Mrs. Saint and the Defectives: A Novel

by Julie Lawson Timmer

  Frédéric seemed agitated, and at first Markie thought it was because of the extra guests. Maybe he resented the intrusion on the intimate holiday meal he had been used to sharing with Mrs. Saint, Bruce, and Ronda for however many years. But then she realized the moments he seemed most calm were when he was talking to Jesse about the war or looking with Lola at the new coloring pages she had brought over, so she discarded her initial theory and studied him longer.

  When he cast three nervous glances at Mrs. Saint in the span of a single minute, she realized it wasn’t the four intruders from across the fence who were setting him on edge, but the woman who lived there. They weren’t in the middle of a spat, she didn’t think; Mrs. Saint had smiled at him like Markie had never seen her do, and she had thanked him warmly for doing little things like putting another log on the fire and calming Ronda down when she thought she had ruined the gravy.

  Markie wanted to ask Patty if she noticed it, too, but the young woman was rushing back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room, trying to both set the table and provide moral support to Ronda, all while embroiled in some discussion with Lola, who was attempting to help with the place settings. The turkey was almost done resting, Ronda had announced, and they were due to sit down soon. Markie didn’t want to interfere with the last few minutes of preparation, and they had declined her offers to pitch in, so she stood quietly in a corner of the dining room and observed.

  The closer they were to sitting, the more agitated Frédéric became, and when the doorbell rang, most of them were startled—they weren’t expecting anyone else—but Frédéric practically jumped out of his skin. Bruce moved toward the door, but the older man held up a hand to stop him.

  “Angeline!” he said, his face the picture of dread. “Let us answer, you and me. Alone.”

  They all loved and respected Frédéric, but after that display, there was no way the rest of them were staying put and missing out on whatever scene was about to play out at the front door. Frédéric, sensing they were all primed to follow, scanned their faces pleadingly, and Markie guessed he was about to beg them not to come. She started to turn back to the kitchen and herd the others with her, but before Frédéric could speak, the doorbell rang again.

  Frédéric shrugged. “Maybe the extra people will help, actually,” he said to the air above their heads, and turning, he headed for the door, Mrs. Saint by his side.

  Everyone scurried after them and stood waiting a few feet behind, their eyes trained on the door, and when Frédéric finally pulled it wide enough to reveal the person on the other side, they sucked in a collective astonished breath. There on the doorstep was an exact replica of Mrs. Saint.

  “Simone!” Markie whispered, and from somewhere behind her she heard Jesse’s voice whisper the same thing.

  “Simone,” Frédéric said, bowing low. His voice, like Markie’s and her son’s, was whisper-quiet.

  He stepped backward and extended an arm for her to come inside while he reached for Mrs. Saint with his other hand. Markie didn’t have to wonder long whether he was reaching out to comfort her or to keep her at his side, because before Simone took a single step across the threshold, Mrs. Saint turned on her heel and stomped away, through the living room and down a hallway that, Markie guessed, held the bedrooms. Seconds later, a door slammed.

  Like spectators at a tennis match, everyone had turned to watch Mrs. Saint march away, and now they all turned back to Simone, who was unbuttoning her coat. When she removed it, along with her gloves and purse, and handed them to a waiting Frédéric, they all took in another collective inhale. It wasn’t the fact that she and Mrs. Saint were obviously twins that took their breath away. Wrinkle patterns and hair color (theirs were identical) weren’t within a person’s control.

  It was the fact that everything else about her, all the elements of her appearance that she had power over—clothes, jewelry, shoes, purse, the way she carried herself—were the same as well. The sisters had been apart for who knew how long. Years, Markie guessed. Decades, even. Yet from outward appearances, they might as well have been living in the same house.

  “Simone,” Frédéric said again, and this time his voice was a little louder.

  He handed her things to Bruce, then stood awkwardly, his arms partly extended toward her as though he wasn’t sure if he should touch her. She regarded his uncertain arms and took one small step toward him. He closed the distance and they embraced, and the length of their hug confirmed Markie’s estimate that it had been decades, indeed, not mere years, since the sisters had seen each other.

