Madame Mirabou's School of Love

by Barbara Samuel

  For now, I took off my old T-shirt and shorts and had a sponge bath in the sink. I washed my face and hands and torso, put on a fresh blouse, and combed my hair. In my purse were a few makeup supplies stowed for this purpose, and I brushed some color over my cheeks and lips, added some mascara to my too-light eyelashes, which was always the biggest improvement.

  And as I thought sometimes lately, it wasn’t such a bad face. For a while, going through the rejection of divorce, I’d wanted a face like my rival, wide-eyed and dark. Every time I’d looked at my face through those months, I felt pale and old and ugly.

  But it was my face—the only one I had—and mostly I liked it again these days. I still liked my eyes, a very ordinary color of blue, the same color as the mountains, and my curly hair, which was healthy and naturally very pale blond. There were lines now around those eyes, and I would pay the price of living in the dry, sunny West by the time I was seventy, but I liked the olive tone of my skin, and the directness of my gaze and the strong angle of my jaw.

  Good enough.

  Before I headed out to meet Niraj, I wandered through the apartment again, trying not to see the work that needed doing, but the possibilities. The light was wonderful in every room, and most of the windows framed some small, special rectangle of beauty. Tree branches or the edge of a mountain or even the street itself.

  In the bedroom, I finally noticed the wallpaper the landlord had mentioned. Pale grays, blues, and roses, it was very old-fashioned and surprisingly beautiful. It wrapped around the door to the roof, and I opened the door, climbed the narrow steps, keeping my head low, and emerged again on my private deck.

  A good day. Over the town, the mountains seemed to have stretched out on the horizon to sun themselves. I could barely glimpse the Peak over the shoulder of another. As I stood there, the lady of the mountain rustled her skirts, tossed her hair over her shoulder.

  Welcome, child.

  I smiled.

  I stopped in to take Mary a hefty fistful of mint. “This was growing out there by the creek,” I said.

  “Mmm,” she said, “that’s nice. What are you doing here today?”

  “I’m meeting someone. And wanted to check my schedule.” I lifted potlids, smelled inside. “Ooh, that’s wonderful! Nutmeg and pork?”

  “Yep. Tomorrow’s special.” She bruised the leaves of the mint with a flat thumb, smelled it again. “Maybe I’ll make a mint sauce. There much more of it out there?”

  “Tons!” I peeked in the oven, and a chicken was roasting. “Do you want me to get some more?”

  “Nah, I’ll go later. What you want to eat?”

  I shrugged. “Something substantial. I’ve been cleaning all morning, and I’m going hiking this afternoon, so bring it on.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.” She washed her hands. “Go on, now. I’ll send it out when I’m done.”

  “Thanks.”

  I sat at the bar and read the new edition of the Independent, a weekly newspaper, liberal as the Gazette Telegraph was conservative. Jason, the barista who had been behind the bar the day I first applied, brought out my food.

  “This is yours, I guess?” He put down a turkey sandwich, piled high with sprouts and extra avocado. “What kind of spell did you put on Mary?”

  I bit into the sandwich. “Mmmm. That’s so good. I’m starving.” Washing the sandwich down with milk, I asked, “What do you mean?”

  “She never does super-duper extra-special sandwiches for the employees.” He raised a brow. “Especially blond ones.”

  I laughed. “We just clicked.”

  The bell over the front door rang and I looked up to see Niraj come in, his hair freshly cut to show the clarity of the bones in his beautiful face, his square chin drawing attention to his full lips. His beautifully muscled legs were bared by a pair of khaki shorts. A stab of lust twisted in my lower belly and I let it show in my eyes as he came over and sat down.

  “Hi,” I said, and put a lot of warmth in it.

  “Hello.” He put his hand on my shoulder, briefly. As if he’d been baking in the warm afternoon, his spicy scent steamed from his torso. I thought of a ginger cookie, fresh from the oven. He met my eyes, frankly admiring, and for a minute I thought he might kiss me. His hand strayed to the back of my neck, swept over it discreetly, moved away. “How nice to see you.”

  “I meant to get over here sooner so I’d be finished eating before you arrived,” I said. “I just got carried away working.”

  “No hurry,” he said. “Take your time.”

