The Paper Palace

by Miranda Cowley Heller

  5:45 P.M.

  My mind is filled with bees—the raw, sweet stinging of the day. I cannot seem to shake it. The swim home from the far side of the pond has washed Jonas off me, but he is here, stuck inside my head, as I stand at the kitchen stove in my wet bathing suit and towel waiting for the kettle to boil. I picture myself butterflying away from him, leaving him behind me on the shore. His stricken face. In the deep center of the pond where the green water blackens, I stopped to catch my breath, treading water, afraid to turn back and see Jonas standing there, afraid to swim home to Peter, to my life.

  “You must be an absolute prune,” my mother says, taking an old black tin of Hu-Kwa tea down from the shelf. “You and Jonas were gone for hours. We were about to send out the Donner Party.”

  “I’m not sure how useful that would have been.” I laugh. “And it was hardly hours. We walked over to have a quick look at the ocean. The afternoon light was so beautiful.”

  “It’s a full moon tonight,” she says.

  Behind us, Peter and all three kids are playing Parcheesi. I glance over to see if Peter is listening, but he has just rolled doubles and is busy trying to create a blockade.

  “Anyone there?” my mother asks.

  “I saw the Biddles camped out to the right, toward Higgins. And I could just make out her purple skirt, but I’m pretty sure it was Pamela, way down the beach taking her daily walk. Other than that, it was pretty empty. The piping plover signs are finally down.”

  “Thank God.” She pries the lid off the tin of tea with the back end of a spoon. “Here.” She hands it to me, takes the kettle off the stove. “The water must be hot enough by now.”

  “For god’s sake, Wallace,” Peter says, “wait until the water boils. You might as well just hand me a cup of warm piss. And do not even think about plying me with that Lapsang Souchong rubbish. Filthy stuff.”

  “It’s smoked over pine needles,” Mum says.

  “Even worse.”

  “He’s a bit bossy, that husband of yours,” my mother says, but I can tell she likes it. She puts the kettle back on the burner and goes in search of some plain English tea.

  Finn gets up from the table and comes to give me a hug. “I found a shark egg on the beach.”

  “A shark egg?” I ask, dubious.

  He sticks his hand in his pocket and brings out what looks like a small, crispy black pouch with devil horns on each end. “Here. Gina says it’s an egg sack. For a baby shark.”

  “Everyone thinks that, for some reason. But it’s actually for a skate. It’s called a mermaid’s purse.”

  “Which makes no sense unless the mermaid is Goth.” Peter laughs.

  I hand it back to Finn. “Put it up on the shelf so it doesn’t break.”

  “Maybe I should be a mermaid this year for Halloween,” Maddy says.

  “Excellent idea. Though it might be hard to walk around the neighborhood with no feet,” Peter points out. “Come play the next round with us, wife.”

  “I’m not really in a Parcheesi mood. I need to get out of this wet bathing suit.”

  “You certainly do. You’ll get a urinary tract infection.” My mother comes out of the pantry holding a ten-pack of toilet paper. “Put this in the bathroom, would you? We’re out. I don’t know how you all manage to go through things so quickly. You’re like a bunch of locusts.”

  “Your daughter has a bladder the size of a pea,” Peter says. “It’s all her fault.”

  “Untrue,” I say. “I don’t think you’ve ever changed a roll of toilet paper in your life.”

  Peter turns to the kids. “On our first date, your mother pulled down her pants and peed in front of me.”

  “Gross,” Jack says.

  “It wasn’t a date,” I say. “You were just some guy giving me a lift back to my dorm. And it was that or pee in your car—which probably would have gone unnoticed, because that car was disgusting. It smelled like rotten meat.”

  “No, no.” Peter laughs. “You wanted me. The moment I saw you squatting under a tree in your white underpants, I knew.”

  “So deeply not.”

  “You guys.” Jack makes a gagging noise.

  “Also, I had just saved your life.”

  “Your father was very heroic,” I say. Which, of course, makes the little kids laugh.

