Mrs. Saint and the Defectives: A Novel

by Julie Lawson Timmer

  Patty held the painting in both hands, extending her arms so she could admire it. “Reject or not, it’s beautiful. I love how the gold in the baby’s hair is the same as the gold in the frame. The whole thing is just so . . . hopeful, isn’t it? I don’t know if that’s the word, but it just kind of reaches out and grabs you and makes you stare at it.”

  Markie nodded. It was what had drawn her to the painting—how joyful it was, not only in its color but in its mood. Since she had first laid eyes on the painting, she had thought of it anytime she heard the word radiant. She said the same to Patty.

  “Radiant,” Patty repeated, still gazing at the painting. “Yeah, that’s the word for it. Not reject Madonna. Radiant Madonna.” She set it gently back in the box and gestured toward the rest of Markie’s collection of paintings. “This kind of thing—real art—you don’t run across in ‘curb retail’! And I’d never spend good money on things like this because Carol’d sell it all out from under me in a flash. Not that she’d appreciate the real value and ask enough for it.”

  “Oh, none of it’s worth anything,” Markie said. “It’s all just cheap stuff I’ve collected over the years. I think the Madonna one was ten bucks.”

  Patty lifted the picture out of the box again, gazed at it for a moment, and then put it back, patting its gold frame. “Well,” she said, turning to the next painting, “you’ve got some real nice things. Valuable or not.”

  “Do you want to hang Radiant Madonna in your room?” Markie asked. She pointed upstairs to the second-floor guest room.

  “Oh no, I couldn’t—”

  “Really. I mean, if it doesn’t hang on the wall of a room shared by a mother and daughter, where else is it going to go?”

  “Well, that’s a fair point.”

  “I have picture hooks,” Markie said. “In that smaller box by your right foot. There, at the top, in that envelope. And there’s a little hammer in there, too.”

  “Organized,” Patty said.

  “Sometimes,” Markie said. “Not lately. Hence all the artwork still in boxes in the basement.”

  She refrained from adding that Frédéric had been willing to hang it all months ago and she wouldn’t let him. And then she thought, What the hell? It was Patty she was talking to.

  “Actually,” she said, “lack of organization isn’t the reason it’s all still down here. Frédéric was all set to cover the walls the day we moved in. But I didn’t feel like . . . I don’t know, committing.”

  “To the bungalow?”

  “To anything,” Markie said. “Including myself.”

  “Yeah,” Patty said. “I got that feeling from you.”

  Markie reached a hand up to touch her hair.

  “I didn’t mean outward stuff,” Patty said, making a face as if to say, Who cares about that kind of thing? “I just meant sometimes you seem . . . not entirely here.” Markie bit her lip, and Patty quickly added, “Look, you’re not the first person who’s wanted to check out of your life for a while, you know. And as far as I can tell, you’ve picked about the least bad way to do it.

  “Believe me. I live with someone who’s chosen some pretty dangerous ways to disappear from what she doesn’t like. And not just dangerous. Expensive. Not to mention illegal. If the worst you’ve done is hole up on your own rather than throwing parties on the patio and inviting the entire neighborhood over, or kept your paintings all boxed up in the basement instead of decorating the place with them . . .”

  “That’s not the worst I’ve done.”

  Patty put a hand on her hip. “Oh, really? So what, then? You get stoned and let your grandbaby crawl out of the apartment? You fight with your dealer and have him push you down the stairs so you end up in the ER? Steal money from your kid? Get arrested?”

  “Nothing that bad.”

  “Then there’s no reason for you to stand there looking like you’re sorry. There’s nothing worth apologizing for. To me, to yourself, or to anyone else.” Patty locked eyes with Markie and added, “Including that boy of yours.”

  Markie had made some assumptions about Patty long before they had ever spoken, the kinds of things one (or at least, one from the Saint Mark’s circle) concludes about a woman who wears skintight jeans and low-cut blouses, who smokes a pack a day and lets other people raise her child. One of those assumptions was that when Patty spoke, all that would come out of her mouth was poor grammar and a cigarette-induced rasp, possibly a string of expletives. Nothing, certainly, of real substance.

