Mrs. Saint and the Defectives

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 very 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!”

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