“Oh,” Markie said. “Then who—?”
But the old woman had turned to look at Jesse, who was sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter. Markie turned, too, and caught the perplexed look on his face.
“Qu’y a-t-il?” the woman asked. “What is it?”
Jesse studied his hands as he placed his palms flat on the counter, side by side, then slid them slowly away from each other. “I, uh . . .” He cleared his throat. “You said, ‘dead to me.’ I think you mean just ‘dead’ unless what you mean is that he did something to make you—”
“He is dead to me,” the woman said, punctuating her answer with a sharp nod, as though that took care of the issue.
“Yeah,” Jesse said, “but that still doesn’t really clarify the . . . thing . . .”
But she turned away from him, toward Markie, and Jesse shrugged and reached for his sandwich.
“Vous êtes Markie,” she said. “Chessie has told me.”
Markie glanced at her son, who pointed a finger to his chest and mouthed, “Chessie.” Markie smiled at him, and the woman snapped her head around to see what the boy was up to. He dropped his finger and looked at the floor.
“He tells me this is your actual name.” She looked at Markie through eyes narrowed by suspicion, waiting, it seemed, to hear the boy had been lying. When Markie only nodded, the woman clucked and patted her arm sympathetically. “Moi, je m’appelle Angeline St. Denis. This is S-A-I-N-T and then D-E-N-I-S. But you will call me ‘Mrs. Saint’ if you are not prepared to pronounce ‘St. Denis’ correctly. And since you are American, I assume you are not. So. Mrs. Saint, if you please.”
Markie opened her mouth to give “St. Denis” a try, and Jesse, who was fully aware of his mother’s stubborn refusal to be told she couldn’t do something—a trait he shared—shook his head and sliced a finger across his throat.
“Saint Dennis,” Markie said, ignoring him. He winced.
“Och! Non!” Mrs. Saint dropped Markie’s hand, set the empty glass on the counter, and shook two fists at the ceiling, as though cursing the universe for allowing such an imbecile to move in next door. She glared from mother to son in a way that made it clear Jesse had made the same attempt earlier.
Jesse lifted his hands above the counter, palms up, and mouthed, “I warned you.”
“Ce n’est pas Deh-niss,” Mrs. Saint said, dragging out the word in an overly American accent. “It is Duh-nee.” She paused dramatically and then repeated, “Duh-nee. And it is not Saynt, like the ones who go marching in. It is only San, with the t being a . . .” She tilted her head upward, searching for the English word in the kitchen ceiling. “Suggestion,” she said finally. “The t is a suggestion.” She looked at them each in turn again, daring them.
Jesse turned his hands so his palms faced the old woman. “I’m good with ‘Mrs. Saint.’”
Mrs. Saint beamed at him like he had just announced he got into Harvard, and they both turned to Markie, who was determined to try again. Now, with the pronunciation lesson, she was certain she could get closer. She had taken French in high school—her accent wasn’t bad. And she’d be damned if some four-foot-nothing Frenchwoman was going to stand in their kitchen and try to scare them out of trying to speak a language that didn’t belong to her any more than English belonged to Markie and Jesse.
She glanced at her son, ready to press her lips into a smirk in response to his having handed over his stubbornness badge so quickly. But her mouth fell open in disbelief instead. Mrs. Saint was rubbing her hand up and down his forearm in pride at his compliance, and Jesse, who wouldn’t let his own mother so much as tousle his hair anymore and claimed not to care what anyone thought of him, was smiling at her as though her approval was all he had ever wanted. He leaned toward her in a way that said, “Keep rubbing my arm,” and Markie was certain if she gave it another minute, he’d start to purr. She had been trying for the past five months to get this boy, so plainly in need of a hug, to accept any kind of physical affection.
“Mrs. Saint it is,” she said.
The old woman’s smile split her face in two, and with the hand not already assigned to Jesse, she took Markie’s and squeezed it again. Fine, Markie thought, I’ll allow this one last squeeze.
“Bienvenue!” Mrs. Saint said. “Welcome to the neighborhood!” She looked at them each in turn and smiled wider. But only for a split second, and then her expression of delight was gone, her formerly wide, bright eyes now turned narrow and dark. “Alors, Chessie tells me there is no dog.”
