Mrs. Saint and the Defectives: A Novel

by Julie Lawson Timmer

  In the three weeks since she and Jesse had moved in, Markie had exchanged polite waves with Frédéric and a few sentences with Bruce, but she hadn’t yet met Ronda or Patty, or Patty’s young daughter, Lola, who appeared at the house after school and on weekends, or Patty’s mother, Carol, who came only rarely and never stayed long. And she hadn’t heard a peep from Mrs. Saint, until today. True to her word, the older woman had given them time to settle in.

  Markie raised her coffee cup. “Thank you, but this is my caffeine quota for today, I’m afraid.” With her other hand, she lifted her file. “And now I’m on the clock.”

  “But are you paid by the hour with such a job?” Mrs. Saint moved a hand to her hip and tilted her head, and Markie felt like an eight-year-old who had been caught shoving all her dirty clothes under the bed.

  She also felt a small amount of irritation at Bruce, to whom she had once revealed the nature of her job and the fact that her pay was piece rate. As the groundskeeper not only for Mrs. Saint but also for the bungalow’s landlord (something he had shared with Markie during her first week living there), Bruce was always outside, often hovering nearby. Thankfully, he seemed as uninterested in conversation as Jesse, but one day he ambled close to the patio and confessed he had been wondering about the stacks of files she was always working on.

  Recalling how socially awkward he had seemed the day she met him, she wanted to reward him for his effort in initiating a conversation, so she told him a little about her job. She didn’t want him to think she was slacking by stopping to chat—no matter how little she cared about insurance claims review, she was determined to bring her trademark work ethic to it—so she had also explained she was paid by the file, not the hour.

  “I mean, I’ve started work for the day,” she told Mrs. Saint. “And I don’t like to stop once I’ve started. Trying to harness momentum.”

  “Oui,” Mrs. Saint said, nodding with understanding. “Because this is a job much more boring than your last. So it is hard to keep excitement.”

  Markie was stunned—she hadn’t shared any such information with Bruce. Noticing her shock, Mrs. Saint said, “Chessie tells me, when he is walking home from school last Friday.” She pointed in the direction of her front door, out of Markie’s sight.

  Markie widened her eyes in disbelief. Jesse hadn’t mentioned being intercepted by their neighbor as he walked home. Most likely because he hadn’t thought much of it, she told herself; it probably seemed like a coincidence to her naive son that the old woman happened to be out front at the precise time the high school kids were walking past. Leave us alone while we settle in, my eye. Markie told herself that later she would order Jesse to take the bus home from now on or find a different walking route. Perhaps she should tack on a threat of some kind—the loss of his precious gaming system, for starters—if he so much as aimed an eyeball in their neighbor’s direction again, let alone revealed another fact to her about himself, his mother, or life inside the bungalow.

  The porch door banged shut, and the old woman turned to peer through the screen. They were all sitting now, waiting. “So you will keep up the working for now,” she told Markie. “And I will come over in”—she consulted her watch—“two and a half hours. When it will be time for a break.”

  Markie felt her body sag and hoped it wasn’t apparent to her neighbor. She had so wished Mrs. Saint’s I’ll-give-you-time-to-settle-in would last longer. “I don’t take breaks” formed on her tongue, even though every morning she stood, stretched, adjusted the angle of the umbrella, and took her time carrying her coffee cup inside. If she was feeling exceptionally guilty about her general inactivity, she made a trip—sometimes even two—around the outside of the house.

  Other days, she stood at the kitchen counter and paged through a magazine or read a chapter of a book before returning to the patio and the claim files that awaited her. She did all of this at roughly eleven—the exact time Mrs. Saint had said she would come over. Markie swallowed the fib, and before she could think of a better excuse, the old woman nodded once, turned, and walked away.

