Rare Objects (16 page)

“He says you went to speakeasies and jazz clubs, drank bootleg gin! What are they like really?” She leaned in eagerly. “Are people very depraved and glamorous? Did you see any mobsters?”

“Angela—” Mrs. Menzi was standing in the doorway. “I didn't realize you were home.” She was wearing a fashionable if conservatively cut dress of heavy blue crepe, and her graying hair was arranged in the kind of neat marcel waves that came from a real salon. “Hello.” She nodded to me with the kind of practiced graciousness that comes from a public position. “Catherina, dear, come with me, will you?”

“But why?” Catherina whined, deflating.

“Because I asked you to,” her mother said evenly.

As soon as they'd gone, Angela tried to explain. “Carlo's an idiot, Mae! You can't pay attention to anything he says. He's just getting his own back because he knew that I wanted you at the wedding and you didn't come.” She poured the hot water into the teapot and sat down again. “He has a few beers, comes home, and starts running off at the mouth. And you know what girls are like at that age. The world is one big stage show to them.”

“But how did he know about the . . . about the drinking?”

“Well, I, ah . . . I suppose . . .” She frowned, suddenly flustered. “Look, Carlo's my husband, Mae! Of course I
tell
him things! What do you expect me to do?”

Not only had she broken my confidence, now she was pretending like it didn't even matter. “But that was private! I expected you to keep it that way.”

She didn't answer me but poured out the tea, even though it hadn't brewed long enough and was still too weak.

We sat staring, silent, at our watery tea.

“I'm sorry,” she mumbled after a while. “Really I am. I never thought Carlo would tell anyone. Actually, I'm sure it's just”—she stopped, backtracking to correct herself—“I mean, I'm sure he hasn't told anyone
outside
the family . . .”

My stomach sank. She was making matters worse.

“But I have to talk to someone, and you were away for so long!” Somehow she had managed to twist the whole thing round. “He's my
husband
, Mae! I can't keep secrets from my husband!” Angela was never very good at apologizing. She had to be right, which naturally meant everyone else ended up in the wrong. But this was the first time she'd ever chosen someone else over me. Now she was
married, her allegiance had shifted. “Why did you have to go away? Why?” She veered from regret to anger, like a car out of control. “You think I'm too stupid to understand, don't you? You won't tell me the truth because you think I'm an idiot! Just because you're smarter, more clever. I may not have gone to secretarial school—”

“I never said that! I never said you weren't smart!”

“Then why, Mae?” Suddenly her eyes glistened with tears. “Why did you have to leave me here by myself with no one to talk to?”

She was crying now. Angela almost never cried; she was too stubborn. Even as a child, she'd preferred to lash out rather than let anyone see her give in to tears.

I took her hand, though it was an effort.

“Actually”—she wiped away a stray tear—“there is something I've been wanting to tell you . . . something I haven't told anyone else yet, not even Carlo.” This was a peace offering, an olive branch. “I think I might be, you know . . .” She laughed awkwardly, cheeks flushing again, bright pink. “Well,
you know
!”

“What?”

“Pregnant,” she whispered.

My hand went limp. “
Really?
” Of course it had only ever been a matter of time, but for some reason I never thought it would happen so soon. “Oh, Angie!” I tried to swallow, but my mouth had gone dry. “That's wonderful news!”

“Shhhh!” She pressed her finger to her lips. “Like I said, I've not told anyone. I'm not really sure yet.”

“How far gone are you?”

“Maybe a month . . . maybe six weeks. I can just feel it. I wake up queasy.”

“Oh. Oh my goodness!” I said stupidly, remembering my own dreadful bouts of morning sickness.

Angela tilted her head forward so that her forehead rested on mine. “I always thought we'd have our children at the same time,” she reminded me softly. “That we'd do it together.”

“I'm not going anywhere. I'm here now,” I managed.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

She grinned uncertainly. “It's good news, isn't it?”

