Both pretending that, on the matter of the moving truck, just as on the matter of their life in general and their ability to function properly since Kyle left, they were “like, totally fine.”
Jesse had barely reached the level pavement of the driveway and Markie was still slipping her way precariously down the ramp when a flurry of activity and noise poured out of the side door of the house next to theirs. A tiny white-haired woman marched outside, her hand raised as though she were hailing a cab.
“Arrêtez!” she called as she stomped across her lawn toward Markie’s.
She hadn’t gotten far before two men—one older, taller, and thinner, the other younger, shorter, and wider—rushed out the door after her, quickly overtaking her. The younger one extended his hand to her, but she shooed him off with a wave and yelled, “Vas-y! Vite!” He spun away and raced ahead, joining the older man in jumping the low wooden fence that separated the two properties.
Markie craned her head slowly to look over her shoulder, curious to see what the men were running toward but aware that sudden movement could send her, the table, and her son plummeting off the ramp. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary behind her, she swiveled her head back around the other way to find that the men were now almost in her driveway, and the woman, who was easily seventy-five years old and couldn’t weigh one hundred pounds, had marched herself through a gate in the fence and was storming across Markie’s yard.
“Arrêtez!” the woman yelled again. “Stop! Put that table down maintenant! This instant!”
The table’s legs clunked hard on the ramp as Markie dropped it. Jesse let go of his end, too, and stood frozen in place, his arms raised at high right angles, hands open wide. As the woman made her way across the patio at the back of the bungalow, the two men reached the truck. The younger one—midthirties, Markie guessed—clad in faded jeans, a T-shirt, and a ball cap, approached Jesse and said something Markie couldn’t hear, and the boy shuffled sideways, hands still raised, giving up his end of the table.
“Madame,” the older man said to Markie, with a small bow. “S’il vous plaît.”
He was dressed more for a business meeting than for racing across lawns and over fences, with pressed suit pants, a dress shirt, and polished loafers. He levered stiffly forward and arced a hand through the air toward her, as though she were a princess climbing down from a carriage, he her devoted footman. She let him help her make a clumsy jump from the top of the ramp to the ground, and when he saw she was safely deposited, he placed one foot on the ramp and stepped up as easily as though it were a distance of mere inches rather than feet.
Gripping the table, he nodded at the younger man, who nodded back, and together they trotted down the ramp, up the walkway, and into the house. The entire trip took them a fraction of the time it had taken Markie and Jesse to move halfway down the ramp. By the time the men were inside, the old woman had made her way to Jesse, and taking him by the elbow, she led him to his mother, planting him in place beside her. He scowled and rubbed his arm, but he didn’t move from his assigned spot.
From the closer vantage point, Markie could see she had been generous in her estimate of seventy-five years and one hundred pounds—she should have added ten years and subtracted as many pounds. The woman wore an expensive-looking linen suit, and diamonds flashed from her ears, collarbone, and a few fingers, making Markie wonder if part of the reason she seemed so cross was that she and her equally well-dressed husband were being kept from some important event. Before Markie could tell the woman they needn’t have disrupted their plans, a jeweled finger wagged in her face. But only barely—the tiny woman had to stretch her arm high to get it close to Markie’s chin.
“The small boxes, I was prepared to let you take,” she said in a thick French accent. “Even avec la pluie—with the rain. And then les autres petites choses—the other small things. Those lamps, the pillows, your suitcases, and the such.”
Markie and Jesse exchanged glances. It was clear their new neighbor had been watching as they unloaded the truck.
“Mais, une table?” she continued. “Et . . .” She leaned around them, peering into the truck at the couches and bed frames waiting to be carried inside. “Non. Ce n’est pas raisonnable!” She put one blue-veined hand on Markie’s arm, the other on Jesse’s, and steered them to the giant oak tree on the lawn beside the driveway. They could hear the rain pelting the canopy of leaves above, but not a drop made it through. “We will wait here,” she said, “in the underneath, and let them finish.”
Jesse seemed thrilled for the break, but Markie checked her watch and said, “I appreciate the help. I really do. But I have to get the truck back in less than an hour. So we need all hands on deck here, including the four of ours.” She indicated her hands and her son’s, and motioned for the boy to go with her to the truck. He widened his eyes in protest, and she was about to snap, “Jesse—now!” when the hand on her arm clamped more tightly.
“Non,” the woman said, with a single hard shake of her head. “This will not help. You will be getting in their way only.”
She pointed to the walkway leading to the bungalow, where the older man was practically running with Jesse’s futon mattress on his head while the younger one trotted along behind with an ottoman balanced on a TV stand. The elder worked his way into the house and was outside again, holding the screen door wide, by the time his partner reached him.
“Thanks,” the younger man said.
The other responded, “De rien,” before jogging back to the truck.
As much as Markie resented being held hostage under her own (for the length of her lease term) tree, she realized the woman was right—she and Jesse would only interrupt the men’s choreography. She could see inside the truck, and she was amazed at the progress they had made already. Thanks to them, she was certain to make it back to the rental place in time. Plus, her son was enjoying the rest, and the truth was, she and her aching muscles were, too. So she stood under the oak tree with Jesse and their petite captor and allowed her weary body to enjoy the break.
