Broken Strings

by Nancy Means Wright

  They were in the Branbury cemetery; it was going on midnight, a full moon floating in and out of the clouds. Chance had told Fay she was staying over with a friend.

  And Fay was distraught enough with Marion’s death that she just said “uh huh,” though ordinarily she’d have said, “No, it’s a school night, blah blah, you can do your overnights on weekends.” So Chance had sneaked out to meet Billy; ridden off on his Honda bike.

  The androgynous leader, who was called Shaman, had an engraved steel sword; it looked like something out of the Civil War. Chance thought how fascinated Beets would be; the kid loved all kind of weapons, a spin-off maybe from his birth father who was in prison after holding up a convenience store. Shaman cast the circle in the east and then walked clockwise, in the direction of “life and growth,” Billy whispered. “The energy flows three times around the circle. Watch.”

  Was this the same black-clad group at Marion’s memorial who, like Billy, hadn’t stayed for the reception? Chance had seen them on the left near the rear of the church. Had Marion been one of them? Should she tell Fay? Maybe not. She didn’t want Fay to know she was here.

  Shaman sprinkled each participant with holy water, offered a candle and a kiss on the top of the head. Chance smelled the patchouli and altered the leader’s gender to “she.” Shaman took the “besom” as Billy called it – broom to Chance’s eyes – and “swept” the circle. Chance cried out when it swept her bare feet; Billy shushed her. She wanted to laugh, she didn’t know why. She ended up choking as Shaman called out the Quarters: “Ye Lords of the watchtowers of the East, ye Lords of Air, I do call you up to witness our ties and to guard our circle!”

  They turned to face south, then west, then north. Chance went through the ritual in a daze, echoing Billy as he called on the deities, allowing herself to be shoved this way and that. Each time the laughter bubbled up in spite of herself, she repressed it. It’s wonderful, magical, I’m part of nature, she told herself. But why am I laughing?

  Nerves, she thought. Underneath, she was scared. She was an outsider to this group who knew all the words and moves. Billy had said nothing about being pagan until tonight, when he announced he was going to show her a part of himself she’d never seen. A part she must understand. She thought of the name of his band: Ghouls.

  The Great Rite came next, the culmination of the dance. The leader drew a man and woman out of the circle; they knelt on the ground facing one another; the woman’s partly bared breasts shone like twin moons. “A ritual of holy communion,” Billy whispered, and she winced. Chance recalled waking up one night with a naked boy on top of her. It was the older brother in one of her foster families. She was thirteen; he said he’d kill her if she told. She shoved him off – and she never told.

  Now followers were dancing in a circle while drums beat and cymbals clapped; they chanted “We are the one, we are the power. This is the time, this is the hour” as they shaped themselves into a cone to “raise energy.” She felt herself out of shape, out of step.

  Finally the leader signaled for the dancing to stop. She drew on red high-heeled boots over her black stockings. They ate cheese and drank wine. Chance grew a little tipsy; she thought about her history quiz the next day, but blocked it out.

  Full of wine and sweet night air, she walked back with Billy through the cemetery, then down the quiet street to his apartment by Otter Creek that he said they could turn into “a sacred stream” if she wanted.

  She didn’t think she did. She didn’t know what it was she wanted. And he didn’t press.

  Chapter Five

  A Mademoiselle from Manhattan

  Tuesday, September 25

  Cedric was in his cups when Fay arrived at the East Branbury house Tuesday afternoon. She carried in a hot casserole a church member had left on his doorstep. Surely the Good Samaritan had knocked, but Cedric doubtless didn’t want to answer. He wasn’t a churchgoer but he’d relish their cookery. Marion said he didn’t like to cook, he just liked to catch the raw meat.

  Fay thought again of the French teacher Chance had seen with him. Fay would like to meet and ask her a few questions. Mademoiselle LaFleur was new this year, according to Fay’s grandson, Ethan, and “très belle.” So “belle” that Ethan was actually opening up his French book now. She’d heard him in his room, mumbling “j’aime, tu aimes…”

  “Wel-gome to puppa heaven,” Cedric said, waving his arm at the living room Marion had converted to a workroom. He had a cold and blew his nose. “I wan’ my libbing room back. Sick of that fam’bly room, too small, too dark.”

