by Ann Hood
“MOMMY,” SPARROW SAID.
Suzanne dipped the roller into the pan of paint. The color that had seemed to be a soft pink on the sample chart had turned the walls in the upstairs hallway the color of Pepto-Bismol. One more coat, she thought, repeating it like a mantra to herself as she painted white over the other paint. One more coat.
It was a Sunday, rainy and hot. Sparrow sat on the new window seat with a picture book.
“Mommy,” she said again. “Look. Boys.”
“Sparrow, there are no boys in that book. Those are all farm animals.”
“No. Outside.”
Suzanne put the roller down and looked at the wall. It still looked very pink. “Mommy.”
The hall window looked down on the street. Sparrow was on her knees gazing out. Last night, when they had come in from the supermarket, the street had been littered with pigs’ feet. Dozens of them had spilled from a truck. What are they? Sparrow had asked in horror. Suzanne hadn’t answered. Now she watched out the window as the rain sent them racing down the street.
“See.” Sparrow pointed.
“Don’t touch the glass,” Suzanne said, grabbing the little girl’s finger. “You’ll make marks.”
Down below them, on the sidewalk, were two little boys in bright yellow rain slickers running beside the steady stream of pigs’ feet. Suzanne heard them laughing and a woman shriek, “They’re feet! I swear they’re feet!”
The woman came into view then. She wore a lime green rain slicker. The color of Abel’s old van, Suzanne thought, and frowned. Now, why would she make that association? She gasped. The woman was Claudia. She saw that now. The long skinny legs, the loud laugh, the bright red tendrils sticking out from the hood of the raincoat.
“Oh, no,” Suzanne said. Her heart raced. “Get away from the window,” she said, and grabbed Sparrow. In a low crouch she led her to the stairway.
Sparrow giggled. “Is this a game?”
“Shhhh.”
“Mommy—”
The doorbell rang.
How could she come here? Suzanne thought. She covered Sparrow’s mouth with her hand. If only it was different. If only she could let her in, make Bloody Marys and French toast. If only she weren’t so embarrassed. Go away, she thought. Let me live my life with all of you out of it.
The doorbell rang again.
“Is anyone home?” Claudia shouted. “It’s raining pigs’ feet out here.”
“Mommy,” Sparrow said, twisting her head free.
Suzanne shook her head.
She heard them as they walked away. Suzanne sighed, stared down the new banister to the front door. She could still smell varnish.
“Is this a game?” Sparrow laughed.
“I wish it were,” she said.
She and Sparrow walked back to the window. In the street, Claudia led her sons twirling right through the puddles. Their voices were clear. “What a glorious feeling,” they sang. “We’re happy again.”
Suzanne, 1973•
SUZANNE KNEW EVERY ROOM of that little house in Maine. Every crack in the wood. The way the wind whistled through the kitchen windows. She had hung wind chimes on the back porch—long silver ones, made from sea-shells and two pieces of copper. In a strong breeze the curtain actually blew about. Abel never got around to caulking the windows.
He had never seen Sparrow. When she was born, Suzanne had written him a note, telling him that old Chinese legend Elizabeth had told her in New York that time. Had she hoped then that Sparrow would reunite her to Abel? He sent her roses. An extravagance, she knew. They were white, with a blush of peach in their petals.
Once, when Claudia and Peter were visiting friends, they spotted Abel as he walked out of the bookstore in town. He hadn’t asked about her until the very end, as they started to walk away. How’s Suzie? he had said. He seemed desperate, Claudia had written.
It was winter. No snow, but gray skies and bitter cold. Already the radio played Christmas carols. The little house was right across the street from the ocean. The water was as dark and gray as the sky.
“It’s going to be very cold,” Suzanne said to Sparrow as they got out of the car.
“Where are we?”
Suzanne looked across the street. She recalled the inside of that house, the sloping ceiling in the bedroom. The tiny floral pattern on the wallpaper in the living room. The yellow and green squares on the kitchen floor.
