The Puppet Maker’s Bones
by
Alisa Tangredi
This is a work of fiction. Apart from actual historical people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or locales, or to living persons, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright ©2012 by Alisa Tangredi
All rights reserved.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.
Cover design by flipcitybooks.com
Formatted by CyberWitch Press
This book is dedicated to my husband, the handsome man who saves me from my monsters.
And yearning, weaned away these many years,
Grips me for that grave quiet world of ghosts;
My verse waits on the undecided airs
And like a wind harp sways and sounds and rests;
Cold visitation and a rush of tears,
Hardly at all the strict heart still resists,
What I possess looks far away to me,
Things vanished are becoming my reality
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,
Faust: The First Part of the Tragedy
Present Day: Pasadena, California
Mr. Pavel Trusnik pulled on the custom blackout curtains that covered the living room window, ensuring passersby could not sneak a glimpse into his home. The drapes enabled him to look out, but no one could look in. How many years had he paid attention to the mundane ritual of ensuring the drapes were closed? When had he last ventured out the front door? Perhaps in 1942? The neighbor boys had batted a ball through the window. A painful memory of that morning tugged at him. During one of the wars perhaps, but if so, which one? He could not say, for there’d been too many to track. His physical appearance made him seem too young to fight in the one that mattered, and he had been powerless to do anything more than look on in horror and sadness at the tremendous loss resulting from the many that followed. So many. So senseless. What was today? Wednesday. Wednesday’s child is full of woe. Another memory nagged at the corners of Pavel’s mind and lingered there in some long-denied recess of his mind as he stood alone in his dark home.
He walked into the kitchen and to a door with stairs leading down to a root cellar. He turned on the light over the stairs and descended the few short steps to the cellar. The space was little more than a cleared area of the crawl space under the house, which Pavel had fashioned into a below-ground room common in the Midwest or parts of Europe, but unusual for sunny California. The smell of the rich dirt floor drifted into his nostrils, and he took a deep breath that seemed to start first at his toes, then travel up through his body and into his nostrils. He was somehow comforted by the odor of the rich, dry earth below his feet. He surveyed the various root vegetables stacked in fastidious and ordered fashion and selected a turnip for his Wednesday midday meal. Pavel always ate a turnip on Wednesday. Monday, he ate a parsnip. Tuesday, he would eat a rutabaga. Monday’s child is fair of face, Tuesday’s child is full of grace. The nagging memory persisted, but chose not to reveal itself in full; however, the fragment of the poem forced a slow melancholy into his emotions, though emotion for him had been drained and deadened over long years of solitude. A man in his position could not afford the circumstances that accompanied strong feelings of any kind, and years of grief and hurt had evolved in him a particular numbness that was neither a relief nor a comfort.
He came back up the steps into the kitchen, where he took a magnet from the refrigerator and held it over the drawer front—a type of child lock he had installed years ago after one of the many earthquakes. No drawer could be opened without the magnetic key. He pulled the handle with a firm but frail hand, his hands now spotted and calloused by time and manual effort. He placed the magnet key back on the refrigerator and returned to the open drawer which held knives for every purpose. Slicing and filet knives, serrated and Santoku, meat and fish slicers, mincers and boning knives—all gleaming in their designated locations within the drawer. Pavel selected a simple paring knife. He made a long slice through the turnip with a deliberateness, his thumb providing the right amount of cushion at the end of the slicing action to collect the result. He took the first slice and put it in his mouth, tasting the bittersweet character of the root.
“Unloved vegetables,” She had called them. He remembered something about Her laugh. She had been making fun of his sense of injustice which extended to include not only persecuted humans, but also certain vegetables shunned by the palate of the general public. His face crinkled into what might be considered a small smile at the memory, though his mind stumbled at remembering Her name or when She’d made the remark. He remembered only that She was important.
The old man carried the turnip and knife across the vintage tile floor of his immaculate kitchen, back into the living room, slicing off bits, putting them into his mouth and chewing as he walked. The smell and taste of the turnip livened his senses to other things in the old house. Sunlight hit his face as it snuck through in streaks where the windows had managed to escape cover by the special drapes, allowing undiffused light to enter the space. Odors entered his nostrils as he moved around the various pieces of furniture, long covered with white sheets to protect them from dust and time. Floor wax, lemon oil, white vinegar. Pavel kept a very neat home and while not averse to cleaning, he found covering things that remained unused to be easier on the amount of housekeeping required for such a large, old house. No housekeeper would enter the premises. They had made sure of that. Any cleaning must be done by Pavel alone. The mirrors that hung in the foyer and hallway had been draped in black cloth ever since…. The persistent nagging at his memory pushed him a little harder. Pavel tried to brush it away but the memory endured, and he was reminded of a time when the grocery delivery boy had come by. Pavel had opened the door that day in an act of… what, exactly? Rebellion? Madness? The boy glanced into the house from the open doorway and saw that the mirror mounted in the foyer, on the wall directly facing the front door, had been draped in black. He was not supposed to open the door to the boy, but he had not seen anyone in a very long time.