  When Frédéric finally released her, he was smiling, but Simone planted her feet wide, crossed her arms, and glared at him. His smile faded, and in an instant he was a little boy, standing in front of his mother, waiting to be chastised for breaking a vase. With a speed and force that resulted in a third collective intake of breath from the group, she slapped him hard across the face.

  Frédéric raised a hand to his cheek reflexively, and Markie waited for him to exclaim, “What the hell?” To suggest that maybe Simone had already outstayed her welcome. Instead, amazingly, he nodded.

  “You,” Simone said. “I am not sure what to call you.”

  “Frédéric, if you please.”

  As he said it, Frédéric gave a slight bow, as though he were asking her permission. Or for a favor.

  Simone seemed to debate this in her mind, and he shifted uncomfortably, holding his breath. Finally, she gave a short nod and the same slight chin dip Markie had seen her sister perform countless times.

  “Frédéric, then.”

  Frédéric let his breath out in a long, relieved blast and inclined his head, a thank-you.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Mrs. Saint didn’t wait long to return to the group. With apologies to everyone for making them delay their meal, she invented a story about lost reading glasses and her inability to quickly locate them, then summoned everyone impatiently to the table. When they were seated, she introduced her sister without fanfare, as though she had been telling them for weeks that Simone would be joining them that night. Simone began to apologize for her sudden and unexpected entrance, but Mrs. Saint waved her off, saying there was no need to be sorry, there was plenty of food, and now it was time for Frédéric to say grace.

  Simone was from New York, she told everyone, as they were passing heaping plates of turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans, rolls, sweet potato casserole, cranberry sauce, and stuffing around the table. She had two boys, and they each had two children, and the busyness of grandparenting had kept her from visiting Angeline. She didn’t look at her sister when she said this last bit, and Mrs. Saint busied herself spreading butter on a roll, pretending no disagreement with Simone’s explanation for why no one at the table, other than Frédéric, had ever seen her before. But try as they did, the twins could not hide the thick tension that had settled into the dining room, and not even Lola would believe that it was geographical distance and grandkids that had kept the sisters apart.

  They ate fast, everyone refusing seconds and claiming no room even for dessert. They could have it tomorrow, Ronda suggested, and Bruce chimed in that pumpkin pie was always so much better the next day anyway. Frédéric told Ronda and Bruce to leave the kitchen to him, and in fewer than five minutes, the front door was closing behind the two of them as they walked together to the bus stop.

  Over Lola’s protests, Patty said it was time for them to leave, too, and Markie and Jesse jumped up immediately, saying it wouldn’t be right to send their guests home without them. From the moment they all sat down to dinner until the moment Markie and the others were back inside the bungalow, not even thirty minutes had elapsed.

  Markie had every intention of avoiding her elderly neighbor for the rest of the weekend, leaving her to her own secrets. She was as curious as ever about Simone and why Mrs. Saint had denied her existence, but she knew what it was like to have something painful in her past and to want to hide it from others. After seein
g Mrs. Saint’s face when she saw who was at the door, after watching her bristle at the sound of Simone’s voice, Markie had no plans to push in on the matter.

  But on Friday morning, Mrs. Saint was at Markie’s door, holding out half a pie along with an assortment of other leftovers, all packaged into neatly labeled containers.

  “And I brought all the leftover rolls for Lola,” she said. “She liked those best.”

  Markie said thank you and put her hand on the door handle, ready to close it.

  “I wanted to explain—” Mrs. Saint began.

  “You don’t have to. I know what it’s like to have something painful—”

  The old woman threw her head back as though Markie had said something hilarious, though no laughter came out. “Painful? Och, non. Annoyed, that is all. She comes after all these years? On a holiday! Who does this?”

  “Is she still there?” Markie asked. She took a step backward and beckoned her neighbor in.