“Where?” Sparrow said.
Suzanne looked down at her daughter. Not even four yet and already questioning everything. What would she be like at ten? At fifteen? “Maine.”
“Where’s Maine?”
“Please, Sparrow.”
“Is that the ocean?”
She should have called. Suzanne looked back across the street. She had to see him and prove that things were better this way. Her career, finally leaving behind the apartment on St. Botolph Street and buying the new one on the waterfront. It was all falling into place. Now all she had to do was see Abel and settle it finally. She would feel better seeing that he was right where she’d left him.
“Are we swimming?” Sparrow asked her. “I don’t have a swimming suit.”
“We’re visiting.”
They crossed the street. Suzanne felt butterflies in her stomach. Maybe he’ll change his mind, she thought for an instant. He’ll see us and change his mind.
“No,” she said out loud.
“No what?”
Suzanne shook her head.
The doorbell was broken. Suzanne knocked, then, when there was no answer, she peeked in the living room window. A Christmas tree sparkled with silver tinsel and tiny white lights.
“Are those snowflakes on that tree?” Sparrow asked.
“No one’s home,” Suzanne said.
“Why don’t they melt?”
“They’re magic snowflakes,” a voice behind them said.
It was Abel, his arms full of firewood.
“They’re lights, Sparrow,” Suzanne said. “Just lights.”
They followed him inside. Nothing had changed. It still felt the same, smelled the same. Suzanne and Sparrow sat on the old couch. Suzanne traced the pattern on the spread that covered it. They had bought it together, she remembered.
“I’m thirsty,” Sparrow whispered.
Suzanne watched Abel’s back as he placed the firewood in the storage bin by the fireplace. She thought of the fine blond hair on his shoulders.
He stood and faced them, wiping his hands on his jeans.
“Well,” he said.
“We were just passing through,” Suzanne said. He nodded.
“I’m doing very well,” Suzanne blurted out.
Abel smiled. “I’m sure you are, Suzie,” he said. “Yes.”
They looked at each other. Come back with me, she thought.
“Boston,” she said, “is lovely. We just moved to a new apartment. It’s very large, too large for the two of us, really. It overlooks the harbor.”
“Still a sucker for those ocean views, huh?”
She thought about the nights they’d spend on the beach watching the way the moonlight hit the ocean.
“I own it actually,” she said, forcing herself to concentrate on the apartment, on things that were real.
“The ocean?” Abel laughed. “You are doing well.”
Suzanne didn’t laugh. She felt as if she were unraveling. She felt weak. Was it from the sound of his voice? She took a deep breath. “It has three bathrooms,” she said.
Sparrow got off the couch and walked over to the Christmas tree. She still had her coat on, all buttoned up. And her woolly pink mittens.
“One bathroom,” Suzanne continued, “is all black. In a certain light it looks almost purple. So I got lavender blinds and towels and soap to pick up that hint of violet.”
Abel looked at her, puzzled.
Why am I talking about bathrooms? Suzanne thought.
“May I please take them off?” Sparrow asked, and held up her mi
ttened hands. Suzanne nodded.
“The view is incredible,” she said.
“Had you really forgotten it?”
“I mean my view. From the apartment.”
“So you are a city girl after all,” Abel said.
Suzanne bit her lower lip.
“And you?” she asked.
“We made our choices a long time ago,” he said without looking at her. “I belong here.”
“Choices can’t be unmade?” she said.
“Please,” Abel said softly. “Don’t.”
She stood up.
“Sometimes,” he said, “I take a poetry writing workshop at the college.”
He walked over to her.
“In the morning,” he said, “I run along the beach. You know, the ocean never looks the same. The color, the sound, even the smell, it’s always different. I make money doing construction work here and there. Last spring I worked on the new mall. Of course, there’s not much work this time of year. And at night I like to have some Jameson’s and work on my poems.” Suzanne nodded.
