Protecting Marie (3 page)

W
ith only a few blocks to go before they reached home, Fanny played a game in her mind. If any of my father's initials are on the license plate of the next car we pass, he'll be home, she told herself. H. J. S.—Henry Joseph Swann. They drove by a sprawling brown
Pontiac Catalina that was parked at a cockeyed angle and already collecting snow. Embossed in red on its license plate were the letters and numbers: KB 8207. “Damn,” Fanny said under her breath. She pursed her lips and gave it two more tries before giving up. One car that came toward them had an F on its license plate, and Fanny wished that she had included her own initials in the rules of her game.

The roads were growing slick. Fanny could feel the car slide and shimmy. She sucked on her mittens, and the taste and smell reminded her of the old wooden bin by the front door that held enough gloves, scarves, hats, and mittens for five families. When they rounded the corner onto Forest Way, Fanny's street, the car fishtailed ever so slightly.

“I hope he's not driving,” Ellen said, pumping the brakes. Her gloved hands glided across the steering wheel expertly.

Forest Way and two other streets, Whistler's Row and Lomond Place, formed a triangle. The streets created a border around a
small tidy park. Young trees lined the park, and an assortment of squat bushes was clustered in each corner like groups of children. In the winter, the city parks and recreation department flooded the green to make an ice-skating rink. A streetlamp stood tall at the far corner. It threw a perfect cone of light onto the rink, and because it was snowing the cone was speckled. Fanny would usually turn toward the park to see who, if anyone, was skating. But this night she craned her neck so that she'd see their house as soon as it came into view.

“Lights!” Fanny shouted, beating her wet mittens against her knees. “Yes!”

“But his car's not here,” Ellen said calmly.

“It's probably in the garage,” Fanny said. Her hand was already poised on the door handle, ready to pull it open the instant they reached the curb.

“Didn't
we
leave those lights on?” Ellen asked.

“Nope,” Fanny answered, remembering how gloomy the house seemed when they had departed. “I turned on the porch light, but
that's all.” Excitement cracked her voice.

The house wasn't aglow, but the tiny bulbs on the Christmas tree twinkled through the window. And there was enough illumination from the floor lamp by the couch to cast blurry-edged rectangles onto the front yard. They fanned out toward the street.

Before Ellen had turned off the engine, Fanny was out of the car. She ran up to the house as fast as she could.
Plop, plop, plop.
As her feet hit the ground, little explosions of snow shot up, leaving huge footprints on the sidewalk as if a clown had just tramped by. Fanny noticed other footprints—her father's?—going to and from the porch, but she didn't pay much attention to them. She was hypnotized by the lights. The familiar tweedy smell of her father was nearly all she could think about. She could almost feel his arms around her as he welcomed her home with a hug.

After fumbling for her key, which she kept on a lanyard around her neck, Fanny threw open the door and burst into the front hallway.
“Dad!” she shouted. “Where are you?”

Silence filled the house, and Fanny knew immediately that her father was not at home. But he had been. He'd left the lights on. And he'd left gifts beneath the Christmas tree. Fanny glimpsed two small, wrapped boxes anchoring two monstrous, helium-filled balloons. Still, Fanny ran upstairs, checking every room to make sure. Not only could she smell her father, but she strongly sensed his presence. It was as if he had vanished mysteriously just seconds before she entered each room and a part of him still lingered. That eerie sensation heightened her disappointment. Then Fanny climbed up to the drafty attic that served as Henry's studio. Of course, it was dark and empty. If I had lights inside of me instead of bones and muscles, she thought, they'd all be going out. When Fanny came back down to the living room, Ellen was crouching by the Christmas tree. Her coat lay in a heap beside her.

“He's gone,” Fanny said. “Here and gone.”

“But he's okay,” Ellen assured her. “He left
a note. And he left these,” she added, nodding toward the presents.

“What does it say?” Fanny asked.

Ellen handed an opened envelope to Fanny. Fanny unfolded the paper inside and read the note. It was written in Henry's elegant, slanted penmanship. It said:

“We should have stayed home,” Fanny
said. “Then he'd still be here.”

“Don't think like that. And no, he wouldn't be—you know your father.”

No one spoke for a few minutes until Fanny asked, “
Can
we? Open them right away? The presents, I mean.”

“I guess,” Ellen said. “Yes.”

“You go first,” Fanny said. “They're pretty, aren't they?”

“They really are.” Ellen picked up the smaller of the two presents. Her name was written on a tag. The box was wrapped in gold foil paper and tied with silver ribbon. An abundance of loops and curls spilled over the box. Ellen untied the ribbon, and the balloon that was attached floated up to the ceiling. “You know, it's funny,” Ellen said, eyeing the box, turning it in her hand. “I spent all day decorating the house, and it looks okay. Nice. And your father probably spent five minutes on these boxes, and they look gorgeous. The paper's perfect. The ribbon's perfect. And
his
balloons are helium filled.” Ellen sighed and began unwrapping.

