Broken Strings

by Nancy Means Wright

  But he was hungry, starving! The cookies he ate at the art place had already turned to waste. “Remember the starving Armenians,” Glenna would shout when he said he was hungry. Her face would sag as she remembered; then she’d spoon up another dish of Chunky Monkey and forget the Armenians – whoever they were. Must be they had a potato famine, or was that the Irish? It was hard to remember all that stuff the teacher told him at BUMS. It stood for Branbury Union Middle School. They weren’t all bums though, not like him. He was the biggest bum there. Busted at BUMS, he thought, and giggled.

  “Something funny, kid?” The voice sounded like gravel when you stepped on it.

  “Uh, no, um, I mean, just thinkin’ of somethin’.” Watching the landscape whiz past, he’d almost forgot he was riding in a truck. And with some weird guy so bent over the wheel he looked like he was glued to it.

  “That,” Beets said, pointing at the dairy bar ahead on the right, “is what I was thinkin’ about.” He looked at the car clock. “It’s twenty past one,” he reminded the driver.

  The man looked thoughtful. He stroked his chin where a few yellow hairs were collecting. He backed up and veered into the parking lot of the dairy bar, throwing Beets against the truck door. He’d have fallen out if it hadn’t been locked.

  “Wait here,” the man said, and Beets nodded. The church bully had taken most of his money. Maybe the man would bring out a milkshake. A chocolate milkshake with coffee ice cream in it. He drooled to think of it. He heard the doors click and discovered they were locked. He didn’t like being locked up inside like this. Besides, the truck smelled bad, a smell like when the foster father would come home late and smell up the house and the wife would yell and then no one could sleep. He tried the window but it wouldn’t open. “Need a bathroom,” he hollered out the narrow opening at the top of the window. But the dairy barn door was already shutting behind the driver.

  A woman was coming out of the place: brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, that scar on her forehead from when she’d been in a car crash once – the black Adidas she always wore. Allison. He never knew her last name, just Allison. He waved to get her attention, then when her head turned he ducked down in the seat. He couldn’t think which was worse: being locked in the car or having Allison ask a lot of questions. She’d probably already heard about his running off. News got around the foster world fast.

  The door cracked open and the man slid in beside him. Handed him an ice cream soda and he had to sit up to hold it. Allison saw him then, and started to come toward the truck. “Know her?” the man said.

  “Uh, not really,” Beets said, looking straight ahead.

  “Wave,” the man ordered. “Smile.”

  Beets waved a limp hand, and the caseworker waved back and kept coming. But the man revved up the truck and spun out of the driveway. The ice cream soda spilled on Beets’s arm and suddenly the tears sprang up and he just wanted to go home to Fay’s.

  But he couldn’t. He was wanted by the law. He was a criminal.

  “Shut up,” the man said when the tears kept coming, and turned on the radio. Loud.

  * * *

  “Bar the door!” cried the Queen. “The ugly one is here!” And Petunia, operated by Stormy Moon, a substitute for Chance, shrieked, “No! Nightshade mustn’t enter, no!”

  They were in Willard’s house, rehearsing the show for Saturday afternoon. In her exuberance Cousin Stormy had tangled the strings so completely that Petunia’s head was thrust back and a small rip appeared in the soft body. Willard had to drop the witch puppet he was working on and run to the rescue. But he wasn’t taking a part, no. He’d put his foot down, as Mother used to say, and now Ethan was doing the prince. It hadn’t taken that much to get Ethan to take on the role since there were few lines, and Ethan, with his acne, seemed to be flattered to play the handsome prince. But the school kids would be looking at the handsome marionette face and not up at Ethan in his mask.

  It was hard to be an adolescent. Willard thought of Beets and all the changes he was going through at eleven-going-on-twelve, as he put it, and now the boy had gotten scared and run off somewhere. For in Willard’s opinion, that’s what was going on in the boy’s head and heart. Fear. Fear of growing up like his father. Fear of being caught by the authorities. Fear of what the consequences might be.

  Was it any better for Chance, wherever she was? He was worried, yes, but Chance always seemed to land on her feet. Chance was like that Maine Coon cat now at Fay’s, wanting to be close but needing to come and go. This was evidently another period of Go. Go to that Billy, sure.