“I don’t know why in the world we came,” she said. Her voice shook.
“You are still,” he said, “so beautiful.”
They were standing as close as two people can without actually touching. She could hear him breathe, as if he were beside her in bed, his head buried in her hair.
“Sparrow,” Suzanne said, as if the word could break a spell.
The little girl reached out and touched one of the tiny white lights.
“Mommy,” she said, “these snowflakes are hot.”
Suzanne, Claudia, and Elizabeth, 1973•
THE APARTMENT STILL SMELLED NEW. In the month since Suzanne had sold the St. Botolph Street apartment, and moved into this new high-rise overlooking the harbor, she had relished the smells of fresh paint and varnished floors and plastered ceilings all done by someone else. The kitchen appliances were still shiny. She was the first person to ever fill the refrigerator or use the dishwasher. She got a thrill from running her fingers over the smooth, clean surfaces of the stove and countertops.
Suzanne stood in the doorway of the kitchen and inhaled. The Swiss chocolate and fresh vegetables mixed with the smells of newness from the apartment itself.
“Mommy,” Sparrow said. The little girl sat on a white wooden stool in the center of the kitchen. Her legs moved back and forth against the rungs. “Why is there so much food? Are we having a feast?”
“Sparrow,” Suzanne said, “don’t kick the stool like that.” She began to silently organize her preparations for the luncheon.
“Stool?” Sparrow said. She stopped moving her legs.
“That’s what you’re sitting on. A stool.”
“It is?”
“Yes. What did you think?”
“I thought it was a chair.”
Suzanne was going to make bisque from scratch. She brought the lobsters home, their claws held together with tiny green rubber bands, squirming in the bag. Sparrow thought they were pets. She had been denied kittens, goldfish, and hamsters for all her three years and thought that at last her wish had come true.
The lobsters were on the kitchen counter. A large pot of water was on the stove.
“What are their names?” Sparrow asked.
“They don’t have names,” her mother said.
Suzanne was ready to begin. Cookbooks were opened to the recipes she was using. A list of ingredients, first carefully prepared, then, with each item carefully crossed off, had been doubled-checked. Someday, she thought, she would have things like this catered, everything done for her as she sat in the living room and had cocktails with her guests. But now, while her job was still new and her income not yet where she wanted it, she would have to do it all herself. The planning and presentation had to look simple and natural. It all had to be perfect.
“Could we name them after the Three Stooges, Mommy?”
Sparrow touched the lobsters’ hard, smooth shells. “They smell funny,” she said. “Hello, Larry. Hello, Curly. Hello, Joe.”
“Moe,” Suzanne corrected absently.
“Moe?”
“It’s not Joe, Sparrow. It’s Moe.”
The little girl frowned. “Moe?”
“Yes. The one with the shaggy black hair is named Moe.”
“But there is one named Joe. A fat one—” “Sparrow, please.”
Suzanne put the wine into the refrigerator. She had considered getting champagne, but it hadn’t seemed worth the cost of a good bottle. A Pouilly-Fuissé, properly chilled, would be perfect.
“Can they sleep in my bed with me?”
Suzanne looked down at her daughter, confused. What was the child talking about? The Three Stooges? Perhaps she was trying to understand who these people were coming here today.
“They’re coming only for lunch, Sparrow. They aren’t staying for a long time.”
“Oh.” She looked at the lobsters wriggling on the countertop. They weren’t pets after all. “Can’t we get something that can stay? Please.”
The water was almost at a full boil. She could have bought canned lobster. Or frozen. But she wanted it to be the best bisque they ever ate. She wanted them to say, “You made this from scratch? You’re amazing.”
“Can’t we, Mommy?”
“What?”
“Can’t we get a kitten or a—”
“Sparrow, how many times have we discussed this? Don’t you want to keep the new apartment clean and pretty?”
