Godmother (15 page)

My heart almost stopped altogether. I would kill Maybeth, I thought.

“Gladys,” I whispered. “Don't ever say that again. Please! And of course it's not true. Why would you even think such a thing?”

Her face shifted and a smile cracked her face wide open. “You love him!” She laughed, and then leaned right over and kissed my cheek before leaping back into the air. “But I won't tell anyone.”

“Gladys, please!” I was desperate now. “It's not true!”

She laughed again, fluttering above me. “Whatever you say. I don't have time for you or your love affairs, anyway, Lil. I've got so much work to do. Maybe
you
should go see Cinderella.” Squealing with laughter, Gladys swooped up into the air. “Or better yet, the prince!”

With that, she was gone. I felt the guilt clenching my neck, burrowing its way through my throat, up to my mouth and tongue. I pulled into myself and tried to think of her, Cinderella, everything I had to do to help her meet her fate. Instead, all I saw was him. I longed to be in that body again, to feel that sensation of giving myself over to such a force.

The sun beat down overhead, and in front of me the
branches of the great tree rose glimmering out of the water, the leaves rippling in the breeze like a school of fish shimmying past. Fairies fluttered all around me, leaving the water and diving back in again. Everyone had their job to do, as I had mine.

But I sat back for one second, two seconds more. Letting the memories sink into me. The shape and weight of his body pressing into air, and then against me. The feel of his skin under my palm, soft and slightly damp at the back of his neck. The way I had grown so large and yet felt so fragile and strange, delicate. I had loved the feel of the marble floor under my feet. The scent of gardenias from outside. The faint scent of the meat being roasted in the castle's kitchen, down the stairs and past the gilded doors.

“Theodore,” I whispered at the air, liking the sound of it, and I closed my eyes and imagined the way a flame had seemed to overtake my whole body in an instant when I touched him. The way it had her, when she dreamed of him, but now it was all me. Before then I had not experienced desire in any form—it wasn't part of our world, wasn't anything we even understood—and I took to it.

It suited me.

OVER THE
next week, I found myself looking for him everywhere. I had seen him twice, in the diner and outside the flower shop—the signs were there. But he was elusive. I went to the diner each night, dressing carefully, taking time to brush out my hair. I couldn't afford whole meals, so I sat at the counter with books from the store, slowly eating cups of soup and nursing mugs of black coffee, my head snapping
up every time someone walked through the front door. I sat there for hours some nights, convinced he would arrive any second. But he didn't come back, and I became more and more convinced that Theodore had come to this world as a sign. A sign that they were ready to forgive me. That I had a task to do. That we would meet again in the other world.

In the store I found it hard to concentrate on the work in front of me. I seemed to spend all my time trying to remember, as if understanding all of it would bring him back to me sooner. What was it about him? I just remembered the way he saw me, the way he made me someone new. He hadn't only seen me. He had recognized me. What had he recognized? What was it?

My mind circled back and back to that moment, trying to burrow in.

We could see humans back then. We could pass by them and feel their thoughts, their suffering, the parts of them that were closed off to the world, the parts of them that ached for it. But none of it ever touched us. We used to laugh at the mess of human life. But standing in the prince's chambers in human form, staring up at him, I had seen everything with the eyes of a fairy and a woman. Everything, from the tiny beads of sweat above his lip to the fear and desire that gnawed at his gut. I remembered how I had tasted it when I leaned in and touched his mouth, how I had wanted to take him into me. It was a dangerous way to see a person. I knew every moment of his life, every feeling passing over him, every fear and memory, and I saw it all right as he was seeing me, as a woman, alive to the world.

My mind beat up against it.

Everything had seemed different inside that body: His
hand running across my waist. The flame in the center of me. And the smells. Of course. Had there been smells before? I couldn't remember. That night on the balcony, the palace. The smell of rain and flowers and lush grass. The smell of champagne as I brought the glass to my lips and felt the bubbles pop against the tip of my nose. The perfume the women wore, gliding past me. The smell of silver and waxed marble and his jacket, as we spun across the floor. It had felt as if the entire world had just split open. As if I'd lived, until then, on the surface of things, never knowing that you could hack through to something else. How could the fairy world have compared afterward?

