Wanda wasn't stupid. She knew there was about a million-to-one chance that she'd find Peter riding the bus. But the enormity of the quest she'd undertaken began to sink in, and by the time she arrived at her final stop, she was deeply depressed.
She sat down on the sidewalk. She cried for ten minutes: the exact length of a union break. She got up and began picking up cigarette butts, Burger King wrappers, banana peels, 7-Eleven Big Gulp cups, anything she could find. She used them to construct a sidewalk collage of Peter's face. People came and went. They gave her odd looks, but they didn't intrude, didn't ask what she was doing.
It's amazing how much privacy you have,
Wanda thought,
when people thin\ you're crazy.
After a while, she tenderly dismantled Peter's face and deposited it in the trash can that was chained to the Metro bus shelter. She opened her cardboard
box, pulled out her red and black book, sat
down next to the trash can, and
began to write. She wrote the same affirmation, over and over again.
I
am going to find him,
Wanda wrote.
I
am going to find him.
I am going to find him.
Then, feeling definitely cheered—
Mayb
e there's something to this cre
ative visualization shit after all—she
gathered her things and began the arduous trek up the hill to the Hughes mansion, her new temporary residence.
Four
Breakfast at the
Sc
hultzes’,
1969
T
he
last time Wanda had felt grief of this magnitude was twenty-eight years ago, when her mother, Virginia Maria Lorenzini O'Casey, disappeared without a trace. That had been bad enough. But then a few days later, Wanda's father, Michael Francis Joseph O'Casey, also left the scene. So, at the age of six, Wanda became an orphan.
Which is not to say that she was abandoned on the doorstep of St. Patrick's Cathedral and given up to the care and company of the Roman Catholic Church—Michael O'Casey had
that
much concern for his daughter, anyway. Wanda's father was a devoted atheist who'd started proselytizing against the church at his daughter's cribside, and even if he didn't plan to participate in Wanda's upbringing, he told her outright that he'd be damned if he'd let the priests and the nuns—
especially
the nuns—get ahold of her. No, Wanda was left on the doorstep of Maureen Schultz, Michael O'Casey's older married sister. Aunt Maureen and Uncle Artie already had eight children of their own, ranging in age from two to fourteen, and Wanda would later deduce another probable reason for her father's decision: He must have figured that adding another kid to the pile wouldn't make much of a difference.
On the morning Wanda's father told her he'd be leaving Chicago for a while and she'd be going to live somewhere else—he was fixing her a
hot breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage, and pancakes, which was very unusual, highly suspect, but at the same time, very nice—he explained his reasoning in the lilting cadence of his Dublin brogue: "You're goin' to be stayin' with my sister and her family. Your aunt Maureen will take good care of you. They'll be lots of other kids there for you to play with
to
o—not like here, where it's just you and me and your mother." He'd paused to brush at his eyes. Then he fixed Wanda's plate and set it in front of her. There was enough food on it for a lumberjack.
Michael O'Casey sat down and sipped on his coffee. "And don't worry, darlin'," he had concluded, as if this were the best inducement of all: "You won't have to go to church."
He'd gone on to tell Wanda that her aunt Maureen hadn't been to Mass or to Confession since she'd married Artie—not that she wasn't a good woman with so-called Christian values; she was. But Michael O'Casey reassured his daughter that the only time she was likely to hear the word "God" was twice a year, on the two major Christian holidays, when the Schultz
mere
and
pere
arose before dawn, fortified themselves with an entire pot of Maxwell House coffee, roused, rallied, and assembled the troops, and—after finding eight pairs of matching socks and good shoes, knotting seven ties and one bow, and seeing that eight sets of teeth were brushed, eight bladders and bowels were emptied, eight heads were combed, and eight coats were buttoned—walked in, usually during the processional, to the Good Shepherd German Lutheran Church in the neighborhood where Artie grew up.
"But
you
won't have to go," Wanda's father said, emphatically. "I'll make sure your aunt Maureen is clear on that point." Michael O'Casey sniffed and cleared his throat. "Now eat your pancakes. There's a good girl. I'll just pack a few things for you."