  Chapter Ten

  Two and a half hours later, Mrs. Saint deposited a gift basket at Markie’s feet and eased her tailored-suit-clad body—houndstooth check, with a silk blouse and heels—into one of the other patio chairs. It turned out she and Frédéric hadn’t been wearing formal clothes on Markie and Jesse’s move-in day because of some special event, but simply because that was how they always dressed. Each time Markie had seen Mrs. Saint since then, the older woman had been wearing another expensive suit, and Markie had watched in amazement as Frédéric helped Bruce with any number of hot, dirty jobs—digging up bushes in the hot sun, kneeling in another part of the garden to replant them—while clad in suit pants, a dress shirt, and loafers.

  “So,” Mrs. Saint said, arranging herself so her back was ramrod straight, her legs angled back and to the side and crossed neatly at the ankles. “You will come for coffee another day. Get to know everybody. They are all eager to talk with you.”

  “I’m really more of a start-the-day-in-silence type,” Markie said.

  “For lunch, then.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not very social these days.” Markie gave what she hoped was an unapologetic smile, her way of putting a friendly but emphatic end to the discussion.

  “Because the divorce.”

  Markie’s smile wilted. She wasn’t about to exchange confidences with a woman she barely knew. “Because we won’t be here long,” she said. “Our lease is up at the end of January. So there’s no point.”

  “But do we not all need a community, no matter how long or short we are in a place?”

  “I have my son.”

  Mrs. Saint nodded in the manner of someone who wasn’t convinced, but Markie made a show of staring at the cloth-covered gift basket until the other woman left the matter alone and followed her gaze.

  “Muffins,” Mrs. Saint said. “Half made by Ronda and half from the store.” Lowering her voice, she said, “She tries hard. But I wanted to bring some others, just in case. I put a jar of jam, too. And, also, Ronda has sent you a gift.”

  She reached under the cloth and extracted a small square box made of Popsicle sticks, handing it to Markie. It was a tiny replica of the bungalow, complete with accurately placed windows and doors, and even the half story for the main bedrooms and bathroom. It had been painstakingly crafted—not a single gap showed between the sticks, there wasn’t one stray blob of wood glue, and the pieces forming the half story were precisely cut to allow a snug fit for the roof. There were even curtains on the upstairs windows.

  Markie had seen Ronda several times as the cook crossed the lawn to take a drink or snack to Frédéric and Bruce, or to ask Frédéric for help with something. Her perfectly round, permanently flushed face sat atop her equally circular body, making her look, even from a distance, like a risen loaf of bread dough. Markie regarded the wooden house and tried to picture Ronda’s thick fingers constructing something so precise. It must have taken her hours, Markie thought, pressing a hand to her chest. She had received plenty of lovely gifts in her lifetime, but no one other than her own son had ever given her something handmade, until now.

  Turning the structure in her hands, she located the side door, which was attached by two minuscule hinges and propped open. Two small cloth figures were affixed to the door, one in black pants and twist-tie flip-flops, the other in denim pants and a T-shirt. “How adorable! Is this me and Jesse?”

  “Mais oui. She is a faith healer, Ronda. Or so it is what she says. Which I do not know about this, honestly. Magic and special powers for things, I am not so sure. She likes to send luck to people by making totems such as this. Of course, no one of us can say that when the good thing happens, this was because of the totem rather than a person’s own hard work and the fate of the world. And when the good thing does not happen, well, she of course cannot explain.

  “But”—she dipped her chin—“this is a thing she feels ver
y strong for. And so we have gotten used to seeing her totems all over the everywhere. This”—she gestured to the house—“is to bring you luck in your new home so that you will have a long, happy time here.” She reached out and touched the paper faces of the dolls. “You see? They smile. And also”—she moved her finger to the figures’ pipe-cleaner arms—“they hold hands. So we will hope that Ronda does have some powers, non?”

  Markie bit back her annoyance. What did Mrs. Saint think she knew about Markie and her son? What exaggerated story had she relayed to her employees about them, to make Ronda think they needed some magic totem power to help them connect with each other?

  “Well, she’s done a lovely job of the house,” Markie said, “and it was a cute idea to include the dolls. But we’re fine, my son and I. Quite fine.”

