Broken for You (38 page)

Troy arrived. "Jump on what?"

Ms. Brandt smiled blandly in Troy's general direction and then re-focused her hyperthyroid attention on Wanda. "I want to do a feature on you. Your background, your training, your personal and artistic influences, your philosophy . . ." Ms. Brandt leaned closer. "You may not realize this," she said, in a conspiring voice, "but you are about to turn the art world on its ass."

Wanda felt wilted. She looked to Troy. "Are you really smoking again?"

"Now and then," he replied. "Here, I brought you some water."

"Thanks." Wanda gulped gratefully, keeping him in her sights.

"Who—?" Ms. Brandt seemed flustered. She hunched forward slightly, trying to make her presence known. When that didn't work, she started waving. "I'm sorry. This is—? You are?"

Wanda downed the rest of her water. Fortified, she set her glass aside and stood. "This is Troy Bridges," she announced, using the authoritative, projecting voice that had served her well in the management of actors and children. Heads that weren't already turned in their direction did so now. "Mr. Bridges is my . . ." She yanked on the reins of her speech momentarily, mentally checklisting various titles for Troy until she landed on one with the ring of professionalism. ". . . technical director. None of this would have been possible without him."

Wanda was wearing the pair of flat-heeled shoes that Susan had picked out to go with her dress, so Troy was a good foot taller than when she'd stood next to him as Detective Lorenzini. Nevertheless, Wanda felt that they were symbolically, if not literally, hip to hip, so in the interest of presenting a chummy, professional, unified front, it seemed perfectly natural at that moment to put her arm through his, draw him closer, and look into his eyes. She immediately regretted it.

"Gotta go," she said, blushing. "Pheromones." She grabbed two glasses of champagne from the nearest tray and bolted for the bathroom.

"Five pages! That's enough for one night, don't you think?" Irma said, admiring their work. "And so nice they look too. Are you too worn out for a game before you go?"

"No," M.J. lied. He felt weary. "But I could use some coffee."

"Help yourself. I'll clean this up." They busied themselves. "Do you have any photos you'd like to organize?" Irma said offhandedly. "Now that you see what's possible, I mean. How artistic you can get. Not to mention the fun. Don't you think these stickers are cute?"

"No."

"No, what?"

"I don't have any photos."

"None?" Irma asked, incredulous.

M.J. measured the coffee. "All right, Irma. I have one photo."

"One."

"That's right."

"What's it a photo of? "

"You are a nosy broad, Mrs. Kosminsky, anybody ever tell you that?""'Curious' is the word I prefer. I'm a curious broad. And let me tell you, mister, along with honey and apple cider, a curious nature is the secret to my longevity."

M.J. pulled two coffee mugs out of the cupboard. "Scrabble or gin rummy ?"

"Scrabble." Irma scooped up her coffee mug and marched into the living room. "Don't think I'm going to let this go!"

Her voice was loud enough to rouse Maurice, who awoke with a start, rolled onto his side, and fell off the table with a thud.

Wanda peeked her head out of the bathroom. "Is she gone?"

"Yes."

Under the fizzy influence of six gulped ounces of champagne, Troy looked more delectable than ever. It was his blurriness she liked most, his indistinctness.

"Thank God."

"I told her she could have an interview—"

"Fine. As long as you do it with me." He had the look of a memory.

"—but I think she's still looking for you."

A memory of woods and their colors: ebony, the auburn of burnished
oak, the white of paper birch, the swirl of burled mahogany. "Can we
sneak out the back way?"

"The party's not over."

"It is for me." Annexation—that was what she wanted. A dissolution of borders. He wanted it too, didn't he? She came out of the bathroom and scatted a snatch from Monk's tune "Ask Me Now." She held out her hand.

Troy hesitated. "I'll tell Susan and Bruce. They'll be wondering where we are."

"No they won't. Come on. Let's go home."

Even through her champagne-and-adrenaline-induced haze, Wanda knew there was a reason she was supposed to keep her distance from this angel, but she couldn't remember what that reason was, and besides, it surely couldn't have been a good one. She leaned against him, letting her cheek sink into his chest and her lungs fill with his scent. "Aren't you tired of this?" she asked. "Aren't you exhausted?"

She presented her face. He kissed it. She presented her mouth; he kissed that, too. She roamed around inside him, savoring the flavors of spice and tobacco smoke on her tongue. The tobacco was new. It was nice. Peter used to smoke.

Troy withdrew from her arms and backed away. "No."

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I won't do this again."

"Do what?" Wanda tugged at the collar of her dress; it suddenly felt too tight.

He looked at her. "You'll have to find another way to get fixed." Wanda felt as though she were choking. "What do you mean?" The muscles around Troy's eyes contracted. His face reflected a mixture of feelings that Wanda couldn't read. "I won't play doctor. I won't be part of your physical therapy program."

"What are you talking about?" Wanda asked defensively, pretending not to understand.

His voice was even, his expression neutral. "I won't fuck you to help you feel better."

"Why not?"

"You know why. I want more than fucking. Don't come to me until you do too."

Reflexively, Wanda grabbed at her collar and pulled hard. Two buttons popped off and rolled toward the back door. She hobbled after them and snatched them up. Then she pushed open the door and stood outside, breathing in the night air greedily, trying to sober up. What the hell just happened?

