Broken for You (50 page)

Troy came and kneeled before her. "It's too cold on the ground, babe," he said. "Wear my coat." Wanda burrowed into his arms, and they wept.

The family had dinner outside as planned, with Margaret there. It wasn't difficult to get Mr. Striker to join them.

The turkey baster got a private and unusual use. None of the men slumbered in front of a television set. Nobody spent hours washing dishes; they broke them, of course.

It was
,
they all agreed, the Thanksgiving she would have wanted
.

T
hirty
-four

Detective Lorenzini
Makes the Collar

The broken are not always gathered together, of course, and not all mysteries of the flesh are solved. We speak of "senseless tragedies," but really: Is there any other kind? Mothers and wives disappear without a trace. Children are killed. Madmen ravage the world, leaving wounds immeasurably deep, and endlessly mourned. Loved ones whose presence once filled us move into the distance; our eyes follow them as long as possible as they recede from view. Maybe we chase them—clumsily, across railroad tracks and trafficked streets; over roads new-printed with their footsteps, the dust still whirling in the wake of them; through impossibly big cities peopled with strangers whose faces and bodies carry fragments of their faces and bodies, whose laughter, steadiness, pluck, stubbornness remind us of the beloved we seek. Maybe we stay put, left behind, and look for them in our dreams. But we never stop looking, not even after those we love become part of the unreachable horizon. We can never stop carrying the heavy weight of love on this pilgrimage; we can only transfigure what we carry. We can only shatter it and send it whirling into the world so that it can take shape in some new way.

Margaret's ashes, as she wished, were divided and placed in several lidded teapots for the members of the household to do with as they wished. Wanda came into the studio after the wake and found Troy there, listening to music, pouring a bag of dry grout into one of the large mixing buckets. His teapot was on the floor next to him.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

He took the lid off his teapot, lifted out some of Margaret's ashes, and let them sift through his fingers onto the grout. Then he reached in with his beautiful, muscled arms, elbow-deep, and started mixing. "They don't feel like what you'd expect," he said. "They're light. Like down."

Margaret had taken the money household members had paid in rent over the past two years and invested it; each of them now had an individually tailored, lucrative investment portfolio. She also willed them many of her financial and stock assets. A substantial gift had been made to the Crazy Plate Academy—enough to pay for the purchase of a separate facility—and a foundation had been formed, with Mrs. Barbara Cohen designated as chairwoman of the board, to support the work of recovering Jewish possessions and reuniting them with their original owners or their owners' kin. None of Margaret's adopted family would be facing financial impediments in pursuit of their dreams—or in the stewardship and maintenance of hers.

She left her collection and the carriage house to Wanda; she left the main house and its furnishings to Gus.

Wanda, Troy, and the volunteers continued their work on
Family Recreation;
given the size and complexity of the project, the grant monies were to extend over a period of several years.

Troy continued to meet the technical challenges of executing Wanda's artistic visions, constructing the various substrates to which the tesserae were adhered, and designing the installation so that it could be assembled and taken apart—much like a touring theatre set—when it was moved from one gallery to another. He supervised the work of the volunteers, who were now participating in the adhering process as well. They were currently gluing pieces to one of the 60-foot, 10-inch lengths of substrate which would duplicate a single bowling alley lane.

Wanda broke, sorted, and adhered millions of pieces to the underlying structures that she imagined and Troy made sound.

Mr. Striker moved in. He took the Inkstand Room after receiving permission to bring a cat into the household. It was Gus's decision. He was well aware of Margaret's opposition to keeping house pets: she believed that animals subjected to indoor living could never be happy. She didn't know cats. Besides, given this particular creature's sweet nature, peculiarities, and advanced age, Gus was sure that Margaret would never have objected.

Maurice's clumsiness—rare in a cat, but understandable given his handicap—might have been an issue in another household with so many fragile items; in this family, it was a boon. Things could be heard falling off tables and shelves at all hours of the day and night. Since Mr. Striker's room was on the third floor, and stairs were challenging for a geriatric, three-legged cat, they kept the escalator in use Maurice accompanied Mr. Striker to work; he fit comfortably into s bowling bag.

