It Burns a Lovely Light (13 page)

"Imagine," he said, "that church was constructed by immigrant mill workers over a hundred years ago. Those limestone
blocks probably came from the ground beneath our feet. Look at those windows. They're massive, and yet beautiful in their simplicity."

"Simplicity. That's what I used to look for in my
photographs."

"Do you miss your photography?"

Farley thought of her camera, gathering dust in her closet. She hadn't touched it since the night she and William arrived at Bridge Manor.

"I miss a lot of things."

Farley took his arm as they made their way up the steep hill.

"Do you have family around here, Mr. Winston?"

"I have a brother."

She waited for him to go on, but he didn't.

"Why did you come to Bridge Manor? I mean, why not a nice apartment, or a condo?" She covered her mouth. "I'm sorry. My
dad used to say things flew out of my mouth before my brain had time to run a safety inspection."

"It's quite all right, dear. I consider unfiltered annotations to be an admirable trait." He winked and patted her hand.
"I came to Bridge Manor because I don't do well alone. I have a tendency to dwell."

After a long soak in the tub, Mr. Winston buttoned up his pajamas and poured himself a half glass of merlot. He tried to read, but his
mind kept returning to Leonard. His brother. The one he worshiped and emulated as a boy, and cursed as a man. Everything had seemed so important back then. Differences had to be fought over. Someone must be right. Someone must be
wrong.

Farley rolled over and pulled the covers over her head. "I'm asleep."

Veda Marie opened the door. "Sorry, lovey. I just got a
call from The Significant Me." She held up William's hamster cage. "William forgot Scribble."

"So?"

"It's 'share a part of me' day. There's a party in it
for the class that shares the most. His teacher said he went to pieces when he realized he forgot Scribble. I thought you could take him on your way to work."

"All right."

She tapped the cage. "I'll leave the little critter on
the picnic table, so you won't miss him on your way out."

"Where have you been?" Dion adjusted her pickle hat. "Your boss is going to kill you for being late again."

"I know," said Farley, panting. She scrutinized Dion's costume. "What the hell are you wearing? Have you no pride?"

"I'm a wiener." Dion raised her chin; dignity in a
hot dog bun. "I'll never have enough money for nursing school if I choose my jobs based on pride. Shit! There goes our bus!"

The girls ran alongside, yelling and waving their arms until
the driver stopped. As they boarded, Dion flashed the driver a smile and a healthy dose of Frankfurter cleavage. "Thanks, hon."

Aside from her over-blown lips, Dion had what could have been described as a plain appearance: average height, one hundred forty pounds,
and shoulder length black hair. But there was also an almost primal sensuality to Dion; she exuded 'come hither'.

By the time they got off the bus, the rain had stopped.
Steam was drifting up from the asphalt. Farley waved goodbye to Dion, who would spend the day traversing the city as a hot dog, doling out coupons for Franklin's Five and Dime. She pulled on Uncle Salty's heavy doors and trudged into the restaurant.

"Farley?" Her manager called from his office. "May I see you for a minute?"

"Sure, Mr. Chabon."

His smile was crooked and horsy. "What did you call me?"

"I mean, Nat."

His office was decorated in the typical Uncle Salty's style of highly organized, zany, haphazard, patriotic, baseball-playing, fishing, brass instruments, and apple-pie mementos.

Nat crossed his arms and pressed his chin to his chest. "Would you consider yourself a happy member of The Uncle Salty's family?"

"God, yes," she said, still trying to catch her breath. Sweat trickled down her back. "I'm so happy, I whistle while I
work."

He gestured toward the window overlooking the dining area. "Tell me what you see out there."

She pressed her forehead against the cool window and stared
down at the wait staff. They seemed happy, joking and laughing as they buffed and dusted and shined away. "I see waiters and waitresses."

Nat leaned forward, a teacher coaxing the answer out of his
pupil. "Doing...?"

"Sparkle and Shine."