  Mrs. Saint stepped inside, closing the door behind her, and scanned the family room and kitchen before setting her basket down.

  “Oh, the dog’s not here,” Markie said. “Patty and the kids took her out for a walk.”

  “Oui,” Mrs. Saint said, placing the basket on the floor by her feet, “she is still remaining. I tried to send her home, but her flight is going back tomorrow, and Frédéric tells me it will cost her much to change it. Anyway, she is staying mostly in the kitchen, teaching Ronda to make some things.

  “So we do not have to be . . .” She crossed her middle finger over her pointer. “I have been reading in my room, so we have been more like . . .” She separated her fingers into a wide V. “Which is better.” She cleared her throat. “I know I lied about the picture,” she said. “I am sorry for this.”

  “It’s fine,” Markie said. “We all have things we don’t feel like talking about. And this has been a tough few days for—”

  “It is because she stole a boyfriend of mine, you see,” Mrs. Saint said. “It was many years ago, and perhaps you think me an old fool to still hang on. But he was very special to me. And not to her. And she has never apologized.”

  “Why did she slap Frédéric?” Markie asked. “And why did she say she wasn’t sure what to call him?”

  Mrs. Saint narrowed her eyes. “I was not aware about these things.” She considered for a moment and then said, “He has confronted her sometimes, about her behavior to me. She does not like this. I think this is why the slap. For the name, I suppose . . . maybe she had an intention of calling him something rude.”

  “Did she say why she came?” Markie asked. “Did she finally apologize?”

  “We have not spoken of it,” Mrs. Saint said. “But I know she wants my forgiveness. She is not well. And she is not wanting to die with this thing between us.”

  “Will you forgive her?”

  “Forgiveness is not mine to give,” Mrs. Saint said. “It belongs to God. And as to whether he will, she will have to wait and see.”

  “But a lot of people forgive one another.”

  “I do not believe in it.”

  “The Catholic Church does, though, doesn’t it?”

  “I am not the Catholic Church. And I think it is too easy to get forgiveness from a person.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Markie woke in the middle of the night to the wailing of sirens and the flashing of red-and-white lights across the ceiling. She ran to the window that overlooked Mrs. Saint’s property, pulled the curtain aside, and gasped. “Oh my God! No!” Flames leaped from one corner of Mrs. Saint’s house, and torrents of thick, dark smoke billowed out of every window and all along the roof line.

  Two fire trucks were parked along the curb, and another was screaming up behind them. A police car trailed closely behind the last truck, and instead of pulling in behind the others, it made a sweeping arc into the street and stopped, blocking the road to all other traffic. An ambulance sat in the driveway, its back doors thrown open. The lights on all five vehicles continued to flash, and the figures racing over the lawn and between the trucks were alternately illuminated in a red glow and then plunged into darkness, blurry shadows against the night sky.

  Three thick shapes with oxygen tanks on their backs worked to pull a hose from a coil in the middle of one of the trucks while another, similarly clad, raced to the fire hydrant on the corner, a long wrench in his hand. Two others, wielding flashlights, jogged from the back of the ambulance to the front door, one carrying a bag. Down the street, house lights began to turn on, and Markie saw neighbors stumbling out of front doors and toward the blaze, pajama tops pulled up to cover their noses and mouths.

  Markie raced down the stairs as fast as her walking boot would allow, ignoring her protesting left ankle, and without stopping to find a shoe for her right foot or pull a sweater over her thin pajamas, she tore out the side door and across the lawn. Behind her, she heard Angel’s muffled barking in the basement. The entire bungalow must be awake by now, with the noise and lights and commotion next door. She hoped Patty would think to keep Lola from looking out the window.

  Outside, she was overwhelmed by every sense. The acrid smell of smoke choked her as she picked her way over the grass, arms extended for balance as she watched the ground carefully to be sure her walking boot didn’t catch on something and send her flying. She didn’t dare use a hand to cover her nose and mouth, for fear she would topple sideways.

