Rare Objects (33 page)

“Are you angry?” I managed.

She shook her head, pulled her legs up underneath her. But her manner was serious, subdued. “Are you?”

I hadn't expected that. Seeing her now, everything—all the fear and hurt—faded. “Where have you been?”

“With Max.” She looked toward the closed door of the bedroom. “I can't be myself around people who know me,” she said after a moment. “Every once in a while I need to get away.”

“I thought that's what this place was for.”

She paused. “It's not far enough.” There was a quiet sense of defeat in her voice. “There's madness, and then there's insanity. A little madness is one thing, but who wants to see your insanity, May?”

She didn't need to explain. I understood all too well. That's why I'd gone to New York. I needed not just time and distance but an entirely different city and life.

“But now . . . here you are.” She shrugged awkwardly, her eyes glistening with tears. “Now you know. I told you I was different.”

“I don't care.”

She looked unconvinced. “You would if you knew everything.”

“I don't care,” I said again.

Wiping her tears away with her fingertips, she shook her head. It was an effort for her to have this conversation; I could feel the weight of her shame. “I never wanted you to know.”

“Who am I to judge? If you knew where I'd been, what I'd done, you may not want to be talking to
me
right now!”

Her face changed, and she laughed, a hard bitter sound. “Because you drink?”

The way she said it, the fact that she said it at all, surprised me. I'd only meant to comfort her. “What do you mean?”

“Are you denying it? You drink
alone
, May! You drink more than anyone I know!”

Her words were razor-sharp arrows, expertly aimed.

“You drink too!” I shot back.

But she just laughed incredulously. “Not like you!”

“What are you saying?”

“What do you think I'm saying?”

We were like two gaping raw wounds, suddenly at odds with each other, at odds with ourselves.

“You think I'm a drunk?” I snapped.

“I think you already know what you are. But at least you can do something about it!” She got up and went back into the bedroom.

I wanted to leave, to storm out, but couldn't. I was too sick.

Instead I cried and fell asleep again.

When I woke up again, it was late in the afternoon.

This time it was Max sitting across from me, reading a copy of the
Saturday Evening Post
. She was wearing women's clothing, her hair combed into a very short bob. But I couldn't get the image of her as a man out my head.

“Where's Diana?” I rasped.

“She had to go. Asked me to look after you. You can't imagine how thrilled I was.” She tossed the magazine down on the table. “Are you going to throw up again?”

“I don't think so.”

“Peachy. Let's get you up.”

I managed to wash and dress myself, and then Max dragged me out to a lunch counter and ordered plenty of strong coffee and pancakes, which she claimed to be the secret to surviving a hangover.

“How would
you
know?” I was feeling sick and pretty sorry for myself. Every noise reverberated through my skull, a constant symphony of clinking cutlery and clattering plates.

“I know more about hangovers than I'd like.” Max added an extra teaspoon of sugar to my coffee, a liberty I only allowed because she frightened me.

“You've got to have a lot of sugar,” she instructed. “To get over the shakes.”

“I don't like pancakes.”

“And I don't like cleaning up vomit.” I watched in dismay as she drowned my pancakes in syrup. “You love sugar, blondie. You just like it in a glass.” She set the syrup down with a flourish, enjoying being the boss, even if she resented looking after me at the same time.

I forced down a bite. I wanted to drink the coffee but was afraid that if I picked up the cup, I'd spill it. Max seemed to sense this. She waved down the waitress and asked for a straw, which she popped into my mug. “There.”

I took a sip, grateful and humiliated at the same time.

“So . . .” She lit a cigarette, eyeing me suspiciously. “Who are you, anyway? And why does Diana care about you so much?”

“I don't think she
cares
for me,” I corrected her. “Not in that way.”

“Then why was she so particular about me staying, making sure you're all right?”

“We're friends. That's all.” And then I added, just to be clear, “It's nothing, you know, nothing affectionate.”

She inhaled hard, leaned back in her seat. “Is that right?”