  She had been right about the hoarseness and the grammar. Wrong about the swearing, and so, so wrong about the lack of substance. And she knew, suddenly, with absolute certainty, that Patty knew this. That she knew how she had been judged in Markie’s eyes, knew that women like Markie expected nothing of value from her. That she had figured out long ago what the assumptions were behind the looks she got, and what names were being used behind her back.

  “God,” Markie said, “I’ve been so—”

  But Patty shook her head. “You heard me. Nothing worth apologizing for.” She reached into the small box for the packet of picture-hanging nails and the hammer, tucked the Radiant Madonna under her arm, and headed for the basement stairs. “It’s not how we got here,” she said as she went. “Or even that we are here. It’s where we go from here.”

  A few minutes later, Markie stood smiling contentedly at the kitchen counter, alternately mixing ingredients for the casserole and wiping tears from her eyes as the tap tap tap of the little hammer sounded from the floor above.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Markie reached for the cooking oil to discover she was out, so she called upstairs to tell Patty she was going to the store. It wasn’t until she reached the parking lot that she realized it was midday and she wasn’t feeling self-conscious about being out in plain view. She even felt prepared to trade pleasantries with the cashier! She watched her reflection in the front window of the store and swore she could see a bounce in her step, even with the walking boot.

  And she didn’t look half bad, either, since she had put her hair up into a tidy bun before she left instead of leaving it in her usual haphazard ponytail. The sweatshirt she wore wasn’t torn or stained or two sizes too big. Her socks matched. She had even put on earrings. And her grocery list—cooking oil, yeast, and paprika, plus extra toilet paper and toothpaste for her houseguests, a bottle of Lola’s favorite bubble bath, and a new box of crayons—made her feel like she had plans, a life. Her usual list made her feel like a shut-in.

  For the first time in half a year, she allowed herself to meander through the entire store rather than scurrying into the freezer aisle and out again before anyone noticed her. In the baking aisle, she found the oil and spices she needed, then added pancake mix to her cart along with ingredients to make muffins and cookies. In the household section, along with the basic toiletries for the upstairs bathroom, she found little soaps for the sink, a matching set of hand towels, and a candle.

  She bought a cactus for the kitchen windowsill, too, and two packages of magnetized letters for the fridge. They could serve double duty: spelling practice for Lola and a means to hold up any new coloring pages the girl gifted to Jesse and Markie. In the produce section, she chose a carton of strawberries to go with their pancakes and added some oranges and grapefruits, thinking Lola might find it fun to squeeze them into fresh juice.

  Picturing Lola standing on a chair at the kitchen counter making juice brought to mind all the times Markie had begged her mother to let her help in the kitchen. But Lydia didn’t want her counters or her child to end up covered in flour, and Clayton didn’t like the idea of “greasy little fingers” all over his bread dough. Markie added a child-size rolling pin to her cart, then added a larger one in case Jesse wanted to help, too. He wouldn’t want to dress the part, of course, but she found small pink oven mitts and a matching apron for the eight-year-old who would. She estimated her cart total in her head and decided she could afford to splurge on one more small thing,
either cookie cutters or autumn-themed muffin cups. Then she pictured Lola’s face and decided to buy both.

  At home, she met Jesse and Lola, who were on their way back from Mrs. Saint’s, and they all walked in together, Markie stooping to set the grocery bags on the floor. Patty jogged into the kitchen to greet them, Angel trailing her.

  “Check it out,” she said. “I made a few . . . changes.”

  “Whoa!” Jesse said.

  It was an overreaction for a set of garbage-picked shelves, Markie thought, but when she lifted her eyes, she saw he was reacting to something else. Patty had hung a quarter of the art collection in the family room, and the once-empty walls were now crowded with color and texture as giant oils elbowed their way against small photo prints, and ornate gilt-edged frames cozied up to ones made of rustic wood or black lacquer.