Her breathing slowed. She checked in with her heart. She could picture it in there, in its calcified condition, encased in the bodice of her dress. Maybe it hung suspended, caught in something that had once been liquid—like a woolly mammoth in ice, or a dragonfly in amber. Or maybe it bore fossilized impressions. If someone were to autopsy her heart, they'd find traces of life, evidence of eons gone by. Times when she'd been able to feel and the feelings left imprints. Maybe her heart was wearing a cast. Maybe it wasn't sclerosed at all but atrophied, shrunken, and the cast enclosing it was scribbled over with stories written in a dead language. Wanda checked further. Was there any softness left in there? Any spot that was still unfired, unformed, unglazed?

Was there access? Entry? A place still open to impression? No. Her heart was finished. It bore, perhaps, records of life, but it wasn't alive. Too late for decoration. Too late for effects. Further handling could only result in cracks and fractures. People could cut themselves on the edges of her heart, she was sure of it. Troy was right to stay clear. His good sense was commendable.

She sensed him behind her, too close. She took a step, widening the space between them.

"You still want a ride?" he asked.

"Yes. Please."

She wouldn't touch him again, so help her God. She would keep her distance. She would remember—
Ah, this was the reason!
—that she was a hazard to the living. Her intimacies would be with objects, memories, and dreams. She'd hold in her heart only the missing and the dead.

M.J. and Irma were pulling their Scrabble tiles. "Don't you ever want to go back there?"

"Back where?"

"To Europe."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"I don't know. To get something back, maybe."

"What? Nah. That part of my past, it's like a street that only goes one way."

"If I'd lost someone—"

"Oh, stop. We've been friends for a year. The mystery man routine is wearing thin. Stop being coy and tell me about your photograph."

M.J. squinted at his tiles. "My wife left me, years ago. She's one of the people in the photograph."

"Who's the other one?"

Damn,
M.J. thought,
the old dame doesn't miss a tric\.
"It's nothing like what you've lost, Irma. It's not worth talking about."

"Loss is loss. Heartbreak is heartbreak. You think I'm sitting here gloating. Telling myself that my suffering beats yours? Hurt is hurt. You don't measure these things."

"It just seems plain ridiculous to talk to someone like you about suffering."

"'Someone like me'?" Irma looked genuinely angry. "A survivor, you mean? Listen. If I thought that way—like we've got the market on suffering and the rest of the world doesn't know the meaning of the word—then I'd be a pretty poor excuse for a human being, wouldn't I?"

“S
orry.
”

"Your wife. When did you see her last? When did she go missing?"

M.J. pretended to study the Scrabble board. "Almost thirty years ago."
“
Oy. Is she dead?"

"I don't know."

"Do you think you'll ever find out?"

"Damn, Irma."

"Well, what does your heart tell you?"

M.J. started arranging and rearranging his tiles, looking for a word. "My heart tells me, No, I'll never find her."

"So this is what you do? Close the door to love and spend your life looking for a person you're not going to find?" "It's what I deserve."

"Oh," Irma said knowingly. "Now I get the picture. What did you do to deserve to be so guilty?" "I abandoned my daughter."

"Aha!" Irma cried. "On the street, you left her?"

"No."

"With people who beat her and starved her?"

"No, of course not. I left her with my sister."

"So she's a bad person, this sister of yours. A real witch."

"No!" M.J. felt his face go hot. "Our Maureen's the best there is."

Irma was staring at him, her face calm and neutral. She'd made him give up a name, the trickster, ridden him until he'd said it out loud. He hadn't spoken any of their names in years. There was a reason for that. Saying their names was like throwing open a door in his chest to a world full of nothing but storms. He was pissed at her, soundly pissed. He shut up.

She pressed on, her words slow and deliberate. "You know where your sister is, don't you? You could find your daughter if you wanted to. If you ever gave her a second thought."

"I'm not risin' to the bait. I'm not talkin' about this anymore.""It's an insult to God, you know—to choose to suffer."

"Irma, it's not that simple. She has every right to hate me, and probably does. They probably all do. What good would it do any of them to see me again?"

"Ah, boychick," Irma said, clucking. "It's not about them. It's about you." She looked down and began moving her Scrabble tiles around. The tiles made little clicking sounds that M.J. liked. "Maybe if I'd never met Sam," she continued, "I would have put walls around my heart, dressed in black, and gone through the rest of my life shaking a finger at the world. But I did meet Sam, thank God, and he helped me choose to live, to love. Not to forget the dead, no, never that—we said the kaddish for Lucie and Albert every year of our married life. But to live; like the Torah says: 'Choose life.' Make friends. Play cards. Bowl. Go to Hawaii." Irma paused then and looked up. '"Tikkun Olam'—you know that phrase?"

"No."

"Repair the world. Fix what you can."

"You'll just have to believe me, Irma. In this case, it's too late to fix things."

"Maybe. You could be right. My point is, it's never to late to try. And that's all God really wants from us. That we try. I'm no smarty-pants, doll, and really I don't mean to meddle. I just want you to think about it."

"Okay, Irma," M.J. said. He wondered what Irma's God would have to say about lapsed Catholics who lie to little old Jewish ladies. "I'll think about it."

Irma took a slow sip of coffee. "You asked before, is there anything I would have wanted." She gazed at Lucie's teacup. "I wish I could've had their bodies. No matter how they ended up. When you say is there anything I'd like to get back, that's it. Not having that . . . it's always been the worst part for me. A lot of people have tried to get. . . What do they call it?"