  Willard thought of Holly Mae back in high school with her shiny light brown hair and big breasts. She’d had his strings in her hands, that was for sure. Till some new guy came along and she dropped Willard. Just like that. He snapped his fingers.

  “What?” Fay said. She was looking at the door, probably hoping Chance would suddenly appear.

  “Nothing,” he said. I’m not falling in love again, he’d told himself back then with Holly Mae, and he hadn’t. Had he? “Here,” he told Stormy. He had the strings untangled. “Hold her like this. Put your fingers here. And here.”

  “My fingers are too fat!” Stormy cried, “I can’t stretch them apart like that.”

  “It’s only temporary,” Fay said. “Chance’ll be back.” She looked at Stormy for affirmation but the psychic was quiet. She hadn’t had a single vibe. She’d told them earlier, “The girl could be at sea for all I know.”

  “One day your Beauty will prick her finger and die!” the wicked Nightshade cried in Cedric Fox’s voice – the man had been commandeered to reprise the part, only because he’d appeared at the door with another box of puppet stuff he’d found in his basement. Fay enticed him with a bottle of beer to help out “just for tonight” until Chance came home – and maybe the boyfriend. Anyway, Fay reminded Cedric, he was still technically part of the troupe. But he just said, “We’ll see about that.”

  They took a break at the end of the scene and then Cedric stood up to make an announcement. “I want out of Valentini’s. I’m selling my house. Moving West. You’ll have to buy me out. I want fifteen thousand.”

  “Fifteen thousand?” Fay said, her voice small as a kitten’s.

  Willard moved over beside her and lowered his hands to her shoulders, almost touching. Fay had two missing children – only Apple was left, sitting by Glenna with her American Girl doll, eyes like round globes on the foster mother. And now this man was demanding a small fortune for the marionettes that weren’t really his in the first place.

  “You can’t leave,” Fay shouted at Cedric. “The police won’t let you. Not till all this is cleared up. Three homicides: a mother and two daughters.” Cedric was squeezing his hands until they turned whitish.

  “I don’t care,” Cedric yelled. “Fifteen thousand. That’s my share. That’s what I put into this company in the first place. And now I want out. O-U-T out. Out!”

  “So good riddance,” said Glenna, stumbling up beside Fay. “We’ll buy you out. I will. We’ll talk about it later. For now let’s get on with the bloody rehearsal. I got a ten o’clock show to watch.”

  “You can’t do that, Glenna,” Fay said.

  “But fifteen thousand is too much,” Glenna went on, looking shrewd and slit-eyed. “Marion’s dead and you’ve got her money. And another woman, I hear.” She pointed a shaky finger at his chest. They all looked at Cedric, like a scarlet letter would suddenly pop out on his pink shirt.

  Cedric grabbed his jacket and turned on his heel. “Fifteen thousand,” he hollered, and the door slammed behind him.

  “Come back!” Fay was shouting at the door. “We have to finish the run-through. Give us another half hour for your bloody fifteen thousand!”

  “Let him go. I’ll do his puppet,” Glenna said, and Willard turned in surprise. “I’ve always been the bad fairy anyhow – just ask Mac.” Mac Macgregor was Glenna’s ex-husband. The two had married in their late forties, then split af
ter five combative years.

  “Good girl,” Fay said, giving her a hug. “Okay, let’s do the end of the first scene again so you can practice, Glenna. For now just hold the controller, and say the words.” Cedric had left the door open in his hurry and a cold wind rushed in. He was trying to back out the long driveway but was headed for a tree. For a moment Willard thought he might let him ram into it, but then he said to himself: “It’s my apple tree, I planted it.” So he waved his arms and guided the car back into the road. And Cedric drove on without a good-bye or thank you.

  Willard wasn’t easily roused but now he was mad. He grabbed a pair of Macintosh drops from beneath his tree and hurled them at the black Mercedes. He hit the target with both. Square in the back windshield. Two hits, like splotches of dripping blood.

  * * *

  “Cup of tea, Fay?” They were still in the house after everyone else had left, and Willard felt obliged to be a listening ear. He didn’t mind, did he?