Susan and Bruce became parents of the Leo baby they'd dreamed about. His birth—witnessed by the entire household—was a sudden dramatic event which occurred during the dessert course and on the dining room table. They named him August.

Shortly after, Mr. Striker announced his desire to take on the responsibilities of household gardener.

"It's a mighty big job," Gus cautioned as he, Mr. Striker, and Wand; toured the property. "I know Margaret felt grieved about the condition of the grounds. She had plenty of plans, but never enough time.'

"That's all right," Mr. Striker said. "I've got nothin' but."

"Are you qualified?" Wanda demanded. "Have you ever done this kind of thing before?"

"No," Mr. Striker admitted. "Never."

"Well," Gus intervened, "all we really need is someone who's got the patience for it, someone who's willing to learn, isn't that right?"

"And someone who's going to stay," Wanda emphasized. "See i through."

Mr. Striker shrugged. "No problem. I'm not going anywhere."

"Great!" Gus exclaimed. "You're hired, then! Oh, our Margaret would be ever so pleased."

Wanda didn't entirely trust Mr. Striker, although she didn't know why. He seemed honest enough, and it wasn't as if anyone else had volunteered to rescue their three untended acres from blackberry canes, bindweed, and Scotch broom. There was something about him, though. Maybe it was just that—even after all this time—they didn't know anything about him, not really, other than the fact that he worked part-time at a bowling alley in North Seattle, got letters from a "J. Gallagher" in Moscow, Idaho, and was the beneficiary of a Holocaust survivor's estate. That was fishy too, in Wanda's opinion. Who was he? Where did he come from? He was a strange person, Mr. Striker. Gruff and laconic, with a deep-fissured face that made him look perpetually pissed. He certainly didn't talk much. About himself, he talked not at all.

At first he didn't do anything besides basic maintenance: mowing, weeding, a bit of light pruning—which was more than anyone else had done for years, and which certainly made for improvement. Mostly, though, he planned.

Wanda often saw him walking the grounds at different times of the day, studying the way the light changed, taking notes, making sketches. At night after dinner was done and they'd finished clearing up, he'd stay downstairs at the dining room table, studying stacks of library books on gardening. Sometimes—even late at night, after she'd finished in the carriage house and come in to go to bed—she'd find him and Troy still down there, working. She didn't like the idea that there were people in the house who worked harder than she did; on those nights she'd make fresh coffee and go back out to the studio.

Sometimes she'd hear Troy and Mr. Striker talking together. She wondered what they talked about. Not that it was any of her business.

He started showing them crude landscape designs: plans for an herb bed, a perennial flower garden, a vegetable patch. Plans that would be executed in stages and surely range years into the future: a play area for Augie when he was older; a site for outdoor dining, with a pergola, terrace, and cooking hearth; a grassed area for lawn bowling.

When it came time to start implementing these proposed changes, he took on the back corner of the property first, near the carriage house, clearing tangled overgrowth, blackberry canes, and weeds, pruning the deadwood from red osier dogwoods and flowering currants, cutting in
beds, planting bulbs, shrubs, and ground covers. It was an odd place
to
begin, Wanda thought, since nobody but she and Troy worked in the area of the grounds. Wouldn't his time be better spent working when more people could appreciate his efforts—in the front of the house?
Or
even around the patio?

Still, after a while she found it pleasant, having him nearby. She like coming outside and joining him when she needed a break from her ow
n
labors, whether she was spending a day in the main house with the volunteers or working out in the carriage house studio on the more complex sculptural forms.

Mr. Striker was an easy person to be silent with; he was like Troy th
at
way. As much as Wanda appreciated the volunteers, they loved to ch
at
nonstop. She often missed the restful, meditative quiet of working alone. When sequestered in the carriage house studio, she could work in relative quiet next to Troy, or Mr. Striker.