Her happiness shone a blinding light on the one thing I didn't want to see.

“Yes. Very good news.”

Later Angela saw me to the door, gave me a long hug good-bye. I was halfway down the street when I realized I'd left a glove behind. Walking back up on the porch, I heard voices in the front room.

“She's not a good example. Especially to a young woman.”

“But she's my best friend. I've known her all my life!”

“You need to think not just about yourself but about Carlo, about his standing in this community. And about
this
family. You're a Menzi now. This is a respectable household.”

There was a pause.

“She's my best friend,” Angela said again. But she sounded uncertain, tired.

“Really? Where was she on your wedding day?”

No response.

“Some friendships you are meant to grow out of.” Mrs. Menzi's voice softened. “You've done so well for yourself. You've come so far. Think of how far your children can go with the right opportunities.”

Angela didn't say anything. Her silence was enough.

I couldn't bring myself to knock on the door again. Instead I walked without direction, my mind blank, like the fuzzy, distorted
static sound on a radio between stations. After a while I stopped in front of the old North Church and sat on the steps outside. It was late now, the air thick with fog and cold damp. I lit a cigarette.

Across the street a couple of vagrants were rifling through the garbage cans in the alley, collecting anything that might be edible or warm. They were setting up camp for the night; a few wooden vegetable crates marked the edge of their territory.

I took a deep drag, exhaled.

When we were girls, Angela and I dreamed of growing up together, marrying, having families of our own, sharing baby clothes and recipes. We promised each other we'd live on the same street, next to one another.

Angela was doing exactly what we'd planned.

But I wasn't that person anymore. I didn't want to be different; I hadn't planned it but I was. I was never going to live in the house next door to Angela Menzi or be part of her world, no matter how hard I tried.

I flicked a bit of ash; it fizzled on the wet pavement.

Like the men sleeping in the shadows on newspaper across the street, I wasn't welcome.

I'd have to find somewhere else where I belonged.

Mr. Kessler was laughing.

I was in the back, washing up cups, when I heard him. At first I thought it was a mistake. Then it happened again.

I poked my head round the corner to see what was going on.

He was with a woman. They had their backs to me and were looking at the little German writing desk. I knew he was telling the Mozart story by the way he was moving his hands. Then she turned,
and I recognized her profile under the black netting of her hat.

It was Diana Van der Laar.

There's nothing quite as unsettling as being surprised by someone who knows your worst secrets.

“That's a delightful story!” She touched Mr. Kessler's shoulder affectionately, as if he were her own grandfather. “I only wish I were furnishing a house!”

And he laughed again, all boyish charm.

Certain women have a knack with men, using the simple fact that they're female endlessly to their advantage. Diana was one of them. She wore her beauty and wit with the same easy confidence with which she wore her black veiled hat—at a jaunty, slightly dangerous angle.

Mr. Kessler saw me in the doorway. “Well, there she is!” He beamed as if I were suddenly a beloved child. “Miss Van der Laar has stopped by to thank you, May. She told me you handled the situation expertly the other night.”

My heart stopped in my chest. “What situation?”

“Oh! Just how you dealt with Mother.” Her laugh was as light as a fluttering trill, played on the top notes of a piano. “She can be very difficult, but you knew just how to handle her. In fact, Mother was so delighted, she's asked you to supper!”

I gave her a stiff smile. “You didn't need to come all this way. A telephone call would do.”

“But of course! We're old friends, you see,” she explained to Mr. Kessler, smiling sweetly.

“Really?” Mr. Kessler looked at me over the top of his glasses. “You never told me that!”

“I was wondering,” she continued, “if I might walk you out, May. I mean, as it's nearly five.”

“We don't close until five thirty.”

“Oh, but I don't mind. I'll wait,” she offered. “You have so many lovely things here.”

“Oh,
please
!
Don't keep your friend waiting!” Mr. Kessler insisted. “Get your coat! I'll see you tomorrow.”