  “I’d prefer a glass of wine,” Fay said. “I feel like I’ve been through a war.”

  “Red or white?” Willard had taken to drinking wine after his mother died. Mother didn’t even drink on weekends. Though sometimes at family reunions she might say, “Well, just a thimbleful.” And then she’d pout when he took her at her word.

  When he came back with the wine, Fay had the original witch in her hands and was examining it closely. She stuck her fingers inside and frowned. “Feels matted. The lining, I suppose. Mouse got in here?”

  He couldn’t lie to her. “Piece of paper in there,” he said. “A letter, I believe. I found it, I was going to tell you. I didn’t read it!” he protested when she pulled it out and began to unfold it.

  She looked over at him and smiled. “It was perfectly fine if you did. It isn’t my puppet either. And with Gloria dead…”

  “It’s all right then,” he said. They smiled at each other. He swallowed, and sipped the wine to hide his confusion. She had it all the way unfolded now and saw the word BITCH that someone had scrawled across the letter. He reddened, though of course he hadn’t been the one to write that word. She blinked, then grinned. “Someone found this letter and didn’t like it.”

  “My thought exactly.” They did think alike, yes. He liked that. Most women he met looked at him like he was some local maverick. He never drove a car, for instance. Not until a year ago anyway, when he bought the car that ran on veggie oil. Usually he just hauled his signs in a cart behind his bike.

  Fay was reading the letter aloud. Dear Dominick, she read, and then looked up and said, “Dominick Valentini, Gloria’s husband. Somehow Gloria found this letter – what do you bet?” She was smiling all over her face; he knew she loved a drama, and this letter was feeding it. He watched her face catch fire as she read.

  “My God,” she said, “they had something going, those two.”

  “But weren’t they married? Dominick and Gloria?”

  “Not Gloria! All she wrote was the word ‘Bitch’.”

  “It was someone else then?” Willard wasn’t one for gossip. But he couldn’t help but feel a slight curiosity. Well, more than slight, to be truthful. He remembered the signature. “Something about honey. Honey…”

  “Honeysuckle,” Fay said.

  “Who is that?”

  “That’s what we have to find out, don’t we? It’s obvious that this Honeysuckle despised Gloria. Your pompous wife, that airhead who wants only to spend your money, Fay read. “And later on she calls Gloria a clown, a puppet. She wants to know why he doesn’t cut the strings? She doesn’t appreciate you, my darling, Fay read, and Willard flushed, although it had nothing to do with him. “And then it goes on to plan their next tryst. And describe the joys of their last. In a very overt, graphic manner. I’m glad you didn’t read this, Willard.”

  He opened his mouth and then shut it. Did she think he was a child, completely asexual? When he was a man with feelings, sensations, with… He felt his cheeks catch fire. His skin inevitably betrayed him. “So, do you think this, um, Honeysuckle woman had something to do with…” He coughed. The wine had gone down the wrong way. Now he really was on fire. He ran to the kitchen for water.

  When he came back, still coughing, she was smiling to herself. Was she laughing at him? He didn’t like being laughed at. He should have given her the witch and let her discover the letter for herself, without him as a sounding board. He gulped the rest of his wine and waited.

  “It had gone on a long time,” Fay said. “Years maybe from the tenor of the letter. I don’t know. She might have worked for him at one point, that Honeysuckle – there was a hint of that. She was obviously a lot younger than he. It’s here someplace where she calls it…yes, our May-December love, and tells him how young and vital you are to me. The chronological years mean nothing.”

  “Do you think it’s, um, for real?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Though with a name like Honeysuckle…”

  “It could be made up, I mean, not her real name.”

  “Made up in case Gloria finds the letter. Which she did, of course. Though why would she keep it?”

  “Revenge?” he said.” He thought of the Law & Order he and Glenna had watched: a woman hired a hit man to shoot her husband and dump his body in the Hudson River.

  “Or blackmail,” she said. “To use against him when she wanted money for Botox or a facelift.”