From time to time, she saw the older man look over at the woman, who lowered her chin or turned her head or raised a shoulder, each gesture garnering an understanding nod from him, after which he issued a soft-voiced command to the younger one. She’s an ancient infield coach in jewels and pumps, Markie thought. Even better: she’s Yoda in a St. John suit.
Smiling to herself, she tried to catch Jesse’s eye to let him know she had something funny to tell him. She could picture his slow, tilted nod and half grin as he said, “Nice one, Mom.” But he was staring down the street, and when he turned back to her, his lips were twisted, his way of cutting off a frown before it could take hold.
Markie realized, too late, that he must have been on watch again for Kyle, and that the self-congratulatory grin on her face was not the right response for a boy whose father was now more than two hours late. He untwisted his lips, allowing his frown to fully form before it morphed into a scowl, and Markie could hear the words he wasn’t saying: We wouldn’t have needed his help moving in the first place if you hadn’t divorced him and then sold my childhood home!
Before she could readjust her mouth into a more sympathetic shape, he let out a huff and turned, and she could tell he was about to walk away. Distance and silence: Jesse’s two answers to any conflict lately. He took a step, but before he could take a second, the old woman reached out her other hand and caught him by the back of his shirt, and to Markie’s surprise, Jesse took a step backward, returning to his original position.
“Oui,” the woman said, patting his arm. “You will stay.” He nodded obediently, but he didn’t look at her, and he would not meet his mother’s gaze.
To break the tension, Markie tried to introduce herself and her son to her new neighbor, but she could only get out “By the way, my name is—” before the other woman gave a quick, emphatic shake of her head and raised an index finger to her lips.
“See-lonce,” she whispered,
gesturing with her chin to the men on the ramp as though they were competitors at a golf tournament and any noise might cause them to miss the championship shot.
My God, she’s bossy, Markie thought, more amused than irritated. It was one thing for the woman to assume Jesse would obey; he was a child. But for her to expect another adult to accede, particularly an adult who (unbeknownst to the older woman) had spent decades perfecting the art of ignoring her own parents’ commands, was so unreasonable it was funny. Markie flashed the woman a magnanimous smile. She has no idea who she’s dealing with.
“I really must get back to it,” she said, taking a step toward the house. She wasn’t eager to resume carrying things, but she could hold the door open for the men, at least, direct them where to set things down, clear a path for them among the boxes and other items she and Jesse had tossed haphazardly inside the door earlier.
The grip on Markie’s arm tightened. “Attendez. Wait.”
Had it sounded like another command, Markie might have laughed and walked off, but the woman’s words were quiet this time, with no hard edge of instruction. Her mouth was softer, too, no longer set in a ferocious line, and as she tracked the men’s movements, Markie could see a certain brightness in her eyes, the kind Markie’s own took on when she watched Jesse do something clever.
“Attendez,” she said again, even more quietly, the word more a declaration of wonder than a command, and because Markie knew how lovely it was to feel what the other woman seemed to be feeling, she stopped trying to talk or move. Instead, she looked down at the gray-white curls, immaculately set, of the person forcing her and Jesse to stand there together, and she smiled.
The “common” in “common enemy” was a start. It would give Jesse and her something to talk about later, at least. Something to shake their heads at and laugh about: the crazy old neighbor lady who spied on them for who knew how long before bolting out of her house to bark orders at them in French. How she held them captive for so long despite being half Markie’s weight and a quarter Jesse’s height. The way she managed, with nothing more than a series of well-timed nods, one or two words, and the grip of a hand, to choreograph both the rapid unloading of a moving truck and a brief détente between a reticent teen and his mother.
Chapter Three
Markie parked the car and lifted the bag of groceries from the passenger seat. After offering profuse thanks to their three unexpected helpers and excusing herself to return the truck, she had dropped it back at the rental place, reclaimed her car, and stopped to splurge on fancy sandwiches from the shop a few blocks away. Tuna and veggies for her, with mayo on only one side, as she was on another halfhearted kick to lose her post-divorce pudge. Nothing overly ambitious, though, and in fact, as she pulled away from the store, she decided that if she could find the cooler they had unloaded from the truck earlier, she would dig out the mayo she had brought over from the fridge in the old house and smear some on the other side. It had been an emotional morning. She was entitled to cheat a little.
A three-meat sandwich for Jesse, with spicy mustard. At the last second, she had them wrap some lettuce in foil and put it in the bag. They hadn’t been eating all that healthily lately, but she told herself if Jesse put the lettuce on, she could feel okay about his nutritional input for the day. Kyle was the only one who had ever bothered putting real meals together. For a while after he left, she had kept up the habit of buying heads of broccoli, bags of carrots, a few zucchini—all of which she would toss in the crisper and then forget about while she and Jesse zapped another frozen pizza or opened bags from the drive-through.
A week or two later, she’d notice the stench in the fridge, pick the slimy things out, and throw them in the trash. Then she’d head back to the grocery store, telling herself she needed to feed her son better, and go through the process again. But she couldn’t afford to waste good money on food they weren’t eating, so she finally gave up the charade, and for the past few months, she had been bypassing the produce section altogether and aiming straight for the freezer aisle.