The ball was a few short weeks away, and I had heard nothing from Veronica. I'd told George not to ask questions, that it was all taken care of. I knew I needed to call her to make arrangements, but there was a part of me that just wanted to forget everything and wallow in the past, the way I'd been doing.

Then one afternoon she appeared, as if I'd conjured her.

I was counting the register for the day when the front door banged open, and she stomped over to the counter. “Hey, Lil,” she said. “Are you busy?”

She was a mess. Black lines ran down her cheeks, and it took me a second to realize she'd been crying. I hurried out from behind the counter.

“What's wrong?” I asked. “I was just closing up. Let me get you some tea.”

“Thank you.” And then, “Do you have any gin?”

“No.”

“Whiskey?” She laughed, and her face crumpled into tears.

“What is it?” I moved toward her and put my hand on hers. I tried to see into her, the way I might have once. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” she said, her voice ragged, black tears streaming down her face. “It's just … I'm sorry, I just can't get myself together.”

“Let's go sit down, okay?”

She nodded. I locked the front door, then led her to the office in back, gesturing to the chair at George's desk. I pulled out a stool from the corner of the room and sat across from her, taking her hand in mine.

“What happened?”

The sobs were moving up and down her body. “I'm so embarrassed,” she said, “to be crying like this over some guy.”

“Ah,” I said. Relieved it was only that.

She looked around the office, self-conscious. “You're working, you have things to do. You must think I'm completely psycho, barging in on you like this.”

“No, no,” I said. “It's okay.”

She looked at me then. “I guess I feel like you know things. I don't know why. I felt it right away when I sold the books to you and then even more when you came to the salon.”

I waved my hand, trying to mask how anxious and glad her words made me. “It's because I'm so old,” I said. “It gives one a certain
wizened
air.”

But she just looked at me, her eyes bright blue from her tears. Water eyes. “No,” she said. “It's something else.”

I smiled nervously, then looked away. “I'm sorry you were disappointed by this boy,” I said. “I know how much it hurts.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I wish I wasn't like this. But I feel
like someone ripped my heart out. I don't know why, but I can't ever just be normal about anything.”

“I know.”

“I don't know why I'm this torn up about it, though,” she said. “I mean, it seems totally out of proportion to what happened. So something didn't work out. I just wanted so badly for it to work out. And I know in a few days I'll be fine, but it doesn't change how broken I feel now.”

I could almost feel the longing in her. I wondered if she dreamed of him, the way Cinderella had dreamed, so long ago. I thought of the man in the diner, his eyes burning into my skin. My heart clenched in my chest, despite myself.

“You're one of the most vibrant girls I've ever seen,” I said. “I had a sister once, like you. You remind me so much of her. She's been gone a long time, and you bring her back to me.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” It was true: Maybeth was more real to me in that moment than she had been in years. She might have been right there.

“What was she like?”

I smiled. “Wild,” I said. “Always screaming with laughter and getting her nose into things. But she was also very kind, gentle. She could heal animals, in fact. She had a special connection with them.”

“What happened to her? Or is that something I shouldn't ask?”

“Oh, she …” I paused, unsure what to say. “There was an accident. When we were young. A long time ago.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. She leaned back into George's chair. “I like that I remind you of her. That's funny, I forgot
you told me that. And you remind me of my grandmother. I mean, not that you're … Well, she was just amazing, Lil. She was an actress when she was young, in Berlin. Just the most glamorous lady you could ever meet. She'd stand over the stove cooking in heels and red lipstick, whip up a strudel or some schnitzel like it was nothing.”

I laughed. “She sounds
just
like me.”

“Hey, I can totally see you doing that. She made everything so fun and romantic.” She picked up a framed photo from the desk: black and white, George and his father in suits, standing side by side in front of a tall building. “Who's this?”

“That's George with his father.”

“Ah. He's handsome, isn't he?”

“Yes,” I said. “He is.”

“So … gentlemanly. A bit like Gary Cooper or Cary Grant.”