Wanda didn't remember much of the actual leave-taking. Her next clearest memory was of arriving in the Schultz family kitchen. Her entrance was at first scarcely noticed. The Schultz children—James, John, Jacob, Jesse, Jordan, Joshua, Jeremiah, and Jacqueline—were eating breakfast when their mother ushered Wanda into the kitchen. 'All right, now," Aunt Maureen began. "I need everyone's attention." At first, Wanda didn't know who Aunt Maureen was talking to; the kitchen table contained at least fifteen different boxes of cereal, two
cartons of milk, and a large pitcher of orange juice, but there were no children that Wanda could see.
Aunt Maureen walked over to the table, which was very long; there was an empty chair at each end for Uncle Artie and Aunt Maureen, but there were no chairs on the side closest to Wanda. The reason for this arrangement became clear when Aunt Maureen picked up a pitcher and, moving smoothly from right to left, transformed herself into a well-oiled, perfectly calibrated Human Juice Dispenser.
Wanda—who would have many occasions over the next seventeen years to observe, and, over time, emulate Aunt Maureen's physical efficiency—was awed. She'd never seen her own mother pour anything at breakfast time besides shots of scotch.
"You boys remember your cousin Wanda, right?" Aunt Maureen went on, without spilling a drop.
Gradually, seven sets of steely, unmistakably male eyes peered over the cereal boxes, and Wanda was suddenly aware of the sounds of cornflakes and puffed rice being crunched into a mushy oblivion between seven sets of teeth.
"Why would we remember her?" said one surly voice, cracking slightly. "We've never met her."
"I know that, James Finnegan Schultz, and don't you be giving me that kind of smart mouth this morning if you please."
"Mine! Mine! MINE!" screamed another, much younger voice, and the kitchen tablecloth billowed violently.
"SHUT UP!" came a voice from behind the Kix box. Wanda heard an aspirate, hissing sound, its exact location indiscernible. She began to wonder if the Schultz family kept a pet snake.
"Do NOT talk to your sister like that, Jacob. Would you like me to talk to
you
like that?" Aunt Maureen barked. She put a comradely arm on Wanda's shoulder, and resumed in a more even tone. "I just meant that you've heard me talk about your cousin Wanda, who is my brother Michael's only child."
"Lucky kid," muttered James Finnegan Schultz, the oldest. Wanda
could
now pinpoint his position as directly behind the box of Cheerios.
"James . . ." Aunt Maureen spoke in the up-inflected "This-is-my-last-warning-buster" tone that all children recognize. James sank down
behind his box.
"MINE!" came the shrill, under-the-ta
ble voice again, followed by a l
oud screech and more hissing.
"Are you being gentle to the kitty, sweetheart?" Aunt Maureen crooned to the tablecloth, and then continued in a stern, schoolmarmish tone. "Listen up now, guys. Your cousin Wanda will be staying with us
for a while."
All the cereal boxes began to speak at once.
"For how long?!" shouted one.
"Where's she gonna sleep?" said another.
"Not in ray room!" answered another.
"You've got to be kidding!"
"Another GIRL? That's GREAT! Just GRRRRRREAT!"
"Does Dad know about this?!"
"Girls have COOTIES! Girls are GROSS!"
“
NO! NO! NO! MINE! MINE! MINE! I
WANT
IT!" screeched the demon under the table, and
five
pink, sausagelike fingers appeared from under the tablecloth, grasped its edges, and pulled.
Cereal boxes, bowls, spoons, butter knives, plates of toast and jars of
jam, jelly juice glasses, and milk cups were all flung to the kitchen floor.
There was a stunned silence. The scene above the tabletop resembled
The Last Supper
gone horribly awry. Discovered beneath the table was
a sweet-faced, pudgy, blonde child of about two, wearing a pink and
yellow bunny suit.
"I ate mine all," said Jacqueline Kennedy Schultz, clutching an empty Mary Poppins bowl in one hand and an orange-striped kitten by the tail in the other. "I'm a GOOD girl." She smiled with an aggressive sweetness that made her look like Shirley Temple on amphetamines. Then
she spotted Wanda.