  “Would you like something?” Jason asked him.

  “Tea, please. Iced, with lemon.” Settling his elbows on the bar, Niraj looked at me. “So, it was a productive morning?”

  “Yes. It’s a little daunting, how much there is to do, but it felt good to get started.”

  Jason brought the tea in a tall glass, garnished with lemon and mint leaves. He settled it on the old, polished wooden bar, and Niraj drew it forward with thanks. The bell rang over the door.

  I glanced up, my mouth full of avocado and sprouts and free-range organic turkey on the most lusciously seeded, wheaty bread you could imagine. My muscles were pleasantly tired from cleaning work. Niraj’s arm rested against mine lightly, a companionable promise, and life was just about as sweet as it had been since the day I walked in from the grocery store and my husband, looking gray and exhausted, said, “Nicole, will you sit down, please? I need to talk to you about something.”

  Next to me, Niraj swore softly under his breath. “There is going to be trouble,” he said.

  Into the bar sauntered Hannah, the sultry-lipped English-woman, with her long legs and deep bust and artfully cut dark hair. She wore a lime green shift with very little beneath it, and her eyes were the color of delphiniums. “There you are, darling,” she said, and made her way toward us. “I’ve been looking for you in every pub for miles.”

  “Hannah—” he began as she sat down next to him.

  As if I were invisible, she draped her hand around his shoulders and laid her head against his arm. “All is forgiven, love,” she said with a heavy sigh. “You can come home now.”

  Niraj shoved back from the bar almost violently, ducking away from her arm. “Do not make a scene, Hannah,” he said in a dangerous voice. “I am weary of it, do you hear me?”

  I was very still, waiting to see what would happen. Hannah rolled her eyes, smiled, and shook her head, as if they’d been down this road a thousand times. “I know you’re angry, but we’ll work it out. We always do.”

  She reached for him, and he shook her off, so much revulsion in the gesture that it shocked me. With a quick step back, he gestured a movement like picking up the phone. He took my elbow, his eyes flickering to Hannah, then back to me. “I will not be able to keep our date this afternoon,” he said. “I am sorry.”

  He stalked out.

  Hannah grabbed her tiny purse and ran after him. Through the window, I saw Niraj break into a jog. Jason picked up the phone. “I need to report a problem,” he said. “Restraining order violation. Yeah. Annie’s Organix.”

  He put the phone down. Met my eyes. His mouth turned up in a wry little twist.

  “What was that all about?”

  He shook his head, picked up a bar towel uncomfortably. “Let him tell you.”

  I raised my eyebrows. This man might be a little more trouble than he was worth. “I think I’ll pass.”

  Instead of arguing on behalf of Niraj, Jason said, “That’d be my recommendation.”

  I looked out the window, up the hill toward the beautiful Art Deco house on the hill, conscious of a piercing disappointment.

  But better now than later. Maybe I’d needed this reminder that love meant risking heartbreak. I’d had enough of the latter for one life, thanks.

  “Why don’t you wrap that up for me?” I said, pushing my sandwich across the bar. “I’m going to clear out before I change my mind.”

  14

  Nikki’s Perf
ume Journal

  SCENT OF HOURS

  Time: 8:02 P.M.

  Date: June 4, 1991

  Bottle: a patent medicine bottle, pale blue or green

  Elements: water from a hose, wet grass, crushed lavender, astringent geranium leaves, earth, whisper of mountain nights, twilight . . . what does twilight smell like?

  Notes: garden evening

  I volunteered to be the designated driver for the birthday outing with Wanda and Roxanne, but Roxanne had already worked it out. Her daughter, Amy—a skinny, Goth pale, black-fingernailed girl of sixteen, drove her mother’s car to the downtown restaurant and dropped us off. “I’ll pick you up at eight-thirty, all right?”

  Roxanne kissed her. “Thanks, sweetheart! We’ll call you if we need you sooner than that.”

  “No problemo,” she said, and smiled at me. Her eyes were a dazzling blue, and in spite of the pierced tongue, the black, the assemblages of rebellion, she was very sweet. “Have a good time, and don’t do anything you wouldn’t want me to do!”