"Very good," said Nat, as if he were praising a puppy. "And would you agree that Sparkle and Shine is an essential part of your job?"

"Yes."

"Do you think it's fair that you can waltz in here after Sparkle and Shine is almost over?"

"When I was hired, they talked about a management
training program. They told me I'd work my way up to manager. I've been here for two years, and I'm still waiting tables."

He put on a Mister Rogers frown. "Unfortunately, your demerits outnumber your gold stars."

"Demerits and gold stars are for kindergartners, Nat."

Nat frowned. "Beg pardon?"

"Nothing. Can you at least increase my hours?"

"Then we'd have to pay you overtime. A forty-hour work
week should be plenty of time for you or any waiter worth his-or-her salt to earn generous tips."

"Except that half those hours are spent in the tip-free time zone, polishing brass and dusting antiques. So we're basically cleaning for
minimum wage, which doesn't seem fair to me. Nat."

His frown reorganized itself into a scowl.

"Actually," said Farley, "I'll tell you what
I see down there. I see grown men and women wearing candy cane shirts and kiddie suspenders covered with asinine buttons, pretending that they're in the throes of Sparkle and Shine because they love it - not because they have bills
to pay and groceries to buy."

For some reason - probably to punish herself for shooting off her mouth again - she took the Smithfield Street Bridge home. She stopped halfway across and leaned against the railing. Mr. Winston said that Jack and
Pauline's kissing fish bridge had been designed by the engineer who later designed the Hell Gate Bridge. How ironic, she thought. A small tugboat pulled a barge along the river. In the distance a steamboat's horn sounded. What she
wouldn't give to be on one of those boats, going anywhere. Just take William and go. She had some money saved, but not enough. Too bad; it's not like she had a job anymore, and she wasn't in school...

School. She jerked her head up. Her college fund! College
was expensive; there must be thousands of dollars in that fund! Claire would know; she was the trustee. Despite the heat, Farley broke into a trot.

By the time she reached the back yard she was drenched in
sweat. When she reached the back lawn she saw a flash of sunlight glinting off something metal on the picnic table. Scribble! She had completely forgotten. The poor thing was probably dying of thirst. Picking up the cage, she burned
her hand on the hot metal and dropped it onto the lawn. The door flew open and a stiff, lifeless Scribble bounced onto the brown grass.

She found Claire mopping the third floor hallway, a bucket of lemon oil soap next to her.

"I'm still William's guardian," said Claire, not looking up, "and I believe that staying here is the best thing for him."

"That's another thing. When can I become his
guardian?"

"We'll have to talk to Ham about that. I do know you'll need to show financial security, first."

Farley's chest tightened; her breathing began to speed up. She swallowed, forced herself to calm down. Maybe Claire was right. The daily
consistency of Bridge Manor probably was best for William - at least until she could get a handle on her financial situation.

"I don't know what's happening to me," she said,
wiping her forehead. "I need to get away for a while - to pull myself together. Do you think I could use some of my college money?"

"It's a
college
fund," she snapped, shoving the mop from side to side.

Perhaps it was Farley's overactive imagination, but Claire's mop strokes seemed to become more violent.

"You don't have to yell," said Farley.

Claire stopped mopping.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You have every right to ask about your own money. What I meant to say was; the fund can only be accessed for college."

"What if I never go to college?"

Claire seemed to have to think about this. "Then you get the money when you're twenty-five."

Farley stayed in the bathtub until her fingers pruned up and the water was chilly. Finally she climbed out and reached for a towel.
Mid-reach, she caught sight of her naked reflection. There was a time when she would have been thrilled to be this thin. But right now, all she saw was a worn-out young woman with blotchy skin, unruly hair and sad shadows under her
eyes. A woman awfully close to going off the deep end.

She rummaged through the cabinet drawer. As the heat of the day finally surrendered to evening, she raised the scissors to her hair, calmed
by the sound of each crisp 'snip.' Tufts of hair flew in every direction, creating a wet dark mat on the sink and floor.

