to make herself see them objectively, give them all fair and equal consideration, but she couldn’t get over the fact that Wanda was the only one who came into the house and cried. Cried! Nor did any of the others express an interest in plumbing—or in any of the other unseen workings of the house for that matter. No one else had asked the kinds of questions she’d asked. And—Margaret was certain she hadn’t imagined it—there was an unusual curiosity radiating from her things when Wanda was in the house. Something about her had intrigued them. The young woman might be a bit emotionally unbalanced, but she had been tuned to the house and its occupants in a way the others hadn’t. Yes, she was the one.

  Margaret called and left a message at the YWCA switchboard. Wanda called back ten minutes later.

  “The room is yours if you want it,” Margaret said.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful!” Wanda exclaimed. “I’m thrilled, Mrs. Hughes, just thrilled! Thank you so much! I’ll be there as soon as I can get my stuff together and catch a bus.”

  The girl’s voice was brassier in tone and more exigent than Margaret remembered. It induced in her a sudden nervousness. “Please,” Margaret said evenly, “call me Margaret.”

  “Margaret.” Wanda rushed on. “I got a job today too, so everything is going just great! The power of affirmations, you know? Well, bye now! See you soon!”

  Margaret hung up and closed her eyes, letting the residual buzz of Wanda’s voice fade, waiting until its unsettling effect diminished. What have I done? she thought wryly. I may live to regret this. Or not.

  The house hummed and creaked in its quiet, familiar way; it was like a crewless freighter, far out on a placid, pristine sea, carrying all the cargo of Margaret’s life. Very little of this cargo was lawful. Making it more like a pirate ship, I suppose, Margaret thought, and then she recalled Daniel’s pirate phase—All children probably have them—when, for days on end, he’d donned a huge bushy black beard, tricorn hat, and eye patch and hobbled about the house doing his impression of Long John Silver in Treasure Island: “Them that die’ll be the lucky ones!”

  In her mind, Margaret floated from room to room through the entire house—all fifteen thousand square feet of it. Everything was in its place. Nothing was undusted, or untended, or unremarked upon, or without meaning. Every piece sat quietly for once, as if in agreement with Margaret’s choice—all secure in their places of honor throughout the house. They sat, knowing their own stories and trusting that Margaret would keep those stories for them—as she had for years and years, at no little cost.

  Soon, she would have to make a decision about the fate of these things. Not yet, but soon. She trusted them to make their wishes known when the time was right.

  Three

  Wanda

  Wanda hung up the pay phone in the YWCA lounge. It was decorated in acrimonious shades of pink, orange, and brown, and smelled of ammonia and acetone. Not surprisingly, no one ever seemed to do any lounging there.

  Hearing from Mrs. Hughes should have lifted her spirits, but she felt suddenly deflated. She trudged up three flights of dingy linoleum-covered stairs to her room. She retrieved a city map and several Metro bus pamphlets from her backpack. After unfolding the maps and pamphlets on her bed, she knelt, surrendering to the compression of cartilage and bone against bare floor. Nearby, on a wobbly table, was the morning Post-Intelligencer and a paper cup containing the lukewarm remnants of a triple espresso. Wanda sipped the coffee—pleasantly bitter and sludgy with cinnamon. Peter had taught her to put cinnamon in her coffee. She imagined the heavy brown liquid leaching into her teeth, saturating them with something far more preservative and strengthening than fluoride.

  “Here we go,” she said quietly. The words echoed against the room’s hard, chilly surfaces.

  The space had the anonymity of an uninhabited college dormitory. In addition to the bed and bedside table, there was a cheap pressboard bookcase, a chest of drawers, a dented metal trash can, a plastic molded chair, and a beat-up desk which listed so severely (one of its legs was shorter than the others) that unsupervised pens and pencils pitched off its surface and catapulted into the corner. Several of them had accumulated there over the past two weeks. Wanda felt no need to retrieve them; she had lots of pens and pencils.

  She’d also made no effort to make the room homey in any way; her single affect had been to cover the mirror (which was bolted to the concrete wall) with a Mickey and Minnie Mouse beach towel. It was a souvenir from a trip she and Peter had taken to the ocean. She liked to imagine that it infused the air with the smell of seawater and sex.

  Wanda looked at the wall above her bed. Taped to the wall was a piece of paper. At the top was written “Peter Hartzell”—directory assistance for the Seattle area listed no one of that name—and beneath that, “Rhett Pearllze,” “Halle Zepettre,” “Treat Phellerz,” and “Teller Heart-Pez.” There were no listings in the Seattle area for any of these names either.

  “Shit,” Wanda said. As bare as this room was, as empty as she had tried to keep it, it told the whole story. It couldn’t keep its damn mouth shut.

  She wandered to the gimpy desk, on which rested a “Rooms for Rent” section she’d torn from the P-I several days ago. A few other entries were highlighted in yellow—Wanda had lots of highlighters, too—but Mrs. Hughes’s ad was notable because the rental price, an unbelievable two hundred and fifty dollars, had been aggressively circled and surrounded with question marks and exclamation points.

  Margaret, Wanda remembered suddenly. She wants me to call her Margaret. That would take some getting used to; Wanda had been brought up to address her elders as “Mister” or “Missus.”

  She felt intensely grateful to be moving into a place that was noisy with someone else’s history. Margaret herself was not noisy, and she was grateful for that, too, since her work as a stage manager required her for the most part to be around noisy people: actors.

  Actors were, in fact, manageable, once you made peace with the fact that they had never really evolved into adulthood—not even the oldest and most cantankerous ones, the ones she addressed as “Mister”: the Scrooges and Tartuffes and Captain Hooks and King Lears. They were “players,” in the truest sense of the word—at least the best ones were, in Wanda’s opinion; and once you understood their love of play and recognized that they were exactly like children—children nee
ding enormous amounts of attention and reassurance and, of course, limits—you could manage them quite nicely. Actors could also provide a nice, succulent, dessert-course variety of sexual diversion.

  Wanda had a lot of experience in this arena; she’d been sleeping with actors ever since she was fifteen, when she and Brian McConnell had surrendered their virginities to one another on closing night of The Music Man. Brian was the sixteen-year-old star, and Wanda, having found her vocation early in life, was the stage manager.

  Closing nights had already become something of an emotional hazard for Wanda; they left her feeling uncharacteristically mournful and clingy. So when she and Brian discovered that the rest of the cast and crew had left for the party and the drama teacher had accidentally locked them in the catacombs of the costume shop—where, bogged down by mutual closing night melancholia, they’d taken forever to box up the mounds of rented turn-of-the-century costumes that had to be shipped back to New York—Wanda suggested that they make the most of a lucky situation. They were friends, they were equally inexperienced, the floor was a feather bed of petticoats and band uniforms, and—having both recently completed a semester of health ed—they knew the importance of being prepared; between them, they had twenty-four condoms.

  It was an hour and forty-five minutes before the night janitor noticed the light under the costume shop door and started jangling his keys. All in all, Wanda’s first sexual experience had turned out just fine. Not only that: She’d found a surefire way to banish closing night blues.