She was about to open the car door when Jacob called her back, poking his head out of the shop, ‘Penny, you forgot the chocolate!’
She smiled at him gratefully. Jacob was a tall boy with white-blond hair, green eyes and strong, lumberjack arms. He had a slight crush on her and sometimes they went out together, but their friendship had never managed to transform into anything more.
Which was fine with Penny.
For two years and three months now, her heart had remained as cold and solid as an icicle. A sinister winter had settled in her chest, and she was no longer able to experience anything that even came close to a feeling of love. The only love remaining in her life had been reserved for Barbie.
But now Barbie was gone and Penny had been alone for six months, with no ties to anyone beyond what lay in her memories.
She climbed into her pickup with her weekly food shop, settled herself on the seat and adjusted the long braid that snaked out of her pink wool beanie.
She’d been living in Vermont for over two years now. After accompanying her grandma to visit the lawyer, Penny had been left speechless on discovering the full extent of what the woman had hinted at on the phone; Barbie, on the other hand, had had a lot to say. She was full of gratitude, but not as surprised as someone else in her position might have been. Maybe because she had always known that John – or Thomas, in reality – had truly existed, or maybe because her mind was still living back in those romantic years of her youth. So she hadn’t been as shocked as Penny to learn that Mr Thomas Macruder, recently deceased, never married and with no children, had left her – his beloved and never-forgotten Barbie – everything, every dream he’d cultivated in his solitary life. A farm in Vermont with a white wooden house, a red barn, maple and apple trees, green and golden lawns, endless space and air, mountains with forested slopes and a vast immensity that soothed the soul.
So they’d quickly moved into their new home, and Penny finally broke free of the chains that bound her and began to move with the fleetness and agility of some creature of the wild. There they lived in total isolation, with just the wildwoods for company, without even a computer – only a phone for emergencies.
Until her dying day, Barbie continued to believe that she was sixteen years old.
Penny never found out whether her grandma’s stories about her past were true, and about Thomas, who was perhaps her real grandfather, but he did have thick, burnt-copper hair like her own – not blonde like Barbie’s, or brown like Penny’s parents. Not scientific proof exactly, but enough to get her thinking.
All she knew was that, thanks to this man, her secret dream had become a reality. Maybe there really was a God somewhere between those mountains and that snow, a God who listened to mortal prayers and tied a knot in his handkerchief so he’d remember to make them come true, sooner or later. Maybe it was magic, destiny, the plan of the angels. Maybe. In any case, it was always better to hope than to die of pure melancholy.
And so Penny continued to hope for two years and three months, without interruption.
Penny drove under the wooden arch with the sign she’d painted in red letters. Under the outline of what looked like a happy mermaid, the inscription stood out: ‘The Home of Barbie and Thomas’.
She drove up the driveway lined with apple trees and parked near the house, in a space that she had shovelled that morning, piling all the snow to one side and in a fit of playfulness patting it into the shape of a fat little snowman, like the ones she used to make with her grandma. She got out of the car with her shopping bags. For miles around, patches of snow alternated with sprouts of green. There was still a lot of work to do. She wanted a few horses, but in the meantime, she was happy with her orange cat. She had sown oats, corn, potatoes, barley and wheat, and she picked the apples. Whatever she couldn’t eat herself, she sold. A couple of people would come up from the village at harvest time to help her and she paid them back in grain. She was planning to turn an unused stable into a small apartment to rent out to tourists – other lovers of nature and quiet, just like herself.
She walked inside, and her cat Tiger came to rub against her legs in his usual sinuous dance. Penny caressed his soft fur lovingly, then dumped her bags on the massive farmhouse table. While organising her groceries, her eyes fell on her reflection in the door of the old steel refrigerator.