I pushed the food around on my plate. “Why haven't I seen you before?”

“My family's here but I'm not in town that often. I live in New York now—I play horn in a private club in SoHo.”

“Is that where you met?”

She nodded. “Diana visits, stays with me when she can. That's when her family aren't pushing her around, trying to turn her into a performing poodle. Anyway, you'd better not be taking her for anything.” She exhaled, talking over a stream of smoke. “Just 'cause she's got money doesn't mean she's in the charity business.”

I glared at her. “I've never asked for a thing! I'm not a charity case!”

She snorted. “You're doing a pretty good imitation, blondie!”

I hated that name. “Stop calling me that! I'm not actually even blond!” I jammed another forkful in my mouth. (She was right, the sugar did help.)

“
Really?
” She widened her eyes in pretend shock and laughed.

Our conversation had taken on the cadence and sophistication of a couple of bickering twelve-year-olds.

“You should mind your own business!”

“Diana is my business. She's my girl.” Max smiled smugly. “Does that shock you?”

“Are you trying to shock me?”

“I don't care what you think. You or anybody.”

“Then why do you let her cut herself?”

Her face changed. “How do you know about that?” She smashed her cigarette into the ashtray. “That's got nothing to do with me. I would never hurt her. Never.”

“But you let her hurt herself?”

She glared at me. “Have you ever tried to stop her doing anything? Trust me, it doesn't work!”

I'd gone too far. After all, she was helping me. “I'm sorry. That was stupid—”

She cut me off. “Forget it. Diana's not an easy person to know. No wonder the two of you get along.” She frowned, twirling her teaspoon between her thumb and forefinger. “You know, it's been difficult for her lately. She's not in a good way.”

“What does that mean?”

“I'm only saying. Maybe you should steer clear for a while. Give her a chance to pull herself together.”

After my scene last night and our argument, it wasn't surprising news. Still, I didn't like hearing it from a stranger. “Steer clear? Is that her idea or yours?” I asked bitterly.

For once she didn't rise to the bait. “I'm not trying to upset you. I'm just telling you straight.”

We sat for a while before Max added quietly, “She can't look after you. She can't even look after herself.”

“Well, I don't want looking after, so that's fine by me.”

It was a childish response, but I couldn't quite manage to act any better than I felt. And I felt pretty damn bad.

Afterward Max walked me to the nearest trolley stop. Suddenly she became protective. “Are you okay to go home on your own? I mean, no one's going to give you any trouble, are they?”

“No. I'll be fine.”

“Look, Diana wanted me to tell you about this man at the
Emmanuel Church on Newbury Street. Mr. Courtenay Baylor. He's some sort of doctor or therapist or something. Anyway, he helps people get on the wagon and stay there and, well, she thought you might want to know about it.”

I stared at my shoes, miserable and alone. “I don't need any help.”

“Don't be such an ass!”

“What's it to you, anyway?” I shot back.

Max jammed her hands into her coat pockets. Even in women's clothing she had a certain rough swagger that couldn't be disguised. “My old man died a drunk, and so did my oldest brother. My younger brother, Johnny, he's had a bit of luck with this guy.” She shrugged, clearly as unhappy with the conversation as I was. “Like I said, Diana thought you would want to know.”

I frowned. I didn't know what to say.

She took my silence as rejection.

“I told her it wouldn't make any difference if I told you!” She jerked her chin up defiantly, frustration overboiling. “I've seen how the whole thing plays out. It doesn't matter what you do, how you plead, what you threaten or promise. My brother, sure, he's okay right now, but it won't last. I know I'm just biding my time before I have to bury him too.” Her eyes lost the fire of indignation, and instead bewilderment shadowed her face. “Just don't hang around Diana drinking yourself to death. Don't do that to her, understand?”

I turned away. I couldn't bring myself to answer.

Ma was sitting in the kitchen when I finally came in.