  “Dixon and Andrea invited us for hamburgers,” my mother says. “They’re having an impromptu barbecue. I told them we’d walk over around six thirty or seven.”

  “Ugh,” I say.

  “Don’t let me forget—I said we’d bring a red onion.”

  “Can’t we have a quiet dinner at home? I’m still recovering from last night.”

  “Our cupboards are bare,” Mum says. “No one went to the supermarket.” There is blame-lust in every syllable.

  “I know we have a packet of pasta. And frozen peas.”

  “At any rate, I’m not in the mood to cook.”

  “I’ll cook. It’s supposed to rain tonight.”

  Peter looks up from the Parcheesi board. “I’m happy to take the kids if you want to stay home.”

  “It’s just—we’ve barely been home from Memphis for twenty-four hours and it’s been nonstop socializing. I need an early night.” I need time to think.

  “Then you shall have it,” Peter says.

  I walk over to him, put my hands on his shoulders, lean down, and give him a kiss. “You’re a saint.”

  “Don’t distract me,” he says. “This is a very serious game we’re playing,” and sends one of Finn’s little yellow pieces home.

  Outside the Big House, I pause, watch my family. Finn rolls dice out of a small cardboard canister. My mother pours boiling water into an old brown teapot. A trail of steam rises from its spout. She watches the tea steep before pouring it into a chipped ironstone mug through a bamboo strainer. She peers into the sugar bowl, frowns, and wanders off.

  Peter pushes up his shirt sleeve and makes a muscle. “See that?” he says to the kids. “See that? No one messes with this man.” He ruffles Maddy’s hair.

  “Stop it, Daddy.”

  “Grump.” He grabs her in a bear hug and kisses the top of her head, growling.

  “I’m serious.” She laughs.

  Jack gets up from the table and walks over to the kitchen counter, takes a plum from the fruit bowl.

  “Hand me that cup of tea, would you, honey?” Peter says to Jack. “Your senile grandmother forgot to bring it to me.”

  “I heard that,” my mother calls out from the pantry.

  I make my way down the path, feeling the familiar crunch of pine needles under my bare feet. I can smell the promise of rain in the air. There’s a wet towel dumped on the steps of the kids’ cabin. I pick it up and hang it on a tree branch. They’ve left the light on inside their room. I go in and turn it off before the screen door becomes covered in a sea of moths and rattling june bugs. The cabin is a mess. When Anna and I lived in here, it was the same: a chaos of bikini bottoms and lip gloss and clogs and arguments. I collect their dirty clothes off the floor and throw them in the laundry basket, stuff a sweater back in Maddy’s drawer, hang a damp bathing suit on a hook. I know it’s Bad Mothering 101—they should clean their room themselves—but right now it’s soothing to concentrate on something simple and straightforward. My mother’s cure for all woes: “If you’re feeling depressed, organize your underwear drawer.”

  Jack’s scratchy oatmeal-gray blanket has fallen halfway to the floor; his pillows are crumpled between the mattress and the wall. I pull his bed out. Something drops with a thud. With one blind hand, I grope around the spiderwebby floor, pull out a black notebook. His journal. My cryptic son, who barely acknowledges me these days, who sidesteps, shuts down. And I’m holding all the answers in my hand.

  The Braun travel clock on the bookshelf ticks out seconds
. I close my eyes and put the book to my nose, breathe in the smell of Jack’s fingerprints, his innermost thoughts, his longings. He would never know. But I would. Knowledge can be power, but it can also be poison. I put the book back where I found it, push the bed against the wall, and unmake the covers. I do not want the weight of any more secrets.

  1984. October, New York.

  In our dark, heavy apartment, something is cooking. If I’m lucky it will be hamburger, frozen corn, and creamed spinach. But I’m not holding my breath. Last night my mother cooked a whole chicken, still wrapped in cellophane. She’s been distracted lately.

  “I’m home,” I call out.