“We’re not a dog family,” Markie said.
Mrs. Saint pursed her lips in a We’ll see about that manner, then lifted Frédéric’s glass from the counter, filled it, and held it out to Jesse. “He should have another,” she said, nodding toward the archway.
If Markie were the one to hand him the glass and give the veiled instruction to take it to a man he barely knew, Jesse would stare dumbly at her until she realized her mistake and lowered it back to the counter. Alternatively, he might cock his head as though she were temporarily insane, giving him an order. Or snicker, finding humor in her delusion that he would ever obey. He would most definitely not smile, reach for the glass, say “No problem!” and make a beeline for the living room.
When he was gone, Mrs. Saint leaned toward Markie, motioning for her to bend down so they would be closer.
“Boys only wear that much cologne when they are trying to cover up something else,” she whispered. “While you were out to buy the lunch, he was outside in the back. Fraydayrique believes he . . .” She raised two fingers to her lips in a V, holding an imaginary cigarette.
Markie straightened, took a step back, and shook her head. “Absolutely not.”
“A dog will keep a boy out of trouble,” Mrs. Saint said. “The responsibility. Also to keep him company, non? He seems a lonely one.”
“He’s not in trouble,” Markie said, “and he’s not lonely. He has lots of friends in our old neighborhood.”
“Only these lots of friends are not here, in your new neighborhood,” Mrs. Saint said. She seemed about to say more when the sound of something being scraped across the wood floor came from the living room. “Attendez!” she called, bustling past Markie. When she was almost through the archway, she turned back and put a finger on the side of her nose. “We will discuss it later. The trouble. And the lonely. And also le chien—the dog.”
“I don’t think there’s anything to discuss—”
But Mrs. Saint nodded to herself, as though her own agreement were all that mattered, and tore off into the living room, doling out instructions in two languages as she went.
Chapter Four
Markie’s new living room was only slightly larger than her old master bathroom. She knew this, of course, from her walk-through a week earlier, but she hadn’t been too concerned about it at the time. Sure, it seemed a little cramped, but you don’t get a clear picture of a space when it’s empty, she told herself. It would seem bigger when it was furnished.
But now, her grandmother’s spindle-leg love seat, chair, and coffee table (the only valuable pieces of furniture she hadn’t sold) were arranged, and the room that had seemed small during her walk-through felt positively claustrophobic. She couldn’t breathe suddenly, and she thrust a hand out to grasp the back of the love seat while she coaxed her lungs to fill and her legs to rescind their threat of buckling. Mrs. Saint and her helpers rushed toward her, arms extended, but Markie waved them off.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said, though her gasping betrayed her. “It’s just . . .” She shook her head. How could she explain it?
It was “just” that even the strongest conviction that she would be better off no longer married did not, it turned out, provide immunity against the shock she felt in realizing that she was, in fact, no longer married. And although there had been reminders around her all day—the rental truck, the boxes, the sight of their old house, their neighborhood, and then the entire city in her rearview mirror—it w
as the puny living room, so sad-looking compared to the cavernous, cathedral-ceilinged space in her old house, that punched her hardest in the gut.
“Would you prefer for them to arrange in a different way?” Mrs. Saint asked. “We thought this would be best for entertaining. Because every seat can see well the fireplace.” She swept a hand, indicating.
Markie considered the arrangement and knew her neighbor was correct. She also knew it was irrelevant whether the furniture was arranged to accommodate company—after she ushered out the three people standing before her, she and Jesse would be the only ones who set foot inside the bungalow for the length of their tenancy. There was no need to share that out loud, though, so Markie smiled, told them it was perfect, and, hand extended, crossed the room to finally introduce herself to the two men who had done so much work for her.
Frédéric said his name the way Mrs. Saint had—“Fraydayrique”—as he took her hand in both of his and bowed deeply. Markie moved to Frédéric’s companion, who hesitated before finally resting his hand limply in hers.
“And this is . . .” Mrs. Saint said, dragging out the last word, her gaze fixed on the younger man until he finally caught on.