  “We can’t get in too much trouble in two hours,” Wanda said. Her children had gone to a friend’s house for the night. “Not nearly as much as I’d like!”

  “Wanda!” Amy said. “You’re married, remember?”

  She laughed. “I’m only kidding!”

  As I scrambled out behind the others, Amy said, “Hey. They seem a little hysterical or something. Let me know if I need to come early to keep them out of trouble, okay?”

  I touched her wrist, wondering suddenly how much she knew of her mother’s promiscuity. Roxanne took care to hide it, but still, the girl was sixteen. “I promise I’ll keep an eye on them both, sweetie. Don’t worry.”

  She flipped her tongue ring around and tapped her front teeth with it. “Thanks. See ya later.”

  Jack Quinn’s was one of the ubiquitous Irish pubs in Colorado Springs, downtown in a strip of bars, restaurants, entertainment for the eternally cool, and it was itself almost too self-consciously hip to bear, with dark wood and long tables in the back and lots of stout on tap. I still loved it. The leaded glass and Celtic music and pints of ale made me feel like I might be somewhere in the world besides America.

  Wanda tossed her hair back from her face as we walked in. “Oh, I like this!”

  Her hair was long and free down her back, shiny and healthy, and she’d taken some time with her makeup. She still had that nameless something that marked her as a soldier’s wife, but I’d never noticed that she was so attractive. Her black blouse boasted a square neckline that showed off pretty white shoulders and lots of creamy cleavage. “How old are you today?”

  “Twenty-seven!” she said. “Three more years until the big three-o!”

  I met Roxanne’s gaze and we both laughed. “Enjoy it, sweetheart,” Roxanne said. And when the hostess came to seat us, she pointed at the booths. “Can we eat in one of the private spots first, and then move out of there later?” Roxanne lifted a big bag. “It’s a birthday dinner.”

  “Sure!”

  As we walked through the restaurant, men turned around to watch us. Or more likely, Roxanne, who was dressed in a slim black skirt and red shoes, her toenails painted a fire engine red. At a distance, she looked thirty, and even up close, it wasn’t easy to decide.

  Between the two brunettes, I felt pallid and too tall, but it didn’t matter. Tonight was for Wanda.

  Twenty-seven. It seemed a billion years ago. I thought back. Giselle must have been a baby. I stayed home with her, and loved every second of it. A long time ago now.

  We ordered pints—mine stout, the other two ales. When the waitress hurried away, Roxanne reached back into the big bag at her side and brought out hats, noisemakers, and little toy harmonicas. “We have to wear them for at least a little while,” she said.

  I put mine on happily, and blew on the noisemaker. “Happy birthday!” I cried, and blew it again. “Bravo, Wanda!”

  She blushed and blew her own rolling whistle. “The hat will mess up my hair! You have no idea how long it takes to get all the kinkiness out.”

  Roxanne put hers on and said, “No exceptions. You don’t have to put the little elastic thingy on, but you have to at least put the hat on your head.”

  “Okay. I can do that.” Wanda perched it on top of her head. “How do I look?”

  “Gorgeous. Where’s your phone?”

  “Right here!” She flipped open a camera phone and handed it to Roxanne, then leaned in close to me. “Smile. We’ll send these to Tommy.”

  Roxanne clicked the picture, then reached back into the bag. “In honor of our talk the other night, I got Nikki presents, too.” She put down Mylar-wrapped packages for me and Wanda, and her eyes were sparkling. “Open them!”

  I ripped mine open, and started to laugh. It was an enormous vibrator, bright blue. A smaller package proved to hold batteries. “So you never run out,” Roxanne said.

  With a wiggling of my eyebrows, I clutched it all to my chest. “Thank you. I can hardly wait to get it home.”

  Roxanne beamed.

  Wanda, too, had a vibrator, hers red. “What am I going to do with this, Roxanne?” she said in a fierce whisper. “What if my kids find it?”

  “Don’t be so worried, you silly girl. So what if they do? Do you think they’ll understand the vibrator idea just yet?”

  The waitress appeared with the pints, and Wanda scrambled to put away her dildo. I put mine down beside me and we all snickered, like girls caught sneaking cigarettes in the bathroom. The woman gave us a little smile and settled our beers on the table. “I’ll be back in a little while to take your food order.”