When had Pavel last opened that door… 1970, perhaps.
***
1970
“Are you Jewish?” the boy asked. Pavel stood to the side of the doorway, in the shadows created by his drapery.
“Jewish?”
“Did someone die?”
“Oh! Yes. Yes, I’m sorry. Yes, someone has died.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“My grandmother was Jewish,” the boy said. “She told me you have to cover the mirrors.”
“Ah, yes. What do I owe you today?” Pavel observed the boy, coltish in frame, his face in the beginning stages of an invasion by pimples. The boy’s clothing—a striped shirt hanging over denim pants that flared wide at the feet and were much too long for his already long legs. Clothing styles for the youth had greatly altered since he had last seen a young person. His hair was full and long over the ears, and the lock that fell across the boy’s forehead reminded Pavel of the forelock on a horse. In fact, there was much about the boy that reminded him of a horse, which caused him to feel a twinge of amusement.
“Nah, it’s okay, sir. Mr. Hull wouldn’t want me to charge you right now.”
“Mister… Hull?”
“The grocer? Hey, listen, are you okay? Do you have anyone to sit Shiva with you?”
Pavel gaped at the boy who stood so concerned and earnest in his doorway
.
“Shiva?”
“You know—”
“Oh! Yes, I’m sorry. Yes. I’m afraid I’m not thinking. I have apparently misled you. I’m not Jewish. My people are Czech—it’s an old custom for us as well, I think. Actually, I think it might be a custom for a lot of people. Are you sure I can’t pay you today?”
“Oh! I thought that—well, that’s cool. But are you okay here? Do you have anyone staying with you?”
“My, but you are a curious and caring young man, aren’t you? I’m fine, thank you. Thank you for coming by. You are very kind. Here is something for your trouble.” Mr. Trusnik pressed a waxed paper envelope containing several bills into the boy’s hand, far more money than would cover the cost of the groceries and a tip for the boy. Already wearing heavy, leather gloves, he took extra care to hold the waxed paper by a corner so as not to make contact with the boy’s skin. The boy gazed in confusion at Pavel and his gloved hands.
“Please tell Mr. Hull I am most grateful to him.” He shut the door in the boy’s face and watched through the door’s peephole until the boy walked down the front stairs of the porch, down the walk and out of his field of vision. He removed his gloves and placed them on the credenza nearest the door, then carried the box of groceries into the kitchen.
Pavel had spoken to an individual from the outside. The feeling of contact, albeit briefly, with another person left him overwhelmed, and he could feel his heart beat slightly faster than he was accustomed. No matter. He expected to receive a phone call soon about answering the door, since doing so was forbidden. Maybe they would ignore this transgression, since no one got hurt.
After that day, Pavel called a builder and paid for the construction of an anteroom that would allow delivery people access to an enclosed area which would serve as a barrier between the outdoors and indoors. When expecting a delivery, he would leave out money, along with instructions to make all deliveries without knocking. He was able, then, to collect his purchases without having to go out into the open.
He called it the “Mud Room.”
***
“You’ll be wanting a mud room, then?” asked the builder on the other end of the telephone.
Pavel held the phone to his ear and consulted a drawing he had made, currently spread on the kitchen table in front of him.
“A mud room?”
“Yeah. And you’ll be wanting some shelves and hanger areas for the coats and boots and stuff, then?”
Pavel imagined shelves and hangers were designed for people coming in and going out of the main house. He would fill them with something for appearances.
“That sounds very nice. You send me the plans and I’ll let you know.”
“I can bring them by—”
“I prefer that you send them through the post.”
Pavel did not intend to have any contact with the builder.
“You’re the boss. The ‘post’ it is. And don’t worry, Mr. Trusnik. We’ll make it match the house. Beautiful old Victorian architecture, that. Italianate, isn’t it?”
“You know your Victorians, sir.”
“Sure do. Beautiful. Don’t see too many of these places anymore. You see plenty of the Queen Annes and that sort of thing, but this…”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“And it’s a darn shame. Who did your restoration—they did a beautiful job.”
Pavel was becoming uncomfortable with the length of the conversation and with the questions.
“Oh, that was years ago, I have forgotten. It has been so nice talking to you. I look forward to seeing the plans.”
Pavel hung up.
All deliveries were made to the Mud Room. People entered, left packages or other purchases, and Pavel collected them without ever venturing outside or coming into contact with anyone. Mr. Trusnik had been conducting business with the outside world that way for many years. Decades, perhaps. The length of time was impossible to remember or to comprehend.