“Oh! Bruce!” he said, diving his stubbled chin to his chest and shaking his head as though he could never get that one right, the whole state-your-name-when-meeting-someone-new thing. His cheeks were red, either with embarrassment or shyness, and he seemed to Markie like an oversize, socially awkward child. It was the same way Markie felt when she was around her parents’ friends at the club, with their inside jokes she didn’t understand, their standards for appearance she never seemed to meet. Despite her ambition to avoid all personal connection, she felt an instant kinship with Bruce, and she patted him on the arm, smiled warmly, and said, “It’s very nice to meet you, Bruce.”
Directing her attention to Frédéric as well, she said, “Thank you so much for your help. We lost our moving team at the last minute. Without the two of you, we never would’ve gotten the truck unloaded ourselves and returned on time.”
“Non, non,” Frédéric said, waving her gratitude away. “But it was our play-zire. We were more than happy.”
Markie took in his formal attire and wondered how happy he could be to have foregone his other plans in order to perform heavy labor for a woman he had never seen before. Bruce, his jeans and T-shirt worn-looking and ill-fitting, had presumably not been invited to whatever affair the elder two were planning to attend.
“So you’re French, too,” she said to Frédéric.
“French Canadian,” Bruce corrected, and Mrs. Saint reached over and gave his arm an approving pat. He beamed.
“I am,” Frédéric said. “But corporate America beat out most of my accent over the years. Angeline suffered no such pummeling.”
The expression he directed at Mrs. Saint was so openly adoring that Markie almost said, “Aw,” out loud. How nice, she thought, that the woman had found love after her late Edouard. But Mrs. Saint frowned and turned to the window, and Frédéric, his smile collapsing, stared at his loafers.
“Bruce would like to ask you about the tay-lay-vi-zions,” Mrs. Saint said.
Bruce pointed to the two TVs that sat on the invisible threshold where the tiny living room met the minuscule dining area. “We wasn’t sure which goes where, since one’s . . . you know . . . bigger.”
“Oh.” Markie swatted the air. “Please leave the rest. You’ve done more than enough. Jesse and I can take it from here.” She extended her arm toward the archway and the side door beyond. “I’m sure you’ve all got things you’d like to do. We’re really quite able—”
“But Fraydayrique has brought with him his hammer!” Mrs. Saint said. “His picture-hanging nails, also.” She pointed to a toolbox Markie hadn’t noticed before, sitting on one of several large boxes grouped together in the corner, all marked ARTWORK. “And also there is the entire kitchen to unpack!”
Markie dismissed the boxes of art with a flick of her hand. “I’m not going to bother with those. Jesse’ll carry them to the basement later, along with most of the kitchen things. But thank you so much. You’ve gone above and beyond your neighborly duties.” She moved her arm again to show them out, resisting the urge to jab her finger repeatedly toward the door until they got the hint.
“I should move them TVs, though,” Bruce said. “They’re pretty heavy.”
He had seen Jesse’s stick-thin limbs, in other words, and he had also seen the boy’s middle-aged, out-of-shape mother. And he knew there was no way those two were hoisting those sets anyplace. He shifted nervously, waiting for her answer. The look on his face was so earnest, so hopeful, it seemed a refusal might crush him.
“Sure,” Markie said, letting her hand fall to her side in defeat. “That’s very kind of you. The big one and the stand go in Jesse’s room. The smaller one goes in mine.”
Mrs. Saint made a noise as Bruce pointed to the ceiling. “Big room for you and small for him? That’s how we done the beds.”
Markie started to answer, but she was distracted by Mrs. Saint’s reaction to the TV-in-bedrooms idea. She wanted to tell the woman she was aware it was a parenting no-no. She knew Jesse would stay up too late watching. She knew not having a common set meant she wouldn’t even be able to pass off their mind-numbing tube watching as “family bonding.” But she also knew her son, and she knew what he needed right now, and it wasn’t mother-son togetherness or a bunch of rules about screen time.