  “Where would you suggest I move the marionettes?” Fay asked.

  He did a kind of soft shoe shuffle in his thick blue slippers. “Out, out!” he cried, punctuating each “out” with an up thrust arm. “Can’ live with it. Can’ do it anymore. Now…” He sank down on the hall bench and dropped his head in his hands.

  Did he truly miss her? Did he love her? Had Fay misjudged him all along? She didn’t know. She only knew she had to move out a whole twenty-by-twenty room crammed with hand puppets, finger puppets, shadow puppets, rod puppets, string puppets; sheets of plastic and heavy construction papers, dyes, paints, wire shanks, umbrella ribs; cloth and plastic bodies, heads, legs, arms, hands; turpentine, rubbing alcohol; boxes full of wood, rags, wire, suede, plush, cloth, chamois, felt; buttons, hats, gloves, paper flowers, feathers, and fish line strings.

  And move it where? When?

  “Now,” he repeated, lifting his shaggy head; she saw a few gray hairs straggling among the brown. “You take over, Fay. You do the shows.”

  “I already said I will.” Looking down on his abject form gave her courage, a sense of purpose. “Look, I can give you a share of the proceeds when or if there are proceeds. It’s never much, you know that. Then maybe – maybe one day I can buy you out.” She thought of octogenarian cousin Glenna, who had no offspring. But she didn’t want Glenna to die. No!

  She loved Glenna, and she loved the puppet world. Puppets were universal, they were therapeutic, they made people laugh – and cry. They were bigger than life. They weren’t imitators of life, they were instruments for showing up human foibles, Marion had said that. And Fay had come to believe the puppet had qualities the actor didn’t have. When she made a marionette move, or even a finger puppet to make Apple and Beets laugh, she could affect her onlooker differently than if she’d made the movements herself. It was as if her hands were creating new life.

  Cedric was nodding. “Fifty percent,” he said. “You take half and I take half ’cause they’re my pubbets.”

  “You mean Marion’s puppets.”

  “Mine. The will never got to the lawyer, Fay. Is jus’ in her handwriting.”

  “But you’ll honor it.”

  “Sure I will. Pubbets are part of the estate. Wha’s hers is mine. And I wanna updated inventory.”

  She stared at him. He was serious. Drunk but serious.

  “Then I should take a salary,” she said, staring back into the hard blue eyes.

  He sighed. “Gotta think on it. Jus’ get ’em outa here so’s I can get my damn house back. Wan’ my house back! My libbing room. Then we can talk.”

  She was still holding the casserole. She could smell cheese and onions, garlic and rosemary. She thought of her goat cheese. When would she have time to make cheese, much less, marionettes? “A salary,” she repeated, “and you can do the scheduling like you’ve always done. You don’t have to do the shows – none of the artistic part of it, I mean. And I’ll do the bookkeeping.” Not that she didn’t trust Cedric.

  Not that she did trust him. Why had Marion married him anyway? She should find that out. She had a lot to find out. She needed to read Marion’s correspondence, at least what related to the theater. Who killed Marion? That was the number one question.

  “Here,” she said. She dropped the casserole in his lap. I’ll check the inventory while I begin packing. I know Marion had one. You’ll have to give me a few days. Maybe a w
eek.

  “Friday,” he said. “Wan’ my libbing room back by Friday.” He struggled up with the casserole and it fell on the floor, spilling the contents on his foot. “Shee-it!”

  When she left him – on her way to find Willard to make him her partner, to share the packing up, some of the profits – Cedric was sprawled on the floor in a mess of baked beans, ham, ketchup, and onions.

  “Enjoy,” she said.

  * * *

  On the way home she dropped in on Ethan’s French teacher. School was out; she ran into Ethan on the second floor corridor. “Just passing through,” she said, and he grunted. Luckily, his friend Jimmy was beside him, and he kept Ethan moving. Her grandson saw her standing outside the French room, though. She’d be in for it when he came home tonight.