Instantly, her baby face contracted into a scowl. She squeezed the kitten's tail harder, and it gave a pathetic, truncated squeak. "MAMA!" she yelled. "Who DAT?! WHO DAT LITTLE
GIR
L?!
Aunt Maureen began to stammer. "It's nothing, darlin', don't worry, everything's fine. . . ." She knelt by the table and said in a voice that was desperately placating, "It's nothing."
Wanda noticed that all of the boys, even the big one called James, had taken a step backward; they seemed to be physically bracing themselves for another act of mass destruction.
Jacqueline went on, in escalating fury. "WHO DAT? DON'T WANT HER HERE! DON'T WANT DAT GIRL! DAT GIRL GO AWAY NOW! GO AWAY GO AWAY GO AWAY!"
Aunt Maureen and the seven Schultz boys looked on, clearly frightened and completely passive—as if this two-year-old, cranberry-faced tyrant were a force of nature, or an act of God. It became clear to Wanda, if somewhat puzzling, that no one in the room had any intention of doing anything.
It was at this moment that Wanda exerted a heretofore undiscovered gift—a gift that would not only serve her well during her seventeen-year tenure as a member of the Schultz household, but would also predetermine her future choice of profession.
Ignoring Jacqueline's shrieks, and walking slowly and deliberately, Wanda unloaded her small suitcase onto the kitchen table. It should be noted that Wanda's focus and calm under these circumstances was impressive; by this time, Jacqueline's screams were causing extreme consternation among the Schultzes' human neighbors and a widespread attack of nervous dementia among the neighborhood pets.
Wanda picked a butter knife and a plate off the floor and wiped them clean with a napkin. Then with a full-volumed and commanding voice, she said, "DOES ANYBODY HERE LIKE
CANDY?"
Instantly, Jacqueline shut up. The rest of the Schultz clan drew a collective breath and focused their full attention on Wanda. Extracting a king-sized Three Musketeers from her suitcase, she sliced off a generous piece and held it out to Jacqueline, who pounced on it with both hands. The orange kitten, free at last, performed a textbook-perfect demonstration of "a bat out of hell" and skittered madly from the kitchen, never to be seen again.
Wanda placed the remaining chunk of candy on the plate and cut it neatly into eight pieces. After serving her male cousins (she made sure that James got his piece first), she walked over to Aunt Maureen. "You don't have to love me," she said, holding out the last piece of chocolate with the solemnity of an altar boy, "but I'm not nothing."
"Oh, sweetheart!" Aunt Maureen cried. "I'm so sorry!" She burst into tears, fell to her knees, and drew Wanda into a hug with such force that it took her breath away and sent the plate and remaining chocolate flying.
Wanda looked over Aunt Maureen's shoulder to gauge the effect of this overtly maternal and dramatic scene. There was no need to worry. All eight of the Schultz children were blissfully united in the happy consumption of sugar. Jacqueline had stuffed the entire piece of candy into her mouth; there was something especially satisfying to Wanda about the way it distended her cheeks. The little girl was eyeing the last piece of chocolate, which had landed under the table among the minefield of breakfast dishes and puddles of milk and juice. She looked at Wanda. A nonverbal but perfectly clear exchange passed between them. Jacqueline snatched the chocolate from the floor and popped it into her mouth. One of the boys started to protest, but Wanda shot him a look and he fell silent.
Wanda was then able to close her eyes and—knowing that a moment like this one would probably not come again soon, or often—allow herself to be lost in Aunt Maureen's embrace. It didn't matter that Aunt Maureen wasn't her own mother. It didn't even matter that it wasn't a real hug; Wanda knew that she had purchased this show of affection in the most shameful way imaginable. She didn't care. These were the facts, as Wanda perceived them: Her mother had disappeared, and Da was so sad about it that he had to go away, and stay away, until he found her and brought her back. Wanda was a bright child, and Michael O'Casey had been just vague enough in his parting words ("
I'll see you around sometime, darli
n
.
") to give her the reasonable assumption that he wouldn't be coming back anytime soon.
