The Time Between
Page 19
I looked back at the road, eager to avert my thoughts. “I’m glad it’s a long drive, Mama. We haven’t spent a lot of time together since I started working for Miss Szarka.”
She sent me a perfunctory smile, then seemed to mull over something in her mind. Finally, she said, “I didn’t want you to take that job, Eleanor, you know that.”
Not again. “I know you had objections, based on something you read in the paper, and gossip from an old friend who’s lonely now that both of her children have moved out. But it’s all been fine.”
“I know, but remember that I’ve known the Szarka sisters for years. There was always something odd about those two women.”
“They’re from another country, Mama. And they’re different—not odd. Even as a child I knew the difference.” I couldn’t believe I was defending Helena. I wondered if I should tell her—to get brownie points. Or if she’d even care.
“I cleaned for them once. Did I tell you?”
I whipped around to stare at her. “No. You didn’t.”
She clutched her handbag tighter. “It was a long time ago, when your father was still alive. We needed the money. When your father sold his second boat I thought it was to help with household expenses. But he bought that piano for you instead.” She waved her hand at me. “I’m not blaming you, or him. The local shrimping industry was just about dead, anyway. Eve needed new costumes for two big pageants in the spring, and you needed new school shoes—not to mention Christmas presents. The Szarkas were throwing their big Christmas party that they had every year and were looking for people to come in and clean before and after and to help at the party. It was good money, but I didn’t tell anyone except for your father.” She leaned closer to me. “And don’t tell Eve, either.”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s okay that I know you cleaned somebody else’s house for money, but not Eve?”
Her chin wobbled a bit. “She’s always needed to be protected. But you . . .” She shrugged. “Even as a child, you seemed able to take care of yourself. That the outside world didn’t matter as long as you had your father and your music. I think that grounded you in ways that Eve’s beauty and talents couldn’t. That’s why I always made a big deal out of her. Somebody had to even the playing field.”
I had to focus on my driving so that I wouldn’t plow into anything. If she’d always felt this way, this was the first I’d ever heard of it. Is that what happened as a mother grew older? She saw her children as adults she could confide in, despite how painful or revealing the subject matter? It seemed, almost, that because I was an adult I’d suddenly ceased to be her child.
I looked down at my white knuckles on the steering wheel, all the old anger and hurt close to the surface, like I’d been underwater for so long that my lungs would burst from holding in all that air. What about after Daddy died? Who was there to protect me?
I wasn’t interested in rehashing the past, which would never change, so I attempted to return the conversation to a safer place. “You didn’t think to mention that you’d worked for the Szarkas when I told you about the job offer?”
Her lips pressed together. “No. It was humiliating, and it still is. I’m only mentioning it now to tell you why I know things aren’t all right in that house and that you need to keep your guard up.”
“Well, you haven’t told me anything other than that they were different from everybody else, which makes sense since they’re not from here.”
She shook her head, her brows puckered together. “It was just odd—all those paintings hanging on the walls and all the drapes shut. They were nice paintings, too—old ones, and probably quite valuable. I grew up with nice art, so I can recognize the real thing when I see it.”
“They brought it from their home in Hungary—most people do bring along their possessions when they move. There’s nothing odd about that.”
“I didn’t think so at first, either, until I got in a conversation with the older one—Miss Helena—after I saw an old photograph of her and Miss Bernadett and the oldest sister, who was already dead by then. I told her they looked like the Gabor sisters. They were Hungarian, too, and all three were movie stars here in the States.
“But Miss Helena just shook her head and seemed angry, saying that she and Bernadett hadn’t relied on rich husbands to get them out of Hungary, nor were they raised with a lot of money, and that they were expected to work for a living.”
“That all makes sense to me,” I said, flicking on the blinker to turn onto Anna Knapp Boulevard.
I felt my mother staring at me, and I didn’t need to look at her to see her disappointment in my inability to think things through. “It didn’t make sense, then, if they didn’t come from a lot of money, that they would have all that expensive art.”
I pulled into a parking spot at the library but sat there for a moment with the engine idling, wondering why I felt so unnerved, as if my mother’s words had unlocked a box of my own unasked questions. “The three sisters recorded an album. That must have brought in a lot of money.”
She unsnapped her seat belt. “I remember that. Bernadett would play it over and over on her gramophone until Helena took it away from her. I told her I didn’t know that they were famous, and she said that they weren’t, that they’d only recorded the one album. I’m sure it’s not like it is today, where you can retire on just one album.”
“Well,” I said, turning off the ignition and opening my door. “They could have inherited the paintings from a relative, or they could be worthless. Helena’s never had them appraised. Maybe she knows they’re not worth anything but is too proud to admit it.”