  She waited until the room was empty and Mademoiselle Felice LaFleur was gathering together books and papers. She was indeed young and gorgeous: chestnut hair swept up into a silver clip with a few tendrils in front of either tiny white ear; a pearly complexion with a tiny mole to one side of her full pink lips; emerald green pants suit with an ivory silk blouse unbuttoned to the V of her breasts.

  No wonder Ethan was doing his homework.

  “Bonjour.” Fay stepped into the room in her faded jeans and smelly work boots.

  Mademoiselle smiled at the bad accent; in perfect English she said, “Why, hello there, what can I do for you?”

  “Oh, well, goodness. I just wanted to see how my grandson is doing. Ethan Hubbard? I know French isn’t his forté. But does he spend enough time on his homework, do you think?” She was using Ethan as a foil, and she felt the guilt redden her cheeks. All she wanted was to learn about the woman’s sex life with Cedric.

  “That’s a question I might ask you,” LaFleur said. Did Fay detect a Brooklyn accent? The teacher consulted a green grade book. The pink lips turned down at the ends. “We-l-l, he’s hanging on, isn’t he. Does his best, usually prepared, I’d say. Could do better of course, the language doesn’t come, well, naturally.” She smiled again.

  Already Fay had run out of questions. She couldn’t say, ‘What were you doing with Marion Valentini’s husband? What’s up between you two?’ Instead, she said, “I, um, will try to put a little pressure on. Ethan’s living with me right now, you see, his mother is busy with a new job.” Though that was only a half-truth. Her daughter Patsy was mostly busy with a new lover. Patsy had left a first husband and now Mr. Right kept eluding her; it was always Joe Wrong at the door.

  Mademoiselle made a little clucking sound with her tongue. Her manicured face was inscrutable. The persistent smile, like a puppet’s face, mirrored the one essential trait for this particular show: the benevolent teacher-with-parent. Fay wanted to break the mold.

  “Cedric.” Fay said, watching the teacher’s face – a quiver in the cheek? A twitch in the neck? “His wife died, you may know, and I’m taking over the marionette shows. I’m hoping to get Ethan involved. But only if he keeps up his grades, you know.” She was babbling on, she wasn’t watching the teacher’s face at all, she was lost in her own maze of words.

  “I was sorry to hear that,” LaFleur said, perfectly composed. “Some kind of food poisoning, I believe?”

  The results of the autopsy weren’t yet in the papers; she would have gotten the information from Cedric. “Not just food poisoning,” Fay said. “Something more lethal.

  We think – that is, the police think – it was murder.”

  This time the face was a windswept sea. Was it guilt? Had Mademoiselle slipped ground yew leaves into the cup after it left the thermos? Was she in cahoots with Cedric to move Marion permanently out of the way? Was this why Cedric wanted the puppets out of the house at once? To move the mademoiselle from Manhattan in?

  The grade book slipped from the teacher’s hand; she knelt to pick it up, her pearly breasts swinging. Rising, she straightened her shoulders, tipped up her chin. “I didn’t know that,” she said. “How awful. Poor Cedric. He must be devastated.”

  “You know him, do you? Cedric?”

  The lips puckered. Fay could imagine her telling the class, ‘Pucker your lips and say “tu.”’ Tu, the familiar you, the you she used on Cedric.

  “We are acquainted, yes,” said Mademoiselle, pushing her grade book into a leather briefcase, then taking a step forward to conclude the interview. “Thank you for stopping by. I’ll keep an eye on your grandson. He’s doing quite well, considering...” She flashed the starry smile. “That is, I’m sure it’s hard for him being away from his mother.”

  Ouch, Fay thought. The teacher was still smiling. “That’s your daughter?” Fay asked, noting the picture of a blond child on her desk. Surely Mademoiselle had a past; she looked twenty but was probably thirty.

  “My Françoise,” she said, following Fay’s glance. “She’s in fourth grade.”

  “Already bilingual, I bet?”

  “Oh, yes. You have to start them young. My mother’s a native, born in Arles. She taught me.”

  “Lucky you. You should start a group here in the grade school. I always wished I’d had it early on.”

  “But I do,” said Mademoiselle. “Twice a week I go to Branbury Elementary for thirty minutes.”