I knew he did mind. He normally greeted me at the door in the morning with his pocket watch in his hand. But now he waved me away like a proud father, pushing me out the door on a first date with a very eligible young man.

I got my coat and hat, seething beneath my smile. The other night was bad enough. I didn't want Diana pitching up whenever the mood struck her and ambushing me.

Once out on the street, my smile vanished. “What are you doing?”

“I just wanted to talk. And look.” She gave me a naughty grin. “I got you out early! Isn't that a gas?”

“This is my
job
! Are you trying to get me fired?”

“Of course not!” She had the nerve to seem indignant. “How many times do I have to tell you? In fact, I'll buy something, I promise! Anything you like.”

“I don't care if you buy anything! Didn't you listen to me? Didn't you hear anything I said the other night?”

“I like your hair.”

I stopped and stared at her. “What?”

“Your hair. Do you know how long I was looking at you before I could place you?” She reached out and touched a gold curl. “How clever are you? You've really managed it.”

“Managed what?”

“You've disappeared, haven't you? Managed to give them all the slip. You're a whole new person.”

She said it with both admiration and envy, but implicit in her observation was the accusation of deceit.

I folded my arms tight across my chest. “I'm not trying to fool anyone.”

We both knew I was lying. But she had the good grace not to show it.

“Of course not. You're just trying to survive.”

I knew then she wasn't just humoring me; she really understood.

“Just have a drink with me,” she persisted. “That's all I ask. I've come all this way.”

“What? In your limousine?”

“Actually, I took the train. Come on, I know a place nearby.” She slipped her arm through mine. She had a way of behaving as if we'd known each other for years that was both disconcerting and strangely flattering. “Only it would be so embarrassing for both of us if I had to beg. And I will, you know.”

We walked for a block or so and then turned down a steep flight of stairs leading into a small place called Blake's. Located on the lower floor of one of the large brownstones, it had a hazy, smoky atmosphere, like a private gentlemen's club. The interior was surprisingly luxurious, with dark red leather booths, gleaming brass light fittings, and rich wood-paneled walls. A group of businessmen were seated at a large round table in the center of the room, dining on oysters, lobsters, and steak, talking loudly and drinking from teacups a liquid that certainly wasn't tea. It was the kind of place I'd never dream of going into because I couldn't afford a squeeze of lemon, let alone a meal. But for Diana, it was like popping into a coffee shop. As I followed her to the table, I tried to look vaguely bored, as if I'd had far too many oysters in my life and couldn't bear to see another.

The maître d' sat us in a booth, and a waiter came up.

Diana pulled off her gloves. “You can have anything you want. I mean, if you're hungry.”

I was hungry. The rich savory smell of grilled meat made my mouth water. But I didn't plan on staying long. “Coffee, please.”

The waiter brought us both coffees, and when he'd gone, Diana leaned in. “Look, I'm not trying to hound you, really I'm not. But what I said the other night was true. You're the only person who understands what it's like.”

“So what are we going to do? Hook rugs and swap stories? We're out now. We're meant to forget about it and be normal.”

“What if I can't forget? What if I don't want to be normal?”

I shrugged, dropped a fat sugar cube into my coffee.

“Actually”—she dug around in her handbag—“I have something for you.”

She put it on the table between us, and my skin went cold.

It was Dr. Joseph's silver pen.

Seeing it again made me feel slightly queasy, as if I were standing on a high precipice, staring down into a long, dark abyss. I could almost hear the nib scratching against the paper. I picked it up. It was heavier than I thought it would be. His initials, “FAJ,” were engraved on the side. “How did you get this?”

Diana took a dainty sip of coffee. “I took it upon myself to relieve Dr. Joseph of it.”

“How?”

“He was stupid enough to turn his back on me. Let that be a lesson to you,” she added.

I turned it over, feeling the weight of it in my hand. Every time Dr. Joseph had written something down, our fate hung in the balance.

“Why did you take it?”