None of her neighbours in Connecticut would recognise her now. Physical work had built her up and made her stronger, and her cheeks were crimson from the cold. She’d stopped cutting her hair, and it reached down to her waist – smooth, with brown and auburn highlights, and no weird colours anywhere in its length. She often tied it back, like now, in a messy braid that hung over her shoulder and on to her breast. Her current wardrobe featured only jeans, flannel shirts, fleece gloves, chequered jackets and rubber boots. Not that she’d considered herself elegant exactly in the old days, but now she was quite the peasant girl, without a scrap of make-up or even the odd manicure. These days she kept her nails short and clean, and that was all.
She noticed suddenly that the basket of wood for the fire was getting low, so she went out and round to the back of the house. Tiger followed as he always did when the weather was mild enough. He dodged the clumps of snow, jumping from one patch of grass to the next in a network of green that was slowly expanding with the imminent arrival of spring, on the lookout for a warm spot in the sun where he could stretch out like a lazy little dog, licking his parts and purring graciously at the world. With her newfound boundless energy, Penny split a few logs with an axe. The sound of wood on wood relaxed her as it always did.
Suddenly her cat-dog jumped to his feet in the midst of a loud yawn and arched his back. He always did that when a fox or squirrel was passing by, even at some distance. Penny didn’t give it too much thought. She gathered up as much wood as she could manage, smiled at the cat, who sat poised like a lion in the savannah, and turned to go back in the house.
Glancing up, her mouth fell open and her eyes widened in surprise. She lost all strength in her arms, and the wood fell around her like an avalanche of rocks on the mountainside. She didn’t know whether to laugh, faint or cry.
33
SHERRIE
It was good to live by the sea. After the mountains of her childhood and the hellish city of her youth, the beach house was a whole new chapter. She would never go back to Montana. She couldn’t risk sullying the precious purity of those memories from her early years.
It was Sunday, and Sherrie was sitting on the front steps of her house, enjoying the sun in spite of the lingering bite to the air. On the beach, a few daredevils were running around in the cold. The waves were long and high, curling like the talons of a hawk. The wind caressed her face and made her flossy hair dance.
She heard someone approach, the sand crunching with each step, and turned absently, imagining it would be the person who used her yard as a short-cut to the beach every day, but it was not. Her smile turned into joyous laughter.
‘My darling boy!’ she said, leaping to her feet. She embraced him, so moved that the tears began to flow down her cheeks. Marcus smiled at her, touching her soft white hair.
‘When did you get out?’
‘A few days ago.’
‘Let me see you! How are you? You look fit – physically, at least.’
‘I’m well, thank you.’
‘Come, sit down. I was going to make some coffee. Would you like some?’
Soon afterwards, they found themselves sitting on the steps, warming their hands around big mugs of strong, hot coffee. The air was full of salt spray and fine sand. Every now and then, as the clouds shifted, the sky darkened and everything turned silver, only to brighten again when the sun returned.
Sherrie, leaning to one side, watched him carefully. Her baby was beautiful as ever, even though he was no longer a child but a twenty-seven-year-old man. Yet he looked tired, with deep circles around his eyes that dulled their special spark. When they had drained the last dregs of
their coffees, he took a cigarette from his pocket, lit it and smoked it slowly. A drag and a thought. A drag and a look at the sea.
‘So, tell me something,’ she urged.
Marcus shrugged. ‘I don’t have much to say. I’ve been inside. It’s not like I’ve seen much.’
‘I was so scared when that guy called me . . .’
‘You mean Malkovich? What did he say?’
‘That you’d had a fatal accident. I almost had a heart attack!’
‘It wasn’t that serious. I had a head injury and a sprained wrist and I got all scratched up, but when I got to the emergency room, they ID’d me and sent me back to prison. But you know . . . it was better that way.’
‘Better?’
‘Yeah. I was sick of wandering around like some tramp.’
‘I thought you liked it.’
Marcus took a long drag from his cigarette. ‘I used to, but then . . . I don’t know . . . it lost its meaning. It got boring. At least when you’re in prison you’re looking forward to something. When I was on the run I didn’t look forward to anything. I felt like an empty beer can being kicked around. Without the accident, it would have been left to me instead of destiny. I would have made it all up somehow.’