Another child might have cried—and Wanda felt like it. But she didn't. Her instincts told her that crying would not endear her to the members of this family, where she'd be lucky to be noticed at all. She wisely recognized she'd be far more likely to secure a place of standing with these people as a peacekeeper, even if that meant giving up certain things.
So it was that Wanda O'Casey, aged six (she did not become Wanda Schultz for another ten years, when everyone finally accepted the fact that Michael O'Casey would not be coming back, and Uncle Artie and Aunt Maureen legally adopted her), abandoned her own childhood to take on the oversight and management of her cousins'—becoming, one might add, a godsend to her aunt Maureen. In this way, she took her initial step toward the first of her illustrious careers, as a highly successful
and much sought after professional stage manager—a job which, in Wanda's mind at least, essentially paid her to continue doing what she'd done for most of her life: guide and negotiate truces between children. Big ones, to be sure, and card-carrying members of Actors Equity Association. But still: children.
The next morning, when Aunt Maureen arose at five
a.m.
as usual, a surprise awaited her. Her niece was asleep on the kitchen floor, surrounded by plates and bowls which she had apparently been trying all night to repair; there was a bottle of family-sized Elmer's glue still clasped in her hand.
It would be another thirty years before Wanda would revisit this memory and recognize that it contained all the elements that would compel her to discover her second career—the career that would eventually make her famous.
Five
A
Sacristan's Life
I
f Margaret had been inclined to talk about her childhood, she would have said that it lasted far too long— until 1946 to be exact, when an old man came into her father's shop and put a curse on her family. Until then her life had been a fairy tale that did not end with "happily ever after," but rather, began with it.
She lived in a young city at the top of a great hill in a palatial house with a view of mountains and lakes. A castle, really. The castle of the great King Oscar, her father.
"Papa O!" she called him, and truly there was a roundness to every aspect of her world then, a plump bounty that was everywhere: in the fat upholstered settees and ottomans in her bedroom; in the popovers bursting with jam that Cook brought still warm to the breakfast table each morning; in the perfect, spacious dome that graced Holy Names Academy, where she went to school; and of course in the suitcases and trunks Papa brought home whenever he returned from the land across the ocean, bulging with marzipan and marionettes and costumes like kimonos and always, always a new porcelain figurine to add to her collection. To be encircled by Papa O's arms was to know love and
generosity.
Oh yes. He was a generous man. Everyone knew that. And everyone in his kingdom, save one, was happy: butlers, maids, gardeners, cooks;
the private tutors who gave Margaret lessons in singing and French; the partygoers who danced in the grand ballroom all night and waved gaily from their porches and automobiles during the day; even the doctors who made house calls, sometimes summoned from their beds in the middle of the night to tend sudden fevers, rattling coughs, or the bewildering, chronic ailments that plagued the mistress of the house.
King Oscar could make everyone smile. Everyone except Margaret's mother, who was composed of the darkness and mystery which fairy tales require. It is perhaps no wonder that she would reappear in Margaret's life sixty-three years after her death—not as a ghost exactly, but as a symptom, a noisy headache. As the chief manifestation of Margaret's pain.
She was beautiful. Famously beautiful in the way of long-legged, athletic girls in the 1920s and '30s, daughters of the new class of wealthy Americans who'd been blessed with an abundance of refrigerated milk and meat, good lineage, a private school education, fresh fruit and vegetables. And she was young—much younger than King Oscar.
In life, she was glimpsed rarely, and even then, only in the confines of her home. When she appeared, she was not dressed like other at-home mothers of the era, who wore belted shirtdresses with prim, up-the-front buttons that met the crisp half-moons of Peter Pan collars. No, Margaret's mother spent her days draped in transparent, diaphanous peignoir ensembles that showed off her fashion model figure and played up her resemblance to Greta Garbo. She had many peignoirs, all in complicated colors that could not be easily named.
Margaret's mother spoke little. When she did speak, it usually presaged events that were incomprehensible, dire, or both. Mostly, she lurked: on the other side of doors, in shadowy corners, against walls. She watched and listened, her exquisite face rarely reflecting any sign of emotion. Only occasionally did Margaret notice her mother's mouth contract, giving it a taut, wrinkled look that was like the smocking on Cook's starched cotton nightgowns.