  Mrs. Saint smiled thinly, and Markie felt like a child who had just told a wild story to her patient grandmother. She ignored the feeling and pressed on. “And we’re leaving soon, like I said. So while I’m sure it’ll be a happy stay for us, it won’t be a long one.”

  Mrs. Saint set her chin and looked away as though she knew better about whether they’d be leaving soon or not, and Markie fought the temptation to ball her hands into fists and say, “And you can’t stop us, either!”

  “Anyway,” Mrs. Saint said, “Ronda has been having this sit in the kitchen, waiting. She wanted to leave it outside the screened porch so it would be closer to you and bring you luck sooner. But Patty reminded that Bruce might step on. This has happened many times with gardening totems she has made for him.”

  “Well, it was very thoughtful of you,” Markie said. “And of Ronda. The muffins and the little house and the time to ourselves. We’re pretty introverted, Jesse and I. Not everyone understands that. You have more visitors in a day than we do in a month.”

  Mrs. Saint craned her head to look at something on her side of the fence, and Markie suddenly heard Bruce and Frédéric behind her, discussing something about a wheelbarrow and mulch. She was tempted to ask Mrs. Saint to confirm the theory she had developed, that Frédéric played the role of general contractor rather than regular employee. But that would violate the rule she had set for herself: Stop being curious about them.

  “It must be a nice thing to have so much help,” she said instead. “Keeping up with a house can be so physically tiring.”

  “Och,” her neighbor said. She leaned close and whispered, “Sometimes I think the most tiring thing is to fix all their mistakes!” She indicated the basket, with Ronda’s muffins and the store-bought replacements.

  Before Markie could stop herself, she leaned in, too, and whispered, “But if they’re not good at their jobs, then why—?” She clapped her lips together, trapping the rest of her question. She did not care. She could not. She would not.

  The older woman had guessed, though, and tilted forward even more, beckoning for Markie to do the same. When their heads were almost touching, she whispered, “Mes défectueux, they are all in need of help. But who wants to be told this straight in the face? Or to be handed charity? So I give my help by asking for theirs. And by paying for honest work. Not always good, but honest.”

  Markie heard the men’s voices receding as they walked to the end of the driveway for their first load of mulch. Keeping a watchful eye trained on her yard, Mrs. Saint, her voice still low, said, “In the past, with les autres, I was very strict, always demanding for them to learn to do it right the first time. I wanted them to move on, get real jobs, with bosses who would not allow for the repeating of so many things. Those ones, they worked for me only for one month, two months, before I push them out, to a better life, on their own.”

  The men’s voices got louder, and Mrs. Saint put a finger to her lips, glancing casually around the patio to make it seem, in case Frédéric and Bruce looked over, that she was merely enjoying a pleasant morning at the neighbor’s and not talking about them. While they waited for the men to deliver the mulch and then retreat out of earshot for another load, Markie shifted in her chair and surveyed her neighbor’s house and yard, both understated yet immaculately maintained.

  The house was a ranch of unimposing size, but its gray exterior walls were so rich, its white window trim so crisp, Markie suspected it must be repainted at least once a year, if not more often, and possibly hand-washed in between. The lawn rivaled the golf course at the Woffords’ club for flawlessness, and the garden beds along the fence and the side of the house, while filled with local plants and flowers rather than anything showy or exotic, were tended with the sort of care Markie would expect if Mrs. Saint’s home were open to the public.

  Markie had no idea what Mrs. Saint was paying everyone, but if she had enough money to employ a staff for years, surely she could afford to live in a much nicer part of town where the homes were truly impressive. If it were Markie at seventy-five or eighty years old with that kind of wealth, she would upgrade immediately and cruise into her final chapters in a tony area with fancy new zero-lot-line condos—maintenance-free construction, no landscaping or yard to keep up, and neighbors who didn’t turn over with each lease term.

  Behind her came the sound of shovels scraping the bottom of the wheelbarrow, then the squeaking wheel of the vessel as someone pushed it back to the driveway. Mrs. Saint watched them go, then leaned in again. “Now I am much too old for this, for pressing them to get better and find somewhere else to go. I am much too . . .” She tapped two gnarled fingers over her heart.