In front of her on the table was the blue-and-white willow-pattern teapot and cup—the cup empty, the ashtray full. She'd
clearly been up all night and waiting most of the day. “Where have you been?” Her voice was flat and heavy, full of cold, hard anger.

I hadn't thought about Ma at all—that she would be worried. I was surprised by her drawn, pale face, eyes swollen and ringed with dark circles from lack of sleep.

“I . . . I'm sorry. I got sick and stayed at a friend's house.”

Her face hardened. “A man or a woman?”

I absorbed the insult with a dull sense of shame. “Diana. Diana Van der Laar.”

“Really.” She didn't believe me. “And it never once occurred to you to let me know where you were? I don't suppose the Van der Laars have a telephone?”

My brain wasn't working fast enough to come up with an explanation. Besides, there was no excuse. I just shook my head.

Her upper lip curled in disgust. “So, this is how it is now? Coming and going at all hours, showing up reeking of liquor!”

I stood silent, cold, and sick. All I wanted to do was go to bed. “I won't do it again, I promise. I'm sorry, Ma.”

“You're always sorry. You're always never going to do it again.”

“But I mean it.”

“You always mean it! Meaning it doesn't make any difference! All these years I struggled for you! Fought for you! Did everything I could think of to give you the best possible life, and this is how you repay me? You're throwing it away! Don't you see what you are?” She banged her fist hard on the table. “You're better than this, Maeve! You
have
to be!”

I'd never seen her so upset. She was the last person I wanted to let down, and yet the one I let down most often. “Ma, I'm . . . I'm trying . . .” I fumbled. “I really am!”

“I want you to talk to Father Grady.”

“Father Grady?” Our parish priest, Father Grady was the very last resort—the final word on lost causes.

“You're drunk!
Again!
Just like last time! I thought when you went to New York, when you got away from Mickey, you'd put all that behind you!”

“I did! I have! I swear, Ma!”

Her eyes widened. “Don't you lie to me! Don't you
ever
lie to me!”

And with lightning speed, she picked up one of the Staffordshire teacups and smashed it against the floor. Then she grabbed the saucer and flung it down too.

“No, Ma! Stop!” I grabbed her arm.

“You ruin everything!” she screamed. “I'm glad your father isn't alive to see you now! You're nothing but a common little whore!”

Her words slammed into me, like a kick to the stomach.

She reached for the teapot.

“I'll go,” I said quickly, frightened of her temper and what she was capable of. “I'll see him. I promise!”

She let the teapot go, and her features distorted into a grimace of painful sobs. She covered her face with her hands.

“I'm sorry, Ma.” I tried to comfort her, but she recoiled from me as if I were some diseased creature, too foul to touch. Instead, she went into her bedroom and closed the door.

I stared at the floor covered in broken china, the shattered pieces.

I had to find a way to repair them. One way or another, I would fix things.

I hesitated by the door of the rectory office a moment before knocking.

“Come in.”

Father Grady was standing by the window, looking out onto the schoolyard of the Holy Cross Grammar School below. It was recess, and the din of children running and shouting immediately took me back to my childhood. Those were pleasant memories, clearly defined in black and white. Children needed only a little sunshine and a square of empty space to be endlessly happy.

Father Grady turned. I hadn't seen him in over a year. He registered the difference in my hair color with a look of mild confusion, tilting his head to one side as if looking at my hair from a slightly different angle might suddenly make it red again. Then he gestured to a chair. “Sit down, Maeve.”

Father Grady was from Kerry; he still had the gentle, lilting dialect of the southern Irish and the gaunt, distinguished features of an aging elder statesman. He'd known me all my life; he'd baptized and confirmed me, heard my first confession, and given me first communion. In the absence of a husband, Ma had turned to him for advice and guidance over the years. Secretarial school had been his idea.

Now, as I took a seat across from him, I could feel his concern and disappointment like a low-hanging dark cloud.

He nodded slowly, held his palms up. “Well, Maeve.” He wasn't afraid to state the obvious. “Here we are.”