  Wanda’s face was plum with embarrassment. I nudged her, laughing. “I’m sure she has one herself.”

  “Well, we all have breasts, too, don’t we, but we don’t go showing them around.” She looked at the box beside her. “Still, thanks. It will be . . . um . . . interesting.”

  “No problem.” Roxanne pulled out a big card, and pushed it over the table toward Wanda. “This is the real present. Happy birthday, sweetie.”

  Wanda opened the card. “A spa day!” She gave a little screech and pounded her feet on the floor. “Oh, that’s wonderful, Roxanne. Thank you.”

  “You bet, kiddo. You can be all sleek and gorgeous when your husband gets home.”

  “How long is it?” I asked.

  “Two and a half weeks!” She widened her eyes, touched her middle. “I’m so looking forward to it.”

  Roxanne pushed a small box toward me. “This is a little something more for you, too.”

  I ripped the paper off, to discover a box of—“Condoms?”

  “Yes. Equally practical. We didn’t do the condoms thing when we were young, but it’s important now, and it’s hard for people to buy them sometimes.”

  Sincerely, I said, “Thank you. That was very thoughtful.”

  “What can I say? I’m just a thoughtful kind of girl.” She picked up her glass and raised it high. “To a great twenty-seventh birthday!” she cried.

  I lifted my glass, too, but I also noticed that when Roxanne lifted hers, her sleeve fell backward and there were some serious bruises on the back of her arm, as if someone had grabbed her very hard.

  None of my business. “To Wanda!”

  We ordered our food and Wanda’s phone rang. She picked it up and grinned, her face transforming. “Hey, baby!” she cried. “What are you doing awake? It’s the middle of the night!”

  Roxanne and I looked at each other. “Do you want us to go?” Roxanne whispered.

  Wanda shook her head adamantly and lifted a finger, and it was true the conversation only lasted a minute or so. She punched a button on the phone to hang up and held it in her hand for a minute, looking down at a picture on the tiny screen.

  “Is that him?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” She passed the phone over to me. “That was taken just a few weeks ago, in Baghdad.”

  The photo showed a sturdy, muscular man in his early thirti
es, his neck sunburned above his olive green T-shirt. Sun blasted down on his head, hooding his eyes, and he was smiling, but it looked more pained than cheerful. “He’s handsome,” I said, and meant it.

  “Can I see?” Roxanne said. She peered at the photo. “He looks worn-out is what he looks.”

  “Have you met him?”

  “When he was home for leave—what was that, about seven months ago? His father died, right?”

  Wanda nodded. A small frown creased her forehead. “Yeah. I think he looks tired, too, but more he just seems kind of weird.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Kind of cold. Unemotional.”

  “I had an uncle who had PTSD,” Roxanne said, handing the phone back. “When he got back from Vietnam, he was a little crazy for a while. Said he just couldn’t get used to things the way they were.”

  I hesitated, then said, “My father went to Vietnam. His body came back, but never his heart, as my mother liked to say. He disappeared when I was a teenager, and we never saw him again.”

  They were both staring at me, horrified, and I lifted a shoulder. “Sorry. That was a bit of depressing stuff, huh?” I gulped some stout, hurried on to fill the silence that had dropped. “But back in the day, they weren’t treating vets very well for their traumas, were they? I’m sure the army knows what to do with returning vets now.”

  “Not so you’d notice,” Roxanne said with a sigh.

  “She’s right,” Wanda said. “I thought they’d give them all this counseling and stuff when he got back last time, and they didn’t really. They had a suicide prevention class”—she widened her eyes to show how crazy that made her—“and that was about it.”

  And now he’d be back from another tour. That had to be nerve-wracking.

  “It has to be so weird for them,” I said. “I mean, there you are, in some village or some war-torn city for months and months, and you have to be on your toes, and you don’t really know who the bad guys are, and you’re eating lousy food, and you’re hot and dusty all the time, and then all of a sudden, you get on a plane, come back to the world you left, and it’s all exactly the same. All sterile and air-conditioned and noisy and squeaky clean.” I swigged my beer. “I mean, really. It has to be bizarre.”