“But a fish—”
“The subject is closed. Fini. Like they say where?”
“France,” the little girl said sadly.
“Right. I am very busy right now. I want you to go to your room and play with your dollhouse.”
Sparrow’s mouth opened as if to answer, then closed again. She turned and went to her room. Suzanne dropped the lobsters, one by one, into the boiling water.
THE BISQUE HAD TO have the taste of fresh lobster. The poached chicken had to be cool, not cold; the Brie runny; the chèvre rich; the mousse light. Suzanne had spent almost six dollars just on the lettuce for the salad—arugula, romaine, radiccio. Then yellow peppers, and tomatoes at $2.09 a pound. All that was left to do was the vinaigrette. Dijon mustard was the secret there. She drizzled the oil into the vinegar mixture, whisking it until it was perfectly blended.
Suzanne walked into the dining room. The apartment was sparse. The mortgage payments alone ate up a good chunk of her salary. But it was still cheaper than any she had looked at on Beacon Hill. And the area was up and coming. The waterfront renovation had been written up in Time magazine. Her colleagues marveled at her good investment.
She placed some irises in a clear vase in the center of the glass and chrome table. The table was set for three, blue linen napkins folded in the shape of a fan, their bottoms held together by clear glass holders. Someday she would have Waterford crystal and Rosenthal china. For now, the clear glass she used seemed a deliberate choice, made the sparseness of the apartment seem right.
The only thing now was dressing Sparrow and herself. Suzanne checked her watch. Her guests would be here in thirty minutes. She wanted to seem relaxed and put together when they arrived. Perhaps she would even be sitting and sipping a glass of wine. Yes. That would be perfect.
Suzanne went to Sparrow’s room. One corner was dominated by a large Victorian-style dollhouse. The little dolls who lived inside had miniature Victorian furniture—tiny fringed lamps and floral rugs and overstuffed chairs. The lights turned on and off. Sometimes, as Sparrow slept, Suzanne would turn the little lights on and peer inside at the inanimate family that lived there, frozen in their small beds or posed at their ornate dining room table, eating an imaginary dinner. Sometimes she felt guilty that perhaps the dollhouse had been a bribe for Sparrow to forgive her for all the time she spent at work. But then Suzanne reminded herself that the child loved the house and the little family who lived there, a blond family with permanent smiles and a dalmatian whose
tail was forever in the upward swing of a wag. Besides, it was a good investment.
Sparrow sat in front of it now, rearranging the living room furniture.
“The daddy wants his chair near the fireplace for winter,” she explained when her mother walked in.
Suzanne looked inside. It didn’t look right, all the furniture lined up against the wall like that. The chair should be by the window and the couch in front of the fireplace. But she nodded anyway. Later, maybe tomorrow, she would switch it all back.
“Are you ready to put on your pretty pink dress for the company?”
“Yes,” Sparrow said. She got up reluctantly and began to undress.
“Now, remember, you’ll play chopsticks on the piano when I ask you to. Can you play it without any mistakes?” Sparrow nodded.
“Then you can get your special plate from the refrigerator and eat your lunch in here so the ladies can have a nice visit without any interruptions. All right?”
Suzanne slipped the dress over the girl’s head and buttoned the tiny white buttons on the back.
“Is it my bunny plate?”
“Yes. So you must be what?”
“Very, very careful.”
“That’s right.” The Wedgwood child’s set painted with Beatrix Potter rabbits had been a gift for Sparrow from Suzanne’s new boss last Christmas.
“Now, let me see you.”
The little girl turned around obediently.
“You look so pretty. Put on your white tights and these shoes while I get dressed.”
And thirty minutes later Sparrow sat on the couch that overlooked Boston Harbor sipping milk from a Wedgwood cup while her mother sat beside her in a pale blue silk dress, a glass of chilled Pouilly-Fuissé in her hand.
The buzzer sounded. Claudia and Elizabeth were here.