‘There’s nothing better than freedom, my love.’
‘I used to think so too, but freedom is overrated if you have no place to go and no one to go with.’
Sherrie smiled to herself, but Marcus didn’t notice. He kept staring out at the ocean.
‘How is she now?’ Sherrie asked on impulse.
Marcus spun around and looked at her, frowning. ‘I don’t know. I was gonna ask you.’
‘Why would I know how Francisca is?’
Marcus pursed his lips, the cigarette between his fingers, smoke coiling from his nose like from a dragon’s nostrils. ‘I thought you were talking about . . .’
‘Penny? What makes you think that, my boy? I was referring to Francisca. I know she lived with the Malkovichs for a while.’
Marcus shielded his eyes for a moment, as if the sun were too bright. Finally he murmured, ‘She’s still with them. When he came to the hospital expecting to find me half-dead, Francisca was there, all alone and desperate and deader than I was, so they invited her to stay with them. It’s kind of a miracle. They talked all kinds of shit about her and now they love her. I went to see her. She’s working and studying and looks like anybody else. I don’t know if she’s happy exactly, but she’s keeping herself out of trouble.’
‘That’s good. I knew Malkovich had come to see you. He told me how you were and that you were back in prison. I wanted to visit you or write to you, but he told me it was better if we all left you in peace for a while. He said that’s what you wanted.’
‘It’s true. There were too many people around, too much pressure – Francisca, the police breathing down my neck like I was some serial killer or something, Malkovich and his wife. I was in agony, totally broken.’
‘Broken because of all the people around you or the one who wasn’t there?’
Marcus stared unflinchingly into her eyes. ‘The one who wasn’t there,’ he admitted. ‘Where is she? I went to her apartment but another family was living there.’
Sherrie shook her head disconsolately.
‘I wish I could help you, but I don’t know. She worked for me for a few weeks. One day, suddenly, she comes to tell me that she and her grandma are moving, kisses me on the cheek and leaves me an envelope with some money for you.’
‘What?’
‘She said it was a hundred dollars she owed you for some work. She told me that if you came back, I should give it to you, and if not, I should give it to charity.’
Marcus jumped to his feet and flicked his cigarette into the sand. His face, which until then had seemed carved from the finest pale marble, now twisted in fury.
‘What am I supposed to do with her fucking money?’ he exclaimed. ‘I was hoping, dammit, I was hoping you at least knew where she was! How am I gonna find her?’
Sherrie watched him with tenderness. Her baby. Her broken-hearted baby. Her baby in love. She thought back to the day Penny left. How she’d cried in Sherrie’s motherly embrace. Who knew where she was now; who knew how she was?
‘I’ll go get you that money. Throw it away if you want, but I have to give it to you. I promised her I would.’
When Sherrie returned with the small envelope Penny had left her, still sealed after all these years and tucked inside a copy of her favourite fairy tale from when she was a child, Sleeping Beauty, Marcus was already on his feet. He grabbed the envelope and walked briskly towards the shoreline.
Sherrie didn’t tell him that she’d held it up to the light, trying to discern if the envelope contained something like a letter instead of cash. She didn’t tell him that she’d been very upset when, without a shadow of a doubt, she’d spotted no more and no less than the face of Benjamin Franklin.
Sherrie watched Marcus go, and prayed he would find his way. Even Francisca was making progress. But there was no more strenuous a road than a stretch of sand leading to an angry sea. Her baby had already suffered enough, and he deserved all the best life had to offer.
34
MARCUS
I can’t say I didn’t try, but I definitely didn’t succeed. I’d thought of Penny non-stop after leaving that night. The accident was a good thing.
So I went back to prison. It’s the best place for someone who hates his life on the outside. If you want something you can’t have, if you want it with all your being, if the world suddenly feels too small because it’s suffocating you and too big because you can’t run far away enough to forget, a spell in jail is a good compromise.