Present Day
A landscaping company came once a week to trim the yard. Sprinklers set with timers made hand watering the plants and flowers a thing of the past. Maintaining the garden had been easy when the house was new, but time and circumstance had complicated things. Pavel was grateful for the modern conveniences available to him, by either telephone or computer. He missed walking among the carefully selected plants in the front yard. Each had been picked to invite and celebrate as much life as the garden could accommodate—butterfly bushes, citrus, lavender, fuchsia, rue and rosemary, thyme and sage—all attracted a variety of bees, butterflies, birds, and a great many insects to Pavel’s delight, season after season. A similar creation existed in the house’s enclosed back yard. He’d not ventured outside for many years during the daylight hours to enjoy his creation, but he saved that pleasure for the hours when it was dark and the neighborhood asleep. Then, he could enjoy walking among the plants.
A house painting company had a standing appointment every five years to touch up the exterior of the Victorian so that Pavel’s home would remain tidy and protected from the weather and would avoid any appearance of neglect. He opined that a poorly maintained home would draw far more attention than one that was treated with care. A well-established roofing company had a similar appointment to replace the roof every decade. One day, the Historical Preservation Society came by and embedded a plaque in the sidewalk in front of the house, designating the Victorian a historical landmark of the City of Pasadena.
“How nice,” he thought, until he received a letter one day which stated that any alteration or addition that might compromise the historically protected landmark was forbidden under the guidelines set by the Historical Preservation Society. The letter also requested his consent to allow tours of the interior of the house as well as the back garden. He balked at that and sent a polite, but firm, refusal. The Society was quite persistent, and Pavel found it necessary to engage Mr. Trope. Mr. Trope was a weasel of a man with whom Pavel had been reluctantly obligated to form a business alliance many, many years prior. Mr. Trope, currently his attorney in addition to many other functions, was responsible for attending to the matter of his privacy and the rules of his isolation. Like the painters and roofers, Mr. Trope handled all of his affairs on retainer. He paid Pavel’s bills, made investments on his behalf and protected his overall interests. Mr. Trope was also responsible for ensuring that Mr. Trusnik adhered to the terms of his present arrangement regarding visitors or any ventures outside his home.
Pavel had carved out a regular routine that shunned all outside activity during the daylight hours. No one knocked on the door to ask to use the facilities or for a glass of water. If they did, Pavel stood on the other side of the door and stared through the peephole while the door remained unanswered. No neighbors came by to borrow the proverbial cup of sugar. Sales people and religious solicitors respected the sign out front that read “No solicitors please.” Time and consistency on his part had made him, as well as the house, a cipher to be ignored. In the years preceding his present arrangement with Mr. Trope, Pavel made small trips out of doors to work in the front garden or to take short walks in his neighborhood. Certain visitors came, and he had lived a less solitary life. That changed the day the boys broke the window.
Wednesday’s Child is full of woe. Pavel’s memory had become like one of those round puzzle-ball toys used for teaching shapes to children—the kind that contained many different geometrically-shaped holes cut into the ball and into which identically shaped blocks could be inserted. Every now and then a shape would fall into place in his memory. At other times the empty places in his memory remained like the holes in the toy. The others had been worried about his memory. Should he be?
If his waning memory served, he was certain the baseball, propelled by the force of youthful strength and reckless exuberance, had crashed through the window on a Wednesday, shattering the leaded glass. He could not remember how many of the children he had come in contact with that day or how many arms he�
��d grabbed in his hurt and anger.
***
1942
“Throw it here, throw it here!” yelled the boy, his voice somewhat muffled by the leaded glass windows. Inside, Pavel could make out the voices at play outside in the street.
“Hey batter, batter, batter, what’s the matter, batter, batter, batter…”
“Shut up!”
Crack.
“Oh no!” several voices cried at once.
The ball crashed through the glass of one of Pavel’s front windows that faced the living room. The “parlor,” She had called it. The window’s shattering was followed by the breaking of glass in a framed daguerreotype photograph hung upon the wall, directly opposite the window. The photograph was the only one Pavel possessed of Her. The frame shattered and the daguerreotype along with it, as age had made the silvered, copper plate unstable and brittle.
“What have you done?” Pavel cried, running outside to confront the terrified boys in his front yard.
He thought about the one boy. The leader. Stuart had been his name. Why did he remember that?
The boys were all dead now, of course.
Kevin: Present Day, Pasadena
Kevin sped along Marengo Avenue on his skateboard. The sight of a youth on a skateboard was commonplace in Pasadena, or about anywhere, for that matter. The skateboard provided the seventeen-year-old boy a useful means of getting around unobserved while he made it a point to observe everything. Especially the houses. Kevin adjusted the ear buds from his mp3 player and turned up the volume. What he heard made him smile.
“No, please don’t… I’m begging you. Why are you doing this?”
“Because I can.”
Bloodcurdling screams filled his ears, and Kevin almost turned down the volume but decided to keep it loud. No one was around to hear what he listened to, and if anyone asked, Kevin had an easy explanation. The smell of copper and fear filled his memory, causing him to smile.
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