Mama rubbed her hands up and down her arms as if she were chilled. “There was something about Helena that I didn’t like. Something secretive. And so protective of her younger sister, who was still so frail. Like Audrey Hepburn, who never recovered her health, either, after surviving near starvation during the war. I saw that on the Biography Channel not too long ago,” she said, nodding once as if to punctuate the veracity of her statement. “Anyway, I did like to hear her play the piano. I know your father said you were the best, but I think she was even better.”
I swallowed at the implied insult. “Bernadett?”
“No, Helena. Even I could tell her music was special. I’m guessing she doesn’t play too much anymore. As far back as that Christmas, she was complaining about how much it hurt her fingers to play—because of the arthritis.”
I leaned back against my seat, recalling Helena’s knotted fingers and wondering when she’d finally stopped playing—not because she chose to but because she had to. It made me a little ashamed to recall how reluctant I’d been to play for her, how selfish. Even in the last months of Bernadett’s life, there had been no piano music. A silent house for a musician would be a kind of death. I clenched my eyes shut, my internal voice shouting at me, Yes, it is.
I realized my mother was speaking, and I concentrated on listening to what she was saying.
“I saw Mrs. Reed again at the craft store yesterday while I was picking up some beading for Eve. When I told her that you were working for Helena Szarka, she told me something she’d read in the local paper. She said they didn’t do an autopsy on Bernadett. And everybody knows that when somebody dies at home they do an autopsy. She said Mr. Beaufain’s father was good friends with the Charleston County coroner and maybe did the family a favor. I don’t like you being with those people, Eleanor. You are known by the company you keep.”
“What is that supposed to mean, and why are you telling me all this now?”
She tucked her chin into her neck in an attempt to appear affronted. “I told you when you first got the job offer that all wasn’t right in that house. I didn’t say any more because I knew you weren’t ready to listen. And maybe you’re still not. But I am your mother and I would be neglecting my responsibilities if I didn’t tell you what I thought.”
“I know. It just seemed odd. And that Mr. Beaufain—he’s from a good family, and that little girl is just precious, but there was a lot of ugliness surrounding his divorce. Something not very nice about his wife.”
“Really, Mama? You know his ex-wife?”
“No, of course not. And I don’t mean to sound like a gossip, but Mrs. Reed’s cousin is a dental hygienist in the office where all three of them are patients. Again, I don’t usually listen to idle chatter, but you’re in contact with these people and I thought you should know.”
I stared at her, torn between asking for more information and wanting to be the adult and discourage gossip. Either way, I needed to be a better monitor of the sources of information my mother had access to.
“I’ve only met her once, so I really couldn’t say.”
“Well, the circumstances surrounding the divorce were very ugly.”
Unable to resist, I asked, “How ugly?”
“Haven’t you wondered why the father has custody instead of the mother? That never happens unless they can prove that the father would be a better parent.”
“Mama, I don’t think we should be talking about—”
“The little girl got really sick—cancer, I think—and her mother couldn’t deal with it. She took up with another man and moved out of the country for a little bit, only came back when it looked like the girl—Gigi, is it?—would survive.”
“It was leukemia,” I said softly.
“Well, from that one time I met her, it seems like she turned out all right despite all that.”
“Yes,” I said, exiting the car and then moving to the passenger side to open my mother’s door. “She’s a terrific kid, thanks mostly to her father. I think he’s doing a great job. You should see her room—it’s the kind of room I used to dream about.”
She’d turned and sat on the edge of the seat, looking up at me. “I remember you telling your father exactly what you wanted. I used to cut out pictures in magazines when I thought it looked like what you’d been talking about and stored them in a box for when we’d have the money. I think I still have them somewhere.”
While I tried to think of something to say, she reached into her handbag and held up a small gold tube. “Here, take this.”
I looked down at my mother’s tube of coral lipstick. “Why?”
She exhaled with exasperation. “Even the most beautiful women can always benefit from a little bit of color. I don’t know why you’ve always shied away from makeup. You don’t need a lot, but maybe a touch of powder and mascara would really enhance your natural features. They’re really quite lovely, you know. You take after your father’s side, and all the women in his family were always late bloomers.”
She stood while I just stared blankly at the tube of lipstick that had somehow ended up in my hand, wondering if it had been the first time my mother—even in an indirect way—had called me beautiful, and why it suddenly meant so much to me.
Leaning down toward the side-view mirror, I smoothed the lipstick over my lips and grudgingly admired the results.
We walked into the library and I settled my mother in the periodical section, while I made a beeline for the racks of paperback romances. I picked out one, then added a second for my mother. Then I found the history section, where I discovered several books on Hungary, waffling between two of them before finally settling on one that focused on the two world wars and the years behind the Iron Curtain. After a quick visit to the library’s reference computer, I found a photography book that featured Eastern European cities and had a photograph of the Buda Castle in Budapest on the cover.