  The sirens had stopped whining, but the staccato lights continued, washing everything around her in a flash of red, then white, then darkness, over and over. Voices shouted from the front lawn, the driveway, and the road, and multiple radios or walkie-talkies crackled and hissed from different directions. A wall of heat pressed against her skin, and her eyes burned with smoke and with the tears that came as panic set in.

  All her life she had heard sirens across town, seen fire trucks and ambulances race past her on the highway and through intersections, watched coverage of blazes on the TV news, but never had she been so close to one. And never had she known the victims. What if they hadn’t gotten out? What if the firemen didn’t know to check downstairs for Frédéric?

  She made her way through the gate in the fence and was halfway across Mrs. Saint’s lawn, heading for the front of the house, when a white light arced across her. She looked up to see a police officer stepping out of the shadows, a flashlight in his hand.

  “Whoa there,” he said. “Where’d you come from? Were you inside? Are you related to the homeowner?”

  “I’m the neighbor,” Markie panted, thrusting a thumb behind her. “Is everyone okay? Did they get them all out? There were three people inside! One in the basement! I need to get to them!”

  She tried to move past him, but he put up his hands, motioning for her to stop.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” he said, “but we can’t have anyone on the scene until it’s been secured.” He pointed toward the fence. “I’ll need you to return to your home, please. This is an unsafe environment.”

  “But I . . . I’m . . . more than just a neighbor! I’m . . .”

  She wanted to say, “I’m like a daughter!” or “I’m a close friend!” But she realized the absurdity of both claims. For the entire time she had lived next door, she had tried not to be a friend to Mrs. Saint, not to be anything close to a family member.

  “Just tell me if they got everyone out!” she said, craning her neck to see around him.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t give out any information—”

  “Well, run around to the front, at least, and make sure they’ve checked the basement!” she said, shooing him. “And the master bedroom, and the guest room!”

  “My orders are to check the perimeter, ma’am, and—”

  She pointed to the radio on his belt. “Then call them!”

  “They’re very capable responders, ma’am. They know how to check a building, and they don’t take their time at it. Now, I need to ask you again to leave the premises and return to your home
.”

  “But where will they go once the fire’s out?” she asked. “They can’t stay in there! They should come to my place. Can you tell them I’m up and waiting for them? They’ll need you to walk them with your flashlight. They’re elderly, and the ground is uneven.”

  “Ma’am,” he said, waving her toward her house, “please.”

  “Can you do that? Bring them over?” She took a conciliatory step backward, hoping her obedience would garner this favor from him.

  He pushed the air with both hands to get her to continue moving backward, and he didn’t answer.

  “Can you at least come over?” she asked. “When you’re finished? To let me know everyone’s okay?” She continued backward, still craning her head to try to see around him. “I’ll put coffee on,” she added.

  “Afraid I can’t do that, ma’am. You’ll have to wait and hear from the family.”

  “But her only family member was inside the house with her!”

  He stopped and took a pen and pad from his breast pocket. “And what’s the name of that person?”

  “Simone. The woman who lives there is Angeline St. Denis, and her sister is Simone . . . I don’t know her last name. But if you’d go over and check to see if they’re all out, you could ask yourself, and then you could just wave to me to let me know they’re fine.” She gave him a last pleading look, but he was busy closing his notebook and didn’t notice.

  He returned his pad and pen to his pocket, and with an expression that showed he was losing patience and she was pushing her luck, he pointed again to the wooden fence and kept pointing until she turned and retreated.

  “I need to check the rest of the perimeter, ma’am,” she heard him say behind her. “Please don’t come over here again until you’ve seen all the trucks are gone and the environment has been rendered safe.”

  He must have lifted his flashlight then, because a lighted pathway appeared from the fence to the bungalow’s side door, and it remained until she stepped inside. Peering out the window, she watched him turn and walk toward the garage, checking over his shoulder every few steps to ensure she didn’t come back out.