  “Wow!” Markie said.

  She had always been a minimalist decorator, following the example of her mother in erring on the side of too many large swaths of empty space rather than overcrowding. She had also always complied with Lydia’s imperative that one mustn’t assault the senses by mixing too many patterns or colors or textures in the same small area. In Markie’s old house, just as at Lydia and Clayton’s, all of the black-framed pictures occupied one wall, with the brown, wood-framed pieces warranting their own separate section, while the gilt-edged ones took up occupancy far away, to prevent cross-visualization.

  “Busy is never a good thing when it comes to decorating,” Lydia liked to say. “Simple is always better.”

  Patty had followed none of Lydia’s rules. Her artistic vision was a study in diversity, busyness, and complication.

  “What do you think?” Patty asked.

  “Whoa,” Jesse said again. “It looks as though someone actually, like, lives here now.” Quickly, he turned to his mother, adding, “I mean . . . I didn’t mean . . . I only meant . . .”

  Markie laughed. “I get it. And you’re right. It does feel like that.”

  “I love it!” Lola said, moving slowly around the room to examine each piece. “I never saw so many arts in one room in all my life! Where’d you get it all?”

  “It’s all Markie’s,” Patty said. “It’s been in the basement.”

  Lola spun to face Markie, her mouth an accusatory O. Markie felt pathetic.

  “They just moved in, remember,” Patty said, and Lola’s lips closed into a forgiving smile as she went back to her slow tour of the art.

  “I don’t remember the shelves,” Jesse said.

  “Acquired today,” Patty said. “By me and Angel.”

  “From . . . ?” he asked.

  “Someone’s curb,” Patty said.

  “Nice,” Jesse told her, and Lola echoed him.

  “You like it?” Patty asked. “Not everyone wants secondhand stuff.”

  Markie felt her cheeks flush and wondered if something in her expression had given her away earlier, when Patty had first arrived with the shelves. Or was it that Jesse had come off as a spoiled rich kid? He did that from time to time, and Patty would definitely pick up on it.

  “Why not? Way cheaper,” Jesse said, saving himself and, Markie hoped, his mother.

  “And way more interesting,” Patty said, holding up her right hand to show off an old-looking silver ring she wore. “I love old, quirky things.”

  “Hey!” Jesse crossed the room to her in a single stride, reaching for her finger. “That’s the one I found behind Mrs. Saint’s garage! She gave it to you? I thought it was in her special suitcase where she keeps all her important things.”

  “She told me it was her Edouard’s mother’s,” Patty said, holding her hand out, fingers straight, so they could all admire it. “She said she wanted me to have it. It’s from ‘ta famille,’ she told me, so I should wear it. I’m not really sure what that means”—she turned her hand and admired the ring herself—“but you can bet I thanked her anyway and took it!”

  Later, when the kids had raced outside with Angel, Patty showed Markie the ring again. “I wonder why she gave it to me. Maybe she senses she’s . . . slipping. She won’t say what they told her when she spent the night in the hospital. If Frédéric knows, he’s not talking, either.”

  She stared at her hand, her chin twitching, and Markie was surprised to find herself overcome by emotion as well at the thought of losing the old woman. Four months ago, she would have paid for someone to swoop in and remove Mrs. Saint from the property next door. Her and all of her “Defectives.”

  They were quiet for a while, until Markie finally said, “Thanks so much for hanging the art. It makes the room feel so much warmer.”

  Patty smiled. “Wait’ll you see the rest.”

  She turned toward the archway leading to the living/dining room. Markie couldn’t believe it: Patty had hung the rest of the collection, filling the walls of every room and hallway, all in the same crazy mixed-up arrangement she had used in the family room, with professionally matted Matisse reproductions next to art projects Jesse had brought home in kindergarten, framed with Popsicle sticks.

