And she seemed equally nonjudgmental about other people. She spoke only respectfully about Mrs. Saint, Ronda, Bruce, and Frédéric, despite their peculiarities, and she had never given the impression she thought Markie was odd because of her hermitlike existence or her refusal to accept help from, or socialize with, the people on the other side of the fence. Anyone could say something pithy like “Live and let live,” but as far as Markie was concerned, Patty was the only person she had ever met who actually meant it. It made being around her feel so freeing and uncomplicated that Markie had noticed their visits getting longer and longer only because the clock told her so and not because she found herself feeling anxious and claustrophobic the way she did when conversations with other people started dragging on.
Being around her had even made Markie lighten up on herself a little. Patty didn’t look sideways at Markie’s faded, tight yoga pants or her messy ponytail or her freezer piled with frozen pizzas, so Markie didn’t frown at herself in the mirror as often or gulp with guilt at the contents of her grocery cart. It was such a change from her old life and the censorious gazes of Lydia and the Mothers’ Club—looks that had caused Markie to spend years doubting her outfits, her hairstyles, her entire being. It made her cringe to think she had aimed the same stare of condemnation at other women, both at Saint Mark’s and in her fancy neighborhood. She wished she had met Patty years ago. She’d have been a happier person with Patty in her life. And a better one.
Chapter Thirty-One
Perspective. A month earlier, the thought of spending an entire day shopping and cooking would have made Markie want to take a long nap. But the day before Thanksgiving, as she unloaded sweet potatoes and onions and flour and cranberries and oranges onto the kitchen counter, she felt positively giddy at the prospect of devoting the rest of her day to making sweet potato casserole, rolls, and cranberry sauce for the next day. Having escaped a weekend of blame and shame at her parents’ house, she felt lighter than air and filled with an energy she hadn’t experienced in a long time.
To everyone’s surprise, she had accepted Mrs. Saint’s invitation for Thanksgiving dinner. So had Frédéric—no shock there—along with Ronda and Bruce, which was also nothing new. But Patty’s and Lola’s presence would be a first. They had resumed spending nights in their own apartment, and things had been okay between Patty and her mother, but recently, Carol had started seeing a man who frightened Lola and made Patty feel she should count her spare change and inventory the contents of the medicine cabinet before she left each day. Carol insisted on having him over for the holiday, so Markie invited Patty and Lola to stay with her and Jesse for the long weekend.
Markie wasn’t a good enough cook to pull off an entire Thanksgiving meal on her own, but after her mother’s guilt trip, she couldn’t bear to allow Jesse—or Lola, for that matter—to spend the day in the bungalow eating sliced turkey on bagels when they all knew there would be an enormous holiday feast being served on the other side of the fence. So she had agreed to show up on the holiday with a few side dishes and the membership of her house. Even Angel was invited.
Markie was folding the grocery bags when Mrs. Saint knocked at the side door, then let herself in.
“I have brought recipes,” the older woman said, producing a thin stack of recipe cards from her coat pocket.
Instead of snapping back that she would follow her own cookbooks, Markie decided to negotiate a bit and trade her compliance for some information. Eyeing the cards the old woman held out but not taking them, Markie said, “Lola tells me Frédéric lives with you.”
“Of course he does,” Mrs. Saint said, in the same “duh” tone Lola had used when discussing the topic with Jesse.
Mrs. Saint stepped to the kitchen counter and sorted through her cards, searching. “So. For the sweet potato. I do not want marshmallows on top. You Americans are always looking for ways to take a perfectly acceptable vay-gay-tay-ble and turn it into a candy.” She curled her lip. “This will not do.”
She found the recipe she was after and set it on the counter. “Here. For the casserole. And . . .” She paused while she looked for another card. “Aha! Yes, here.” She set another card down. “For the rolls.”
Markie scanned the ingredients on the second card. “Yeast” was underlined twice and circled, and she imagined there had been some paperweight-like rolls served next door after Ronda forgot this key ingredient. She pushed the cards toward their owner.
“I find it odd that all this time you’ve never mentioned he actually lives there. Or where it is that he goes in the afternoons. You want all this information about me and Jesse, yet—”
“Ah,” Mrs. Saint said, smiling patiently as though Markie were a child struggling to comprehend the difference between a circle and a square. “But you are not asking about me. You are asking about Frédéric.”
“Oh, come on! You had no problem telling me things about Ronda and Bruce. And Patty.”
Still smiling tolerantly, Mrs. Saint placed a dry, cold palm on the back of Markie’s hand, letting it rest there. “Mais oui. But there is a difference between the kind of telling that will hurt a person and the kind that will not.”
Markie, finally, smiled back. “Yes, that’s true.”
“But I can tell you this about Frédéric,” Mrs. Saint said. “He does not live with me because he is not able to live by his own self or because he cannot afford. He came here for a very good job many years ago, and over this time, he saved much money. And, also, as you have known by now, he is most capable. He lives with me only because he wants me to be safe always. And he trusts this job to no other person.”
“Came here for a job?” Markie repeated. “You mean, from Canada? You told me you’ve known him for many years. Did he grow up there, too? Did you and Edouard move here first? Is that why Frédéric came, so he could be closer to the two of you?”
“About Canada,” Mrs. Saint said. “I want to tell you about this, too—”
The side door burst open then, and Patty rushed in, out of breath, Angel running ahead of her.
“And now I must go,” Mrs. Saint said. “We will talk of this another time.”
“Did you run?” Markie asked Patty when the older woman was gone.
“No,” Patty said, still panting. “I carried this.”
She pointed to something sitting outside, and before Markie could get to the door, Patty was through it, heaving a wooden bookcase inside. It was small and squat, with only three shelves, but from the way Patty was straining, Markie could tell it was made of solid wood.
“It needs a good wipe-down,” Patty said. “But it’s a great piece. Better than cardboard, wouldn’t you say?” She pointed to the kids’ makeshift game shelf in the corner. “I garbage-picked it. Curb retail, I call it. Why spend money when you can spend a little time and energy instead?”
Clearly pleased with herself, she trotted to the kitchen to dampen a paper towel, then returned to the shelves, running the towel over every inch. Before Markie could decide whether she wanted to furnish the bungalow with other people’s castoffs, she found herself helping a cheerful Patty push the new unit into place against the wall and transfer the games over. When they were finished, they stood back to admire the scene.
“Much better than cardboard!” Markie said, realizing, to her surprise, how little she actually cared about the origins of the thing.