Broken for You (37 page)

"It's gorgeous!" Susan exclaimed.

Wanda wasn't sure. It was so different from anything she'd ever worn before. She did like the fact that it covered up all but her face. She also liked the tightness of the bodice; it made her feel contained, boundaried, separate, safe—although from what, she wasn't quite sure.

"It's rather nineteenth-century, isn't it?" Susan went on, admiringly.

"Yes, ma'am. If I were sheriff, I'd sure as shootin' tip my hat at

THAT!"

"That's the one! That is definitely the one!"

The front door opened. Troy was back from a trip to the hardware store; he carried bags that jangled with drywall screws, nuts, bolts, and

nails.

"Bruce. Susan," he said. "What—?"

And then, seeing Wanda, he stopped dead in his tracks and stared. Troy brought his fingers to the brim of his hat, nodded slightly, and continued on his way.

Wanda knew then what she needed to be safe from. Why her heart
craved a corset.

"I'll take this one," she said. "It's just right."

Irma's head was wrapped turban style in a bath towel and she was wearing a bulky chenille robe which came down to the middle of her shins. Her feet were snuggled into gold-lame, open-toed, beaded-and-sequined sandals. Her toenails were painted ruby red. She was scowling up at M.J. as he foraged around in her bedroom closet. With her arms crossed and her thin legs planted wide, she looked like a very tiny, mightily displeased member of a monarchy whose custom it was to hold court wearing terry cloth.

They'd already had dinner, washed the dishes, and applied a new shade called "Sassy Cinnamon" to Irma's hair. The timer was set for thirty-five minutes. M.J. was standing on a small stepladder, looking squinch-eyed into the dark recesses of an upper shelf.

"See them?" Irma asked.

"What is it I'm looking for, Irma?"

"I told you already. Shoe boxes!"

"No. I don't see any shoe boxes."

"Well, look! They're up there! Behind the lightbulbs."

"I don't see any lightbulbs, either."

Irma frowned. "I thought that's where Sam kept the lightbulbs."

"Jesus, Irma, can't we just watch TV or play Scrabble or cards like we usually do?"

"For such a young man," Irma said, in a tone suggesting she'd just discovered something wondrous about M.J.'s character, "you're a terrible stick-in-the-mud." Then she frowned again. "Keep looking," she snapped. "And don't come down till you find them. I'm going to get the glue. Meet me at the kitchen table."

Wanda and Susan sat side by side on a padded bench in the middle of the largest room. Gallery-goers swirled around them. The buzz of lively conversation, the drinks, the food, the bumper-car movements of people navigating through a crowded space—all of it was familiar, reminding Wanda of an opening night party at the theatre. But this was different. It was nerve-wracking, watching these strangers interact with a world which up until now had been completely private. On top of that, these clothes. She should have stood up to Bruce and Susan, sweet and well-intentioned as they were. There were plenty of people here dressed in jeans.

Not for the first time, she wished she hadn't come.

"Cheer up!" Susan bumped against her playfully. "The show is fabulous. They're all enthralled."

Wanda had been scanning faces in the crowd, seeking out certain body types. She felt anxious and let-down. Susan had no way of knowing that the lion's share of this anxiousness and disappointment had
nothing whatsoever to do with the show. She turned to her and whispered, "Nobody's touching anything."

Susan leaned close and whispered back. "They're not supposed to, darling. It's Art."

They were missing the point, being so polite. "They should be touching," Wanda murmured, turning her attention back to the crowd.

She had been imagining this night ever since Margaret told her of the exhibition. But her fantasies did not revolve around praise for her work, paparazzi, or being launched into stratospheres of fame and fortune; they centered on the dramatic appearance of Peter.

Surely he was still sculpting. Maybe he'd become less isolated, more connected to other artists and the Seattle art scene. Of course he'd be miserable. That was certain. Completely bereft, still drinking, deeply tortured by his decision to leave her. In spite of this, though, it was possible, completely possible, that he'd be aware of local gallery openings, attend the ones that interested him. This one would interest him—not necessarily because of the mosaics, but because one of the other exhibiting artists worked in wood. Yes, he might show up. There wa
s nothing in the least far
fetched about it.

He would appear in the gallery entrance, attractively dissolute and tousled, his long mane of hair unbound, his shirt unbuttoned, his massive chest powdered with sawdust. He would have come from his studio, which would of course be nearby. She would see him long before he saw her, but she would hold her ground. She would not approach. He would walk the exhibit, lingering over her work, letting his hands travel the landscape where her hands had been. Finally, he would notice her from across the crowded room—a stunning figure, dressed entirely in black. Inviting, seductive, and yet remote. Familiar somehow. Could it be? Was it possible? He would come toward her, slowly. The crowd would part. All eyes would be on them.

Would he kneel?

No. Too melodramatic. Too corny.

Or, maybe not.

Fuck it. He'd kneel.

"Life has been meaningless since I left you," he would say, with tears streaming down his beautiful beat-to-hell face. "I haven't been able to
work. The angels have deserted me. The Muse is gone. I can't function. Please come back. I need you. I promise I'll never leave you again. Can you forgive me?"

She'd smile in a way that would be half I-forgive and half come-hither. He'd rise, cup her face tenderly, and pull her into a world-class, end-of-the-movie lip lock. Then he'd whisk her up into his arms and off to his studio, where he'd tear off these ridiculous clothes and they'd spend the next decade in bed.

But the party was over two hours old now. Inside her unripped bodice, Wanda's heart beat time with the words
I
told you so, I told you so.
She should stop looking for Peter in this crowd. He wasn't here. He wouldn't be coming.