  I find her in the kitchen stirring chicken livers and onions in a cast-iron pan, an apron over her jean skirt. There’s a bowl of rice and some ketchup already waiting on the table, glazed terra cotta pots hanging on the walls, spices, dried hot peppers in a glass jar that never get used. A stained potholder has fallen to the floor.

  “Orchestra went late,” I say, reaching down to pick it up.

  “Hand me the oregano, would you?” she says, without looking up.

  I open the food cupboard. The panes of glass in the doors have been painted white so we don’t have to see what’s inside: a box of Shredded Wheat, three cans of jellied consommé, cat food, an expired can of Metrecal. I shove aside a tin of Colman’s Mustard and grab the oregano.

  “I spoke to Anna earlier,” she says. “She called me from Los Angeles. She sounded well. Though I still cannot understand how communications can be considered a major. It’s like majoring in eating. Or walking. Go wash your hands for supper.”

  The apartment is dim. I head down the hallway, flicking on lights. Since Leo left last year, Mum has become obsessed with saving energy. I tell her it uses more energy to turn the lights on and off than to leave them on, but she says that’s an urban legend.

  It takes a while for the hot water to come out of the bathroom taps, and when it does, it scalds me. I wipe my hands dry on my jean jacket, dump my backpack in my room. The cat has curled up on my bed. Across the interior courtyard, I can see my mother through the kitchen window, setting the table for the two of us. I watch her place a fork and knife beside each plate, then a wineglass. I’m halfway to the kitchen when I stop and run back to turn off my bedroom light. It’s a small thing, but she cares about it.

  It’s odd that I didn’t notice it before, I think. My old journal is lying out open on my desk. I approach it cautiously, as if it might jump up and bite me. I pick it up, afraid of what she has found, heart beating hard in my chest, and riffle through time.

  Today is the last day of school!! Becky and I are going to Gimbels tomorrow to get new bathing suits. I’m using my allowance. Mum says she’ll contribute an extra $15.00. Becky told me they’re teaching Transcendental Meditation every Wednesday night at the Town Hall this summer and she wants us to try it.

  I flip forward a few pages.

  Back Woods tomorrow!!! I can’t wait to see Jonas.

  Summer to-do list:

  Read 12 books

  Practice flute every day

  Vegetarian?

  Learn to sail

  Lose 15 pounds

  Then, below the list:

  I’m so scared. What if he does it to me again. What if he comes to my room again? I hate him. I want to die . . . Mum can never, ever know. It would ruin her whole life if she knew.

  I hate him

  I hate him

  I hate him

  I turn to the next page.

  my period is late. what if I’m pregnant? Please God don’t let me be pregnant.

  After that there is one more entry, the page tearstained, blue ink blurred.

  They found Conrad’s body on the beach today. The lady said his eyes were open. I can’t breathe. Why didn’t I throw him the life preserver? I’m sick.

  And then nothing but blank pages.

  * * *

  —

  I turn off my bedroom light and stare out the window. Somewhere, on a higher floor, a neighbor starts vocalizing, running soprano scales up and down the courtyard walls. My mother slams the kitchen window shut, pours herself a glass of wine, puts it to her lips and drinks it down in one shot. Pours herself another glass. She knows. The courtyard hasn’t been swept in a while. The ground is littered with takeout menus, plastic bags. At the edge are two empty tins of cat food—one of the doormen feeds the strays, strictly against building policy. From somewhere above comes a sudden rain of green peas. They hit the concrete like hailstones. Anna and I used to do the same thing: scrape peas, broccoli, cooked carrots, fish sticks—whatever we didn’t want to eat—out the window into the courtyard as soon as Mum turned her back. If she knew, she never said a word.

  When I walk into the kitchen she doesn’t look up. The room is airless, oppressive. I shove the window back open a few inches. There’s a pile of rice and chicken liver and onions already dished out on my plate. Beyond the kitchen door I hear the rumble and wheezy breath of the service elevator as it stops on an upstairs floor.