  As for the effort of hanging all of the pieces only to have to pack them all back up again in a few months, so what? It wasn’t Markie’s efforts that had gotten them onto the walls. And although she had already mentally rehearsed her “No, thank you” for when Mrs. Saint offered to send Frédéric and Bruce over in February to pack up the bungalow, she was starting to think, as she followed Patty around and heard her chatter excitedly about why she had put this painting here, that sketch there, that Patty might enjoy packing them all back up again later.

  Maybe she would even want to come to the new place and rehang them. As payment, Markie decided, she would give Patty the Radiant Madonna. If Carol sold it, so what? At least Patty would enjoy it before then. And maybe she could hang it somewhere in Mrs. Saint’s house to keep it safe from her mother.

  “I ran out of nails,” Patty told Markie once they were back in the kitchen, “so there’s some stuff still in a box downstairs. I’ve seen people prop frames up against the wall instead of hanging them, but I didn’t know what you’d think about that.”

  “What do you think about it?” Markie asked.

  “I think we should go for it.”

  “Then let’s. But first I need to put all this stuff away.”

  They hoisted the grocery bags onto the counter, and Markie reached into one and produced the little pink baking mitts. “You think Lola will want to help me bake a few things?”

  Patty eyed the mitts and grinned. “I think your eardrums are going to hurt for a long time after she squeals about those. And the chance to help in the kitchen. Can’t say she ever gets to do that at my place. I didn’t grow up like that.”

  “Me neither,” Markie said.

  “But that’s not stopping you,” Patty said. She thought for a moment before she spoke again. “I feel like I could learn something from you. How to break the cycle. How to not treat her like I was treated so she doesn’t go on to raise her kids the same crummy way.” She ran a finger over the stitching on one of the oven mitts. “I tell myself it’s fine if I’m not with her all the time, not really paying that careful of attention. Carol left me alone more than I do Lola, and I turned out okay.

  “But I can’t look you in the eyes and say I wasn’t lonely when I was a kid. Scared, too, sometimes. I can’t tell you I didn’t wish for a mom who did things like this, someone who bought me oven mitts and cookie cutters and let me help her roll out dough and mix muffins. I mean, sometimes, I think . . .” Patty’s eyelids fluttered closed briefly, then opened. “Maybe this’ll sound kind of dramatic. But sometimes I think I didn’t really have much of a childhood.”

  “Not so dramatic,” Markie said. “I’ve had that thought about myself, and I had it a lot easier than you.”

  Patty smiled gratefully. “I get these . . . twinges. This feeling I should do more than I’m doing to make sure Lola gets to be a kid. I think I could be better. A better mom, I mean. Different fro
m Carol. But anytime I try to think of how, I never seem to come up with anything.

  “I’m not one for reading out loud or helping with homework or playing those crazy made-up games she always wants to play. I’ll never be that kind of mom.” She gestured to the baking supplies. “I wouldn’t have ever thought of something like this. Of asking her to make stuff in the kitchen with me.”

  Markie held out the baking mitts, apron, and rolling pin. “Why don’t you ask her now?”

  “Oh no,” Patty said, stepping back. “This was your idea. And you paid.”

  Markie touched a hand to Patty’s. “And you made this place look, in the words of my son, ‘as though someone actually, like, lives here.’” She pointed to the sink full of sweet potatoes and the stack of recipe cards Mrs. Saint had left. “I don’t have time for it anyway, to be honest. I need to tackle the sides for Thanksgiving dinner or there’ll be a tiny Frenchwoman to answer to. Why don’t I do that, and you two can bake all this stuff I bought for us to eat this weekend?”

  “Oh, about that,” Patty said. “Carol told me she’d have what’s-his-name out by tomorrow after dinner if me and Lola want to come back to the apartment then.”

  “Do you?” Markie asked.

  “Not really. But it’s not up to me. This is your house, and I figured you might—”

  Markie thrust the armful of baking gear toward Patty again, interrupting her. “Then you’d better grab your assistant and get to work. Because if we don’t get all this food made, we’ll have nothing to eat all weekend once we run out of Thanksgiving leftovers.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three