  Botox and facelifts were incomprehensible to Willard. Why would anyone want them? At least Mother had let her hair go white and her face wrinkle up without fretting about it. Though Willard had caught her once looking in the mirror, pulling back the sides of her cheeks as if to smooth them out. Women were like that, he guessed.

  And here was Fay beside him, her hair going gray, the crow’s feet crowding her eyes where she was still looking at the letter, but the skin otherwise smooth. No makeup, no. Just Fay herself, sitting beside him now, frowning about those murders.

  “Thanks for finding this,” Fay said, as though it was himself had discovered the letter and not her, in that dead woman’s closet. He shook his head but she was looking straight at him now and he wasn’t sure what he should do. He couldn’t look away as if he didn’t want to see her – when he did. He did, yes!

  She got up then and the moment passed. “I have to find this Honeysuckle,” she said. “The man was Marion’s and Puss’s father. He was Gloria’s husband. It’s an important letter, Willard. Very important. It could be what the police call a breakthrough.”

  A breakthrough, he thought, something swelling inside his chest. He stood up beside her; she was handing him the letter and he folded it carefully back into the puppet. Until she said, “No, I’d better keep it,” and held out her hand. Their fingers touched, and gave off an electrical spark when she took it back.

  “All right then,” he said, feeling the blush in his cheeks. “You keep it and I’ll finish with the new witch. All right then.”

  He was on his way back into the kitchen with the wine glasses when he heard her cell phone ring, twice; a pause, and then a shout. He turned back in the doorway. She was listening intently, her brow furrowed, her cheeks working in and out. Something important; she was excited now, bursting with words. “You got the license number, good for you! No, it’s not anyone we know… Okay, I’ll hang up and call the police. The driver can’t have gotten far. Thank you, Allison, thank you!”

  “A former caseworker,” she told Willard. “She saw Beets in somebody’s truck. He waved but he looked scared, she said, and she was worried.” Fay was dialing now, that Higgins fellow Willard supposed. Maybe he, Willard, should take her to lunch one day. What would she say if he asked her? He imagined her saying, surprised, “But we eat together all the time, Willard!” And he’d say, “I meant, well, just the two of us.”

  Hard words to say. He didn’t know if he could manage them.

  * * *

  Billy was in his apartment after band rehearsal, sitting cross-legged on a brown cushion, the Ganesha
puppet on his lap. Chance’s jade earring was in one pierced ear – he’d found it in the bed. He was trying to meditate but not succeeding – too many thoughts interrupted. He’d tried to call Chance’s cell a dozen times but no answer. She’d no right to run off like that without giving him a chance to explain. The girl was jealous and for no good reason. He didn’t like jealous women . He’d been burned once, bad, and once was enough. Chance was impulsive, judgmental. She might like Sammy if she put her mind to it.

  Though true, he hadn’t liked Sammy when he first met her; she was nine years older than him. Bossy. Their mother had been a singer. Finished high school, a year at community college. Then met the guy who got her pregnant with Sammy – the guy who took off on his motorbike and never knew she was knocked up. When she lost her job, she couldn’t handle it anymore, and overdosed. And he and Sammy got split up.

  Now Sammy was back in his life, trying to mother him. Those lectures on “What are you going to do with your life? How’re you going to live? Get a paying job, huh?”

  He didn’t like that. Didn’t want Sammy telling him what to do. He was planning to tell Chance about her – for some reason he’d kept her a secret. Maybe because Sammy knew about the first love, what happened there. He didn’t want Sammy spilling the beans to Chance. Chance was too young. In chronological age, that is, not in her world view.

  The meditation wasn’t working. His brain, running overtime. Thinking of Chance. A fresh Chance, he said aloud, and smiled. The girl made him feel young again when at twenty-five he felt old as the Green Mountains. Mountains that were here way before the Indians, for Christ’s sake. They’d even found a whale in Lake Champlain – it was salt water once. Billy was writing a poem about it to give Chance. They were alike, him and her. Even those puppets – he’d have done that prince if Chance had waited long enough for him to say so. But she just ran off, putting two and two together, getting five.

  And left her bike here. That was weird. He didn’t like that. He’d go down today, put it in the basement with a lock. He didn’t want her to come back and find it gone.