“It's kind of weird opening presents from Dad on
his
birthday,” Fanny said as she watched her mother. Fanny took her coat, cap, scarf, and mittens off and used them as a cushion.

“Oh, boy,” Ellen said, bringing one hand up to her mouth. “It's lovely. As always. Look.”

Ellen held out a handsome brooch for Fanny to see. It was triangular with a raised, lacy network of roots patterning its entire surface. The lines were graceful, and it gleamed when Ellen lifted it up against her dress. “I'll bet Edward made it.”

Edward Parish was a colleague of Henry's at the university. Edward taught metalsmithing. Henry taught drawing and painting.

“Let me put it on for you,” Fanny said. She leaned forward and pinned the brooch onto Ellen's dress right where her heart would be. “It's beautiful,” Fanny told her mother. She thought it made the gray streaks in her mother's hair look pearly and even more radiant than ever.

Ellen cocked her head downward, her chin pressing against the base of her neck. She pat
ted the brooch. “Your turn,” she said to Fanny, smiling.

First Fanny untied her balloon from her present, then tied it to her wrist. She ripped into her present like a child, her fingers working nimbly—tearing, tearing, tearing. The balloon jerked up and down.

Suddenly Fanny stopped. She had opened the box. She had seen what was inside.

“What is it?” Ellen asked.

Fanny handed the box to Ellen. “What does it mean?” Fanny wanted to know.

Ellen looked inside the box. She pulled out a glass statue of a dog. She examined the dog, examined the crushed tissue paper that was cascading out of the box. “I don't know what it means,” she said in a quiet voice.

Fanny took the box, put the statue back in it, closed it, and shoved it as far into the corner behind the Christmas tree as she could.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Ellen asked.

Fanny shook her head no. She thought that she'd cry if they started to talk about dogs.
“Can we make hot chocolate?”

“You bet. And how about some of that cake? I changed my mind—I don't care if it
does
say ‘Happy Birthday, Henry' on it. It's too chocolaty and too thick with frosting to waste.”

After making hot chocolate and cutting cake, Ellen built a fire. They sat on the floor by the fireplace silently, eating and sipping, entranced by the flames. Periodically, Fanny would feel Ellen's hand on her shoulder, massaging it gently. Fanny loved the colors of a fire. The blues that flickered between the oranges like wings. And she loved the sounds of a fire, too. It sputtered and rolled and shot and roared. It crackled and splintered and spit. To keep her fingers warm, Fanny knitted them around her mug, or spread them wide, then flexed them right in front of the fire. She was mindful not to get too close, because her balloon was still tied to her wrist and she didn't want it to pop.

When they were done with their cake and hot chocolate, Fanny toyed with her balloon.
She'd pat it and jab it, then pull it back to her. Then she'd pat it again. Over and over and over.

Ellen rose and reached up to retrieve her balloon. It was still hanging in the corner. She came back to Fanny and sat down. She untied the rubbery knot and pinched the rolled edges shut with her thumb and index finger. “I haven't done this in years,” she said.

“Done what?” Fanny asked.

“This.” Ellen brought the balloon up to her mouth and sucked in a mouthful of helium. She swallowed. “I love you,” she said in a high cartoon voice. “I love you very much.”

Fanny giggled and then laughed uncontrollably. “I've never done that,” she said when she had calmed down a bit. “I've heard about it, though. From kids at school.”

“Here,” Ellen said, handing the balloon to Fanny, sounding like so many Saturday morning animated characters.

Fanny inhaled, swallowed, and squeaked, “I love you right back. But I'm not so sure about my father right now.” Somehow it was
easier to say what she was thinking when her voice was so unreal, so comical.

It was Ellen's turn again. “I think the statue was just a well-intentioned bad choice.” She passed the balloon back to Fanny.

Inhale, swallow. “Do you think it means he's bringing Nellie back home?” Fanny asked.

“No, honey,” Ellen said firmly in her own voice. “Don't get your hopes up. Not even for a second. You know how much he hated having a puppy in the house.” Ellen looked straight into Fanny's eyes. “Are you listening, Fan? I don't think your father would
ever
have another pet.”

“No, Mom. Use this,” Fanny said, pushing the balloon insistently at Ellen. “It's easier.”

Ellen grabbed the balloon, but held it in her lap. She rubbed it like a crystal ball. “Do you want to sleep down here tonight? We can pull the futon out. Build an even bigger fire.”

Fanny nodded. “And no more dog talk.”

“No more dog talk. Come,” Ellen said.

Fanny sat between Ellen's legs, her own
legs crossed like a pretzel. They spoke to one another in thin, altered voices, saying silly, silly things until the balloon was flat and the fire needed to be stoked.