  “Oh!” Markie said. “Are you ill?”

  Mrs. Saint frowned at the fingers on her heart as though she hadn’t realized they were there, and then she dropped her hand, and her gaze, to her lap. “I get tired more easy, is the thing I mean. Because I am older. This is all.”

  Markie doubted this was all, but she wasn’t about to push on a personal health matter despite her suspicion that if their roles were reversed, her neighbor surely wouldn’t allow her the same privacy. “Well, you and Frédéric get around pretty well, I’d say,” she said instead.

  Mrs. Saint’s head snapped up, and her dark, narrowed eyes told Markie it would have been better to push about her health than comment on her age. “Och! But he is much older than I am!”

  Markie managed to keep from saying, “Nice try!” or arching a skeptical brow, but the old woman must have detected her disbelief anyway, because she said, “Many people find it a surprise. But this is why smoking is a bad idea, I tell to Patty. Frédéric has never done, and I have all the years along. So this is what I get for that: people think me the same age, when I am a complete ten years younger.

  “Can you believe there are even people who ask to me what it was like in the Second World War? As if I lived in that time?” She stared at Markie with practiced incredulity, waiting, it seemed, for Markie to verify the ridiculousness of such a notion. Or, more accurately, to indicate she had bought the charade.

  “It takes a lot of work, to do the training of many people,” Mrs. Saint said, evidently eager to move off the topic of her age. “I have not the stamina for it now. Also, I am not so able anymore to keep up with all these details of who is looking for help, what are the skills they want, where the applications must go, and the such.

  “Alors, these ones”—she gestured toward her house, indicating the helpers in and around it—“I think maybe they will never be able to leave me. Not unless they decide to teach themselves to do their things correctly and then find a new job on their own, locating the place and giving the application and all of it. But I do not think these are things that will happen.

  “Frédéric tries to fill into my shoes, but he is not stern enough.” She shook her head, but there was more affection in the gesture than frustration, Markie thought. “Always he has been too forgiving, that man.”

  Mrs. Saint’s left hand moved to her right, and she touched the wedding band she wore on her right ring finger, the universal sign for widowhood. Watching, Markie recalled the older woman talking about her “Edouard” and wonder
ed if one of Frédéric’s too-forgiving acts had been to let Mrs. Saint know she was free to pine for her late husband forever and never return Frédéric’s affection.

  “He insists on impossible things from himself,” Mrs. Saint continued, “but then he lets others . . .” She frowned, sighed, and said nothing more.

  They were silent for a few moments, Mrs. Saint lost in thought and caressing her wedding band, Markie regarding the old woman with a curiosity she tried, and failed, to extinguish.

  “Anyway,” Mrs. Saint said, “because I cannot help them like before, and he never could do it all himself, I have been hoping someone else would come along someday to take up the job.”

  She considered Markie for such a long time, and with such intensity, that Markie felt her head reflexively shaking no before she even heard what Mrs. Saint said next: “This is why I was so happy to hear that a young woman was moving in beside. Someone with a working-at-home job, especially, who would be around always. Someone with more energy than I have.”

  Still moving her head from side to side, Markie pressed herself against her seat back, as though by creating a greater distance between them she could guard herself from the outrageous request her neighbor was hinting at. She couldn’t believe this woman! Not only had she obviously extracted Markie’s age and employment information from the bungalow’s leasing agent, but she had made the unilateral decision—before Markie even arrived on the scene!—that the new tenant should be the one to take over as employment counselor for her apparently unemployable staff!

  Markie eyed the Frenchwoman and wondered what other information she had squeezed out of the agent. The number of personal questions on the housing application had been so alarming that had she not been so desperate to get Jesse and herself out from under the thumbs and judgmental glances of Clayton and Lydia, she would never have filled out a single line. Even with her urgency to find a place, she’d had second thoughts after hitting “Send” on the online application. Did she really want to deal with such an overreaching leasing agent?