When she was finished, she turned her head from side to side. Hideous. Yet, for some reason, she felt better. She needed to think - a
feat practically impossible in her sweltering bedroom. Changing into an old tee shirt and cut-off shorts, she headed back down the yard.

"Get a grip," she said aloud. "Pull yourself together!"

"You're absolutely right," said Veda Marie. "I'm quitting after this pack."

Looking up, Farley could barely make out her form on an outcropping of rock. The glowing tip of her cigarette zigzagged as she patted
the boulder.

"Come up here and keep me company."

Listening to the sounds of the night, they watched airplanes glide across the skyline, red taillights flashing above the sparkling lights of
the city.

Veda Marie pointed down the hill with her manicured toe.

"Another office tower going up. It's amazing how fast..." Her voice wandered off as she narrowed her eyes, taking in
Farley's new haircut. Farley pulled her knees up to her chin and stared out at the flickering lights of the city.

"Want to talk about it?" asked Veda Marie.

Farley was quiet for a while, gathering her thoughts.

"I thought we were so special," she whispered. "I used to feel sorry for anyone outside of our little foursome. But the reality is, Jack and Pauline were the special ones. William and I were just the
lucky spectators, along for the ride."

"We're all special, lovey."

"I don't know what I'm doing anymore." She choked out a laugh, trying to catch her breath. "I lost my job, killed Scribble and
mutilated my hair, all in one day. I'm afraid of myself." Wincing, she ducked her chin to her chest. "I can't even breathe right anymore."

"Deep breaths," said Veda Marie, her voice calm as
she rubbed Farley's back. "I believe you're having a good old-fashioned panic attack."

"Turns out she's been having these panic attacks for over two years," said Veda Marie, refilling her coffee mug, then Claire's.
"All that unacknowledged pain she's got tamped down inside of her is making her sick."

Claire gnawed on a stubby fingernail. "What if it's not a panic attack? What if it's her heart, or...something else?"

"We'll know soon enough; last night I called my favorite doctor. He said he'll squeeze her in this afternoon."

"You must have called him awfully late," murmured
Claire.

That evening, the residents of Bridge Manor walked to the edge of the property to gather around Scribble's final resting place. September carried the shoebox she and William had decorated with small pebbles and shiny
buttons. Joe held Scribble, swathed in a white hankie. In a sullen voice he led the prayer.

"Scribble was a plain hamster. A little on the boring side. Yellow, ugly teeth. But he was our Scribble, and we loved him. And Farley
didn't mean to kill him."

Farley punched him in the arm.

"Owww! Amen."

Joe handed the hamster to William. Horrified, he dropped the stiff hamster and ran for the house.

"There goes all the hot water," said Claire.

Veda Marie, Claire, and Farley followed the rest of the group up the lawn.

"The doctor wants me to work on controlling my
anxiety," said Farley.

Claire nodded. "Which is what we want to talk to you about."

Veda Marie put an arm around Farley's shoulders. "I
gave my sister Mary a call while you were having your check-up. I mentioned a little something about your panic attacks."

"Oh, God," groaned Farley.

"Hush your mouth; Mary is family. And she happens to
have a place on Kiawah Island, right off the coast of South Carolina. She hardly ever uses it anymore. It's yours for the summer, if you want it."

"I can't accept her beach house..."

"Of course, it's hardly bigger than a shack, but you
can swim and walk the beach. We need to get that chopped up head of yours pointing in the right direction. I'll drive you down myself. I could use a few days visiting my sister."

"That is so nice. But I just lost my job. I can't
afford..."

"We already have a plan," said Claire. "We'll rent your room out for the summer, and you can keep any money that brings in. You won't need much if you're frugal. Between the rent money and your social
security checks, you should be fine."

"Although I'm not going to lie to you." Veda Marie ran a hand through Farley's butchered hair. "A few hours in the beauty parlor
would be time well spent."

"Claire Sullivan," said Veda Marie, "you circled that parking lot five times to save us walking twenty feet to the beauty parlor."