When M.J. finally emerged from Irma's bedroom, carrying three shoe boxes so crammed with contents that their lids were held in place—just barely—by thick rubber bands, he found Irma perched at the kitchen table wearing a pair of latex gloves. The tabletop was almost completely obscured by scrapbooks, glue sticks, scissors, sheets of stickers, colored markers, and the substantial body habitus of Maurice, who had situated himself in the center and was snoring.

"You're coming with me to Hawaii this year," Irma said. "What?"

"It's all arranged. I'll be the envy of the AARP." "You can't be—"

"Unless you're younger than fifty. ARE you younger than fifty?" "I'm fifty-nine." "Ha! At last. A fact." Irma—

"Don't argue. This might be your only chance to see palm trees and dance the hula with an octogenarian. Now, put on some gloves. We're going to create an archival record of my Hawaiian vacations with Sam."

"Excuse me?"

"See this?" Irma pulled out a sheet of colorful stickers and pointed. "Acid-free. That's very important. So are the gloves. Body oils, dirt, chemicals. Over time, they degrade the photographic image, so that in the end
you've got"—Irma clapped her hands dramatically—"nothing but gray! Pictures that look like a laundry mishap! Completely washed out!"

"What in the name of God are you talkin' about?"

"I heard about it on
Oprah.
Lucky for us we only have three boxes; there were women in the audience who had hundreds! Can you believe that?"

M.J. rifled through the supplies on the table. "Where did you get all this stuff?"

"From Ruth Epstein's daughter-in-law, Traci. I went to a party at her house yesterday. It was fun! And you should see what that girl has done with her family pictures. It's art, I tell you! It's an inspiration! Here's her business card."

M.J. squinted. "'Traci Anderson-Epstein, Creative Memories Consultant?'"

"She gives senior discounts."

M.J. responded, dully. "So, we're spending the evening gluing pictures into a scrapbook?"

"No," Irma said, "we're going to create an archive!"

M.J. raised an eyebrow.

"All right, it's a scrapbook, but you don't have to be such a snob about it. You have something better to do?"

"Yes," M.J. replied. "In exactly twelve minutes I have to rinse your hair."

"Well, for the next twelve minutes it won't kill you to be a family archivist. Stop complaining and put on those gloves." Irma reached for a box and opened it. "Oy!" she exclaimed, pulling out the first of what were surely hundreds of pictures in that box alone. "Look at that."

M.J. leaned closer. Irma held a remarkably ill-composed black-and-white photo, probably intended to feature a couple wearing io^os-style bathing suits and leis and posed in front of a huge palm. But the photo's dominant subject was the tree; it seemed to sprout from the man's head, and its fronds loomed large and dark, curving downward in a menacing, slightly arachnid way. "Invasion of the Killer Coconuts" was the caption that came to M.J.'s mind.

"That's me and my Sam, on our honeymoon," Irma said, her voice so full of reverence that she might have been regarding a work by
Leonardo da Vinci. "Let's start with this one," she went on. "I think it should have a whole page all to itself, don't you?"

"Sounds fine, Mrs. K."

"Hand me a glue stick, will you? Let's get started."

"Hello?" Susan said, startling Wanda back to the present moment. "What? Sorry."

"It's all right." Susan gave her arm a squeeze. "He's outside." "Who?"

"Troy. That's who you're looking for, isn't it?"

Wanda focused on her plate and started picking at a quiche crust with her fork. "I wish Margaret could have come," she said. "Why didn't she? Do you know? It's not really because Gus is working tonight, is it?"

"I think she's still afraid of being seen in this context. You know, in association with these things. I think she's still ashamed." Susan looked toward the catering table, where Bruce was presiding over a table of hors d'oeuvres. "Look at Bruce. He's in heaven."

Wanda sighed and poked at her quiche.

"He's gone out for a smoke, in case you're wondering," said Susan. "Who?"

Susan emitted a short, bemused exhalation through her nose. "Troy, darling. Troy."

"I thought he quit."

"He's started up again."

Wanda frowned and pushed crumbs around her plate.

Susan gave her a peck on the cheek. "I'm going to check in with our Mr. Katz. Back in a minute."

Wanda kept her head lowered and began to eavesdrop.

"My God," one woman remarked with incredulity. She was studying the show brochure. "I just read here what she uses for tesserae!"

"Tess who?" her male companion grunted, affable but perplexed. Wanda grinned. He reminded her of Uncle Artie.

"Tess-sir-ray," the woman emphasized impatiently. "The pieces she uses. It says here that she smashes antique porcelain that was stolen from . . ." They moved on.

"You're Tink Schultz!"

Wanda startled. A woman sporting an orange pantsuit and a complicated haircut hailed her from several feet away and started zeroing in. Wanda was mortified; up until now, no one knew who she was—now half the room was staring in her direction. "Are you Tink Schultz?" the woman said, her voice obnoxiously familiar, in the way of politicians and talk show hosts. She had protruding, eggish eyes and a nervous demeanor.

Wanda immediately felt a kind of energetic repulsion, as if the woman were wrongly magnetized. She nodded.

The woman pulled Wanda's hand into hers and began shaking it brusquely. "I'm Kat Brandt with
The Seattle Times.
I have to say, your work is simply extraordinary—even without its obvious sociopolitical resonances." She hefted a large leather satchel into view and pulled out an electronic date book. "I'm wondering, could we schedule an interview sometime this week?"

Wanda spotted Troy across the room. He seemed to be the only person in a sea of faces who wasn't staring at her. She reached up and semaphored a distress with her linen napkin. Something tore, a side seam on her bodice maybe, and she quickly tucked her arm back into her side. Troy had seen her, though, and he was already pushing through the crowd toward her: Sporting a string tie, vest, and boot-cut jeans, he was Louis L'Amour cover art come to life.

"I'll have to okay it with my editor, of course," Ms. Brandt was saying, "but I'm pretty sure he'll jump on it after I tell him about you."