  Mum puts her wineglass on the wooden table, pulls out a chair for me, hands me the bottle of ketchup. We sit in the silence. “I was in your closet today,” she says finally. “I thought it would be nice to donate your old ice skates to the school charity drive. You’ve outgrown them.” She shakes her head, as if she’s trying to scramble whatever image is inside. “How could this have happened?” There’s an unbearable edge of desperation in her voice.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” A teardrop of salt water lands in my rice and disappears, swallowed up in a sea of white.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” She searches my face.

  “I didn’t want you to hate me.” I stare at the kitchen floor.

  “I could never hate you. It’s him I hate.”

  “I’m sorry, Mum.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. I’m the one who brought him into your life. If I had known he was hurting you . . . I’m glad he’s gone.” She takes my hand and grips it too tight. “Jesus. I should have seen it. How did I not see it?” The tips of my fingers turn pinkish, then white. There is something in her face that I haven’t seen in a long time. Steel. A spark of light.

  “If I ever see him again, I swear to God I’ll kill him.”

  “What?”

  “I should take out a warrant for Leo’s arrest. I should call the police.”

  6:15 P.M.

  I shut off the kids’ light and close the door behind me as fast as I can so the mosquitoes won’t get in. The surface of the pond is quieting, inky, the evening air pushing out the last warm motes of late afternoon. I head to our cabin to get out of my bathing suit. From the Big House, I hear Peter’s bellowing laugh. Once, after that night, Leo called my mother, drunk, from some bar. He begged her to take him back, swore he still loved her—she was the love of his life, he said. She hung up on him.

  21

  1989. March, London.

  Peter and I have sex on our third date. He takes me to a hole-in-the-wall Indian restaurant on Brick Lane, full of steam and cloves. “Westbourne Grove is for tourists. This is proper Indian,” he assures me. Afterward, he invites me back to his flat for a quick drink, and I surprise myself by saying yes. I rarely date, let alone go home with a man. But Peter is a financial journalist, and for some perverse, old-fashioned reason, the fact that he writes about money makes me trust him—as if anyone with a job that boring couldn’t be dangerous.

  We drive back to his house in the endless rain, windows steamed up, the smell of diesel, a warmth. Peter lives in Hampstead, which is practically the opposite end of London. At a zebra crossing, Peter stops for an old man. He rolls the window down an inch, lights a cigarette. The old man shuffles his way across the high street, inch by inch, collar pulled up tight against the downpour, his pale wrinkled han
ds clutching a broken umbrella. Peter doesn’t look at me when he takes my hand for the first time, his eyes trained on the blinking yellow lamppost, the sheeting rain.

  “Is this all right?” He seems almost shy, and it surprises me.

  We turn down a narrow street and make a hairpin turn onto a lovely cobbled square, stop in front of a row of Georgian houses.

  I’m drenched before I’m halfway out of the car. Water funnels down on us from all sides, puddles, rises against his front door. “This rain is nuts,” I say.

  “What rain?” Peter laughs as we run for cover.

  Peter’s flat is beautiful—much larger than I’d expected: high ceilings with ornate plaster moldings; huge windows looking out onto the dark heath, the glass so old it has dripped; six-paneled doors with brass knobs the shape of eggs; rough pine floorboards. A working fireplace. Along the front hallway, wooden pegs hang thick with tweed and corduroy jackets, a mud-covered Barbour. Beneath them, toes to the wall, a line of beautiful worn-leather shoes and boots.

  “Apologies in advance,” Peter says, throwing his keys on a chest in the front hall. “It’s in a bit of a tip.” Old newspapers are strewn everywhere, ashtrays full of cigarette butts, an open jar of seeded mustard on the coffee table, a pinstripe suit flopped over the back of an overstuffed chair.

  “My mother,” he explains as I take in the heavy velvet curtains, ancestral portraits, scattered Turkish rugs. “She’s very tasteful.”

  “You’re right. It is a pigsty,” I say.

  “To be perfectly fair, I wasn’t expecting company.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “What strange creatures you Americans are.”