“Oh, absolutely. I've even told him that, but he will have none of it.”

“And he's the one with the ball? The one who owns this place?”

“That he is.”

“How long have you worked for him?”

“A few years.”

“What'd you do before that?”

“I was a … kind of guidance counselor,” I said, “for a long time. I've done all kinds of things for extra money, but I always loved to help people reach their potential.”

“I can see that,” she said, smiling. “So were you serious? I mean about George?”

I smiled. “Deadly.”

“Hmmm. Sounds ominous.” She looked around the room at the piles of books and papers, the bound manuscripts with faded, crackling edges, a poster from an Anto-nioni film on the wall. I watched her taking it all in. “He's a huge reader, huh?”

“He reads all the time,” I said. “He does a lot of interesting stuff. He just discovered a bit of manuscript, a history of Massachusetts from the nineteenth century.”

“Hmmm. I see.” She picked up a book from a stack on the desk. “Silent films. I love these women! Garbo, Theda Bara, Clara Bow. My grandmother met Dietrich once, back in Germany when they were young.”

“Your grandmother sounds fascinating.”

“She was.” She flipped through the book. “Louise Brooks,” she said, stopping. “I forgot! I saw that
Pandora's Box
is playing at Film Forum. I've meant to see that for years. Do you want to go?”

“Oh.” I was taken aback. For a moment I wondered if she was joking with me. To the movie
?
With you?”

“Yeah.” She smiled, arching her eyebrows. “Why not?”

“When?”

“What about tomorrow? Are you free in the afternoon, for a matinee?”

“What about Wednesday?” I asked.

“The four o'clock?”

“Great,” I said, my heart pounding. I felt ridiculous, like a schoolgirl.

“Maybe we can get a drink after, or grab some dinner. That cool?”

“That sounds fine,” I said. “Perfect, actually. I'd love to.”

“Awesome. You know, I really appreciate you being so
kind to me, Lil. Most people would have just thought I was nuts, showing up like this.”

“No, they wouldn't have,” I said. “It happens to everyone. But
not
everyone gets to go to a ball with Cary Grant.”

“Well. That is a good point.”

I clapped my hands together. “Oh, you'll have a wonderful time. The time of your life. I just know it. And you'll need a dress, of course. Shoes.”

“And a horse-drawn carriage?” she asked, teasing me, her face sweet and open.

“Of course,” I said. “Just bring me a pumpkin.”

It felt good, laughing with her. It occurred to me that in a way this was what I had longed for back in the other world: the kind of affection and love that flickers into being out of nothing at all.

“You know, there is something that comforts me,” I said, “that you might like to see. Come.” I motioned for her to follow as I walked to the front of the store. I opened the glass case and reached in. Wondering still if it was safe to show her.

She bent down and looked at the line of books. “Such beautiful old things,” she said. “My grandmother, she had rows of books like this in her bedroom. I have this fetish for ink and parchment, you know? It's all her fault.”

“So does George,” I said. “I think he has some quills somewhere he bought in Italy, quills and ink and wax and seals.” I pulled out the Cinderella text. “This one is my favorite. Isn't it something?” I handed it to her. “It's very, very delicate.”

She took it as if I were handing her a piece of thin glass. She flipped slowly through the book, enchanted. “Yes,” she said. “This. This is the kind of world I want. You know? This.”
She looked up at me, and her face was radiant now. “It's strange, isn't it? The world can seem so small, and then you see something and remember how much there is in it. Do you know what I mean? I love this book. I love it.”

“I thought you would. And then look. Here, in back.” I read the French out loud to her:
“‘Tous mes anciens amours vont me revenir
’”

“Tous
what?”

“It means,
‘
all my old loves will be returned to me.’”

“‘All my old loves will be returned to me,’” she repeated. “Do you think that's true?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Maybe. I hope so.”

IT FELT
as if everything was coming together. The next day I could barely contain myself, I was so excited. I spent the morning dealing with NYU students and two young women selling fifties records and a man looking for a first edition of
On the Road.
George came downstairs just before noon.