She had already tried pleading the TV-and-video game case to her parents, though, and they had not been moved. No way was she about to prostrate herself in front of another judge, and certainly not one she had known for only half a day. So she told Bruce, “Actually, he’s taking the room in the basement,” and before Mrs. Saint could register her disapproval about that as well, Markie added, “That’s the room he requested. He’s had a very rough year. I said yes.”
Bruce redirected his finger from the ceiling to the floor. “Move the bed frame before I go?” he asked. “Can pull the cable down from the family room, too.”
“That would be lovely about the bed frame,” Markie said. “No need on the cable, though. Not in the budget right now.” She shrugged as though the lack of cable wasn’t going to be a huge disappointment to her son—huge enough that she still hadn’t found a way to break it to him—and fluttered a hand in the air. Ho-hum, no big. “He’s got one of those gaming systems he can hook up.” She moved her waving hand in the direction of the family room. “I think I saw it near the side door.”
“Le pauvre,” Mrs. Saint said. “To have a rough year at such a young age. Divorce, non?”
Markie didn’t know if the other woman was legitimately asking if she was divorced as opposed to widowed, or if she was merely confirming what she already knew. It seemed entirely plausible that she might have extracted the information from Jesse while Markie was at the store. The thought annoyed her, and although she felt childish doing it, she ignored the question and pretended not to feel Mrs. Saint’s eyes on her.
Bruce cleared his throat, and Markie was certain it was his way of telling her no one denies Mrs. Saint a response. Had it not been such a stressful day, and had she not recently spent seven days being bossed around by her parents, Markie might have confirmed that, yes, she was divorced. Instead, she pressed her lips together. It was her house—she would decide whom she’d answer. She felt a frowning toddler rising up within her, arms crossed, feet stomping, and she lowered her head so the others wouldn’t see her cheeks flush with embarrassment at her own behavior.
“Let me just check on that gaming system,” she whispered as she scurried past the three of them and through the archway.
Finally, they were leaving. Markie thanked them again and received a shallow bow and a drawn-out “Madame” from Frédéric, a quiet “Okay, bye”—after prodding by Mrs. Saint—from Bruce, and all of this, from Mrs. Saint:
“Are you certain about the art? I have a housekeeper, she is called
Patty, who has a real sensation for art. She could help you arrange on the walls. It would be so much nicer than the empty.
“And what about the kitchen? Chessie says frozen dinners always. Pizzas and the such. Made in a microwave and not even a real oven! My Ronda—she does the cooking for us—she could make some things. Casseroles and so on. Also we have vay-gay-tay-bles in the garden. She could bring to you. She could organize the kitchen, also.
“But what about patio furniture? I saw none from the truck. I have quelques extra. I will have Frédéric and Bruce carry over later.
“And what of le pauvre, Chessie? He should at least have the cable, non? I feel it is included in the rent after all. You will check your lease. If it is not said so in there, you will telephone to the leasing agent, who I think has left it out only. The landlord will pay for it. This I am sure about.”
Markie declined each of the woman’s offers, except for the idea to check about cable. She was certain she had asked the leasing agent about it and was told it wasn’t included, and she couldn’t imagine her neighbor knew better, but it was worth a shot for Jesse’s sake. Mrs. Saint nodded, satisfied to have landed one. She seemed about to say more, but Frédéric tapped her shoulder and gestured to the doorway, and to Markie’s surprise, Mrs. Saint followed him out. Markie smiled gratefully at him, and he winked.
“We will discuss another time the art and the foods and the kitchen,” Mrs. Saint said as she made her way through the door and across the patio.
Markie shook her head and blew out an exasperated puff of air, but she couldn’t help smiling at the retreating back of the elderly woman who had just sacrificed the better part of a day, and whatever fancy event she and Frédéric were planning to attend, for the sake of a new neighbor. Markie still wanted nothing to do with her, but she might be willing to admit the woman was more charming than annoying.
Mrs. Saint reached the low fence and made her way through the gate before turning back. She lifted a hand, and Markie raised hers in a wave. But instead of waving, Mrs. Saint held a finger in the air. “Et aussi, we will discuss le chien.”
Mrs. Saint and the Defectives: A Novel Page 3