There was no better enabler of a highly processed junk-food diet than a teenage boy, especially one with no desire to talk while he ate. If they were having proper meals together, actual sit-down, use-cutlery, discuss-the-day dinners like they used to have when it was still the three of them, she might have been inspired to carve up a roasted chicken from the grocery deli, at least. Rip up some iceberg lettuce, toss in some grape tomatoes. Maybe heat a can of corn.
But she had stopped trying to force words out of her son months ago, and while she was at it, she gave up pretending that “just being together” while they ate was helping their relationship. The biggest smile Jesse had given her in months came the night she suggested he might want to eat his pizza alone, in front of the TV, while she enjoyed hers with a book in another room. Their communication had sunk to the same pathetic level as their nutritional one, in other words, although if you counted “Have a good day/You too,” as conversation and pizza sauce as a vegetable, both of which parenting lows Markie had begun stooping to, they weren’t faring so badly.
At the bungalow’s side door, which was half wood (on the bottom) and half window (on the top), Markie was reaching for the knob when the French-speaking woman who had accosted them earlier suddenly appeared on the other side of the window. She smiled at Markie and held up a drinking glass.
“What—?” Markie began, stepping inside and into the small family room, where her neighbor had clearly found the boxes marked GLASSES/DISHES.
Markie couldn’t believe it. She had been able to laugh off the woman’s bossiness earlier, but seeing her here, inside the bungalow, rooting through their things, wasn’t funny. It had been a dreadful morning, loading what was left of her broken life into a rented moving truck, having to tear her son away from his only home, seeing him keep his faithful, fruitless lookout for his father. Sure, it was helpful to have the truck unloaded, and Markie was grateful, but for the past several hours, she had thought of nothing but sitting in the family room, alone, with her feet up, while Jesse hid out downstairs with his sandwich and his phone.
“Ah,” the woman said. “Vous êtes arrivée. You are back. We were . . .” She trailed off and glanced at the glass in her hand. “And then Fraydayrique needed water.” She pointed behind her, to the dining/living room combo on the other side of the kitchen. “Come.”
“I don’t mean to be rude,” Markie said, “and I appreciate all your help earlier, but I’m afraid I’m really not in the mood for—”
But the woman appeared not to hear. She turned and headed toward the kitchen, which adjoined the family room, made a quick stop to fill the glass at the sink, and then continued through the archway that led from the kitchen to the dining room/living room combo. Markie heard some loud commands in French, followed by the supplicating voice of the older man, whose name was evidently “Frédéric.”
In the kitchen, Markie dropped her grocery bags on the counter and sighed.
Footsteps thundered on the basement stairs, then the basement door opened, and Jesse stepped through into the kitchen. He reeked of aftershave, which Markie pretended not to notice, the same way she had been pretending his weekly shaving routine was something more than wishful thinking. She used the task of unpacking the food as an excuse to turn away from him.
“What’s going on?” she whispered, nodding toward the living room.
“She wouldn’t leave, Mom,” he whispered back. The “Don’t blame me” was implied. “I told her we were going to take our time getting things organized, but she wasn’t having it.” He turned back to the living room. “Actually, it doesn’t look half bad. You should check it out.”
Markie glared at the archway. She wasn’t about to prance through it, gaze excitedly around, and praise the meddling Frenchwoman for her handiwork. She had moved here to be left alone, was desperate to be alone, not only today, but for the foreseeable future. She had a past to reconcile and a future to sort out, and she couldn�
��t do either without solitude. She wanted no intrusions—no new friends, no old ones, either, and certainly no overly helpful neighbors. She huffed and turned back to the groceries.
“What?” Jesse asked, in a voice casting her as the complaining child, him as the patience-strained parent.
“Nothing,” Markie said. “It’s been a long day.” She set her sandwich in the fridge, handed him his plate, and stepped toward the archway and the living/dining room beyond. “I thought we could use a break from pizza,” she said.
“I never need a break from pizza,” he said. “But this is super sweet. Thanks.”
She pointed to the pile of romaine beside his sandwich. “Eat all the lettuce.”
“Whoa,” he said, volunteering half a grin. “Health nut.”
“I’ll go thank them and send them on their way.”
She managed only half a step through the archway before running smack into her neighbor, who held the empty water glass aloft in victory, the creases around her mouth jumping back to make room for a wide smile.
“Fraydayrique had not had enough to drink,” she said, and the expectant way she beamed at Markie suggested he was a shared concern of theirs.
“I, uh . . . ,” Markie began.
The woman took Markie’s hand and pulled her back through the archway into the kitchen.
Markie extricated her hand and put it behind her back. She would brook no more gripping and tightening and holding in place from this woman. “Look,” she said, “it was very nice of you and your husband and son to help us. We’re extremely grateful. But we can take it from here—”
“Och.” The woman waved dismissively in the direction of the living room. “Those ones do not belong to me. That is not my boy. And my husband—my Edouard—he is dead to me.”
Mrs. Saint and the Defectives: A Novel Page 2