"My parents were bowlers," she mentioned one day. It was late October, and she'd been helping him divide and plant bulbs in a bed he cut in around the carriage house.

"Is that right?"

"The piece we're working on, it's kind of about them." 1 see.

"We're going to need some bowling sounds, you know. For the installation."

"Troy told me. He's coming to the Aloha next week to mal recordings."

"He is?"

"You could come too, if you want. I'll introduce you around. May give you a lesson. I do that, you know. Give lessons."

"No thanks." Wanda grabbed a bulb planter and started digging hole. The ground was hard here, and catacombed with old dead ro
ots.
She twisted and burrowed and pushe
d until her wrist started to ache.
"One of my first memories is of being in a bowling alley."

He reached over with a hand fork and helped her loosen the di
rt.
"What's another one?"

Before she could answer, Troy walked by. "I'm headed to the ha
rd
ware store," he said. "You need anything?"

"Thin-set," Wanda said.

"Hyacinths, please," Mr. Striker added. "Some of those tulips we got the other day, and more daffies, too, if they have 'em."

"Will do."

"Thanks."

Troy moved on. Wanda paused, her hands in the dirt. She closed her eyes and breathed in the pungent, spicy-sweet smell Troy always left in his wake. Fall was the worst. It was never harder to keep from wanting him than now, when the days were growing short, the weather was turning, and she felt a need for fires.

"He'd take a bullet for you, that one, you know," Mr. Striker said, lightly. He rarely spoke about other people in the household. He'd certainly never broached any kind of personal subject with her before. "He'd follow you to the ends of the earth."

"How do you know?"

"I can see it. Anyone with eyes could see it."

He was right, she knew—the fact that the volunteers assumed she and Troy were a couple was a source of shame and embarrassment. But she didn't like hearing it, especially from someone who knew nothing about her.

Mr. Striker went on. "And whether you end up choosin' him or not, you don't wanna be settlin' for anything less."

"What do you know about it?"

"I loved somebody like that once, a long time ago." He fell silent again, and she did nothing to resurrect the conversation.

In November, the weather turned cold and rainy. The anniversary of Margaret's death was marked with a smaller gathering and held indoors.

Augie was unusually fussy that day. Mr. Striker offered to hold him so that Susan and Bruce could sit with the others and enjoy the holiday meal. Wanda could tell by the confident way he scooped Augie into his arms and the sureness with which he held him that Mr. Striker had experience with babies; he was good with them, the way some people are. He walked Augie up and down the stairs and around the house—letting him caterwaul, singing to him—until the baby finally fell asleep.

Mr. Striker's mysterious Idaho correspondent came by the house the day after Thanksgiving and was introduced to all the members of the
household. Her name was Joyce. They'd met in Hawaii. Mr. Striker was noticeably absent for the next two days and nights.

"Where have you been?" Wanda demanded when he showed up la
te
Sunday evening. She'd been greatly unnerved by his unexplained disappearance and was furious with him. She didn't like it when people suddenly up and took off. Everybody knew that. Even the volunteers notified her well in advance if they weren't going to be around, told h
er
why they'd be gone and when they'd be coming back. As a member this household, Mr. Striker was as accountable as the rest of them f
or
his actions, his whereabouts. "How could you just disappear like that Wanda asked, surprising herself with her strident tone and intensity feeling.
”How could you leave for three days without telling anyone where you'd be? Didn't it occur to you that we might wonder when you were?"

Mr. Striker studied her. "Joyce and I took a trip to the coast," he said quietly. "Troy knew where to reach me." Then he added, "I'm sorry you were worried. I won't do it again."

By winter, he was concentrating his efforts on another part of t property, but Wanda saw him frequently as he passed by the carriage house windows. She'd invite him in sometimes to take a rest, warm up, have a cup of coffee. He didn't like breaking things, she discovered, but he enjoyed learning about techniques and studying her drawings. He never stayed long.