Feeling satisfied, I made my way to the checkout desk, where an attractive woman in her mid-forties with short, curly dark hair sat behind a computer. A name tag in the shape of a tiara, complete with rhinestones, had the name WANDA JEWELL stamped on it. She was muttering under her breath as I approached, her fingers flying over the keyboard until she gave a final loud thump to the return key before focusing her attention on me.
“Sorry about that. It just makes me so angry when people can’t return their books on time. It’s not like we hide the due date from them or anything.”
My smile faded slightly. “Yes, um, I’d like to check out a few books, and I have one to renew as well.”
She smiled expectantly, and I slid the new books toward her. “I have a library card, but I haven’t used it in a while.”
Her smile dimmed perceptibly as I pulled the card from my wallet. Wanda took it, then typed something into the computer. “Is all of your information still current?”
“Yes, it is.”
Wanda glanced at the line of library patrons that was forming behind me. “You know, you could have gone online and done this at home.”
The overdue book I still clutched in my hand seemed to grow heavier, and I considered taking it back without renewing it. But when Wanda handed over my newly checked-out books to me, I slid The Art of Origami to her. “This is an elderly friend’s book who has recently suffered a death in the family. I was hoping I could renew this for her.”
Wanda removed the small receipt from the inside cover, and I watched as her eyes widened. “This book is almost four months overdue.”
I glanced at the people lined up behind me and smiled. “I know. I was just hoping to do this as a favor, considering the circumstances. . . .”
My voice trailed off as she started typing into the computer again. She leaned forward to read something before fishing for the reading glasses that hung on a chain around her neck and sticking them on her nose.
“Bernadett Szarka?” she asked.
“Yes,” I blurted out, not sure why I’d been thinking it had been Helena’s book.
She peered at me from over her reading glasses. “I’ll waive the fine because of the extenuating circumstances.” She was silent for a moment as she read from her screen. “This is interesting. Apparently your friend ordered a few books from another library as an interlibrary loan, but she didn’t want to be notified. She left very explicit instructions not to be called, but that she would be in to pick up the books.”
I leaned over the counter. “When was this?”
Wanda lifted her index finger and dragged it along the screen. “January. I don’t know why she didn’t renew the origami book when she was here then, since she probably would have known by then that she wouldn’t be done with it by the due date. That would have saved us all a lot of trouble.” She tapped her finger on the screen. “She has an address on Edisto. You could have gone to any of the Charleston County library branches to renew this, you know.”
I glanced blankly at her, unable to find the courage to tell her that I didn’t know because I rarely used the library anymore. There simply weren’t enough hours in the day. Instead, I said, “Do you still have the books on hold?”
“I’ll have to go check. Usually we return unclaimed books within thirty days, but we’ve been dealing with a lot of part-time help, so things have been overlooked. I’ll go see.”
There was an audible sigh from the woman standing directly behind me, and I sent her another apologetic smile.
Ms. Jewell reappeared from the back holding two books rubber-banded together with a piece of paper with Bernadett’s name written across it in bold black letters. I had no intention of telling the librarian that the person she’d been holding the books for had died nearly two months before. I figured I’d just take them home, see if Helena wanted to read them, then bring them back, except I wouldn’t drive all the way to Mount Pleasant to return them. Surely somebody had mentioned that to Bernadett. There was even a library in Edisto. It made no sense that she would have driven all this way.
Wanda dropped the books
on the desk in front of me. “Do you have Miss Szarka’s library card?”
I quickly slid mine over to her. “Use mine.”
She took the card and added Bernadett’s books to my account. As I took the proffered books, she said, “Please tell Miss Szarka that if she wants to keep books for such a long time, she might consider purchasing them. We have a lot of fine bookstores in the area—including a very nice one right on Edisto.” She smiled broadly. “Have a nice day.”
“Thanks. And you, too.”
I found my mother poring over a current issue of Charleston magazine. “Did you find anything you wanted to check out?” On my walk over to her, I’d already decided that if she did, I was sending her through the line by herself.
“No, not really,” she said as she stood, giving the magazine a final, lingering glance.
“That’s all right,” I said as I led her toward the door. “I got a book for you that I think you might like.”
I handed her one of the romance novels.
“Eleanor! You know I don’t read this kind of thing.” She quickly pressed the book, cover first, into her chest. “What if somebody sees?”
“Nobody knows you here, Mama, and nobody would care, anyway.”
She scowled, but instead of giving the novel back to me, she stuck it in her purse.
When I opened the back door of the car to toss the books onto the backseat, the rubber band snapped on Bernadett’s books, spilling them onto the floor. I bent to pick them up, then froze as I read the two titles. Great Art of the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries and The Dutch Masters. A cool hand seemed to brush the back of my neck, as if somebody was leaning close to whisper in my ear. I replaced the books on the seat, then quickly slid behind the wheel.