  “Très bien!” cried Fay in her limited French. Then “Au revoir,” she said as the French teacher moved toward the door, still smiling her rosy smile, impatient to leave.

  “I’ve a couple of foster kids in that school,” Fay called after the retreating back. “What days do you teach there?”

  But Mademoiselle was already scurrying on down the corridor, her black heels going click-clack, click-clack. She held up an arm over her silky shoulder as if to say, ‘I’ll take the Fifth. I have my rights.’

  * * *

  Back in the kitchen after milking, Fay was greeted by a suspicious grandson. What was she doing there in the high school? It wasn’t parents’ day. “I like the teacher. I don’t want you telling her ‘Ethan doesn’t do his homework.’ That’s prejudice! It’s my junior year! I don’t need you laying down hurdles in front of my – my – ”

  “My horse’s path,” Fay said.

  “What?”

  “That’s the metaphor you’re searching for. Horses go with hurdles. They jump over them. And I didn’t go there to talk about you.”

  “What then?” The boy’s eyebrows pulled together and thickened. “You’re not thinking about auditing the class, are you? Jimmy’s mother did that to him in Spanish. He couldn’t think straight with her in the back row staring him down.”

  “No, no,” she said, “it was about the puppets. I told her you’d be helping out, but that I knew you’d keep up the homework. Anyway, I gathered from her that you’re doing quite well. A good French student.”

  Now Ethan was doubly suspicious. His scowl told her he knew he was no French student. He was a self-styled computer geek who had to take a foreign language to get into the college he wanted. He stood there, hands gripping his jeans pockets.

  “I mean I need you to help with the puppet publicity. You can design posters on your computer. Okay?” He could research Marion’s life on the web, too; Fay was a klutz on the computer. She threw in a soup bone. “You’ll get paid.”

  She poured a cup of stale coffee. When she turned back, Ethan’s scowl was replaced by thought. He was thinking about the money of course, but maybe the work, too. He did have a creative instinct; it came from her, she allowed, not from her ex, whose only creativity was to paint his chicken houses dark brown so the feces wouldn’t show.

  “I might think about it.” He started upstairs with a can of Pepsi.

  “And I might need you for a role now and then. You might have to learn how to operate a marionette.”

  He turned on the stop step. “There,” he said, holding up a hand, one shaggy eyebrow lifted, “I draw the line. I’ll do the P.R. But I will not – not I repeat, operate a freakin’ puppet! Jesus, I want to pass French. Do you want me to go to college or not?”

 
; “The puppets might look good on your resume,” she suggested, but he was already up the steps and pounding along the creaky floorboards to his room.

  “I might give it a try,” said Willard, who’d come quietly through the kitchen door, a red leaf sticking up in his hair. Fay pulled off the leaf and a few white hairs with it; he winced, then smiled. “If you can teach me.” He held out his hands, tough and red from outdoor work. “If you think – ”

  “I do think,” she said. “Yes! And you’ll make marionettes, too, right? And signs for us?” Willard had made signs for the town of Branbury, with its signature cow, apple, Merino sheep, and maple leaf. He’d done it free-hand, in green and gold.

  She told him about her frustrating dialogue with Cedric. “I’ll need your help to remove the puppets. Then there’s the question of where to put them. Cedric basically wants to be a silent partner.” Silent, she thought, like his deceased wife Marion.

  “My house?” he offered.

  “What? But you said you might put your house on the market.” She poured him a glass of iced green tea. The green tea suited him. Everything was green about Willard, including the grass stains he’d brought in on his workpants.

  He sat down with the tea. “I’ve changed my mind. Housing market’s still down. I keep hearing Mother say: ‘Don’t give anything away, Willard’.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to do that. We won’t make big bucks with these shows, you know that. It isn’t worth losing the money you need.”

  “That’s just it.” His pink cheeks deepened. “I don’t need the money. The signs pay my food bill.” Like Marion, Willard was vegetarian, he ate to live. As for clothing – she’d seen his closet at home. Jacket, shirts and pants took up one foot of space. “We can turn the living room into a workshop,” he went on. “It’s plenty big enough.”

  “Do you mean that, really?”