Francisca wrote to me for a while, and this time Malkovich didn’t stop her. I answered her once or twice and that’s it. Penny never wrote to me. I imagined her with Igor, happy and satisfied, and I was thankful to be where I was so I couldn’t fuck him up like I did Grant. Not for fear of being sent to prison again, but for fear that Penny would hate me.
I kept wondering what this thing was that I felt. I’d like to be smarter, so I could find an explanation in the books, but I’m just not intelligent like that. I’m just a poor sad bastard who thought he was made only of muscle and temptation and found himself dying of love – for someone who didn’t even want him. It would be kinda funny if it wasn’t so damn tragic.
The first thing I do when I’m out is to go back to that building, to that apartment. I know, it’s bullshit. She made it very clear over two years ago that we’re on different planets and that she prefers Igor, but I can’t resist. Penny doesn’t live there anymore, and her grandmother’s gone too; the neighbours tell me they moved out a few months after I left, but no one knows exactly where.
Then I go see Malkovich. He’s not home, but his wife drags me in and showers me with praise about Francisca. First she was the devil incarnate, now she’s an angel. She tells me that she’s taking classes, that she studies a lot, that she’s working a decent job in a very chic café (her own words) and that she and her husband absolutely love her. She even sleeps in Cameron’s room.
As Mrs Malkovich is talking, Francisca comes downstairs. My Fran – beautiful as a precious stone. Diamond and lava, both together. She smiles, and this makes me feel good. The last time I saw her she was crying because she thought I was going to die.
We hug. My heart doesn’t break. Desire doesn’t overwhelm me. I feel only a deep affection.
‘Hey, kid,’ I say to her, even though she’s no kid now, ‘you’re looking great.’
‘You too. How are you?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Me too, you know? It’s strange, and even a little scary sometimes, but . . . it’s like I’m a kid again. They treat me like a twelve-year-old with the flu. I don’t know how long it’ll last. Maybe I’ll sneak out one night and take all the silver with me, but for now . . . I kind of want to be twelve. I never got to have that.’
Then, without further comment, I shoot her the question I’ve been dying to ask. ‘Did Penny come by here before she left? Do you have any idea where she is?’
Francisca cocks her head to one side and looks at me. ‘You’re still in love with her,’ she says. It’s not a question, it’s a statement.
In an instant, the spark in her eyes disappears and her gaze clouds over. I don’t know what she feels for me after two years and everything that’s happened. I stopped her from writing to me; I rejected her without words. I abandoned her, but she never stopped being special to me; she is me, she’s my sister, she’s my mother. She was my pillar during those broken days of my youth. My blanket on cold nights. Without her I’d have died at sixteen. She saved my life when I was hungry and when my heart was more fragile than an eggshell. She offered me her wounded body. And now she’s looking at me with these sad eyes like two inkblots, and it almost seems like she’s about to cry black tears. And yet I cannot and will not lie to her. No more bullshit, no more words that say no when my thoughts and my blood are screaming the opposite. So, quite simply, I nod and stare back into her eyes. It’s the truth – a truth that has kept me in hell for two years and three months.
Francisca slowly looks down, bites her lip and seems to be struggling with some thought of her own. For a moment the warrior girl of the past returns, the one we both want to pack away into legend now. Finally, her new self admits in a melancholy little voice, ‘Please believe me, but I don’t know. All I heard was that she went away just before you went back to prison. But . . .’
‘But?’
‘But I do know she loved you.’
She leads me to the couch, sits me down and tells me a story. I listen to it, giving no indication of how I’m feeling inside, which is to say I look exactly the same as ever, but feel like I’ve just swallowed a ball of flame. I think back to that night, to her words, to her face and her trembling body. My need to get her back is so strong and painful. For a moment I close my eyes, my fists clench, hard as iron, and I feel more alone than any castaway. Francisca, meanwhile, is watching me uncertainly; I guess she’s expecting me to explode any minute, but instead I stroke her cheek. I can’t be mad at her, even if what she did probably wrecked my whole life and any chance of happiness. I can’t bring myself to be mad at her, with those beautiful sad eyes – the eyes of a goddess.
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