Читать книгу Freeing the Magician - Dawn Leger - Страница 6

Michael was gone when I came downstairs. Peggy was rolling dough on the marble counter in the center island of the kitchen. Hot coffee was filling the pot and something glorious was baking in the oven.

“Cinnamon rolls will be coming out of the oven in about five minutes,” she said. “Help yourself to some coffee.”

“Thank you. It smells wonderful in here,” I said.

“Did you sleep all right? I hope I didn’t wake you,” she said.

“No, I’ve actually been up for quite a while,” I said. “I’ve been writing. But the smell overpowered my desire to write.”

“Oh, what are you writing?” she asked.

“I’m just journaling right now,” I said. “I wrote a novel last year and I’m trying to find a new subject to start writing about. It’s hard going until you get a new project to focus on.”

“I see.”

“I suppose that Michael told you about what happened, with the murder and all,” I said. “I was really sorry that he got caught up in it.”

“Mmm hmm,” she said. She seemed to focus more intently on the dough, not looking up at me.

Was she angry? I had no idea. “I never meant for anyone to get hurt, especially not Michael. He is my best friend, you know,” I said.

She stopped and wiped her hands on a towel. “You know he’s gay, right?” she asked, her eyes finally meeting mine.

“Uh, yeah,” I said. “Of course.”

“Just checking.”

She turned and pulled a tray of perfect cinnamon swirls out of the oven. Snapping the door shut, she set them to cool on the stovetop. Taking a small bowl in her hands, she whipped a white icing and then drizzled it over all the buns. Finally, she picked up a wooden spatula and served a roll to me on a small china plate.

“Careful, it’s still hot,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“There are napkins in that holder.”

She returned to the dough that had been resting on the marble and started sprinkling a combination of nuts, spices, and raisins across the top.

“So, the novel that you finished, you’re just going to throw it away?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t really thought about it. I guess, since, you know, there was so much trouble, I thought maybe the best thing would be to put it in a drawer for a while.”

“All that trouble would have been for nothing, then, right?”

“Hmm, I guess you could look at it that way,” I said.

“Is it really a novel, or is it a memoir?” she asked. She added a layer of thinly sliced apples to the dough.

“It’s a novel, but it’s based on some facts that I uncovered while I was writing my dissertation,” I said.

“And that’s what caused all the trouble?” She sprinkled the apples with cinnamon and nutmeg.

“Yes,” I said. I guess Michael did tell his mother everything. “I had a publisher but they dropped me when the Justice Department got involved in the case.”

”I see,” she said.

She lifted the end of the dough and started rolling it into a loaf. When she was done, she sealed the edges with butter and sprinkled coarse sugar on the top. She lifted the finished loaf onto a pan already prepared with a sheet of parchment paper and placed it into the oven. Setting the temperature and the timer, she filled her coffee cup and came to sit on the stool next to mine.

“Where is Michael, anyway?” I asked. “He’s out very early this morning.”

“Oh, we have lots to do today, and he wanted to pick up your present first thing,” she said. “So, your novel. Why don’t you let me read it? I’m an objective person. I’ll give you an honest opinion, as a person who reads a lot. What have you got to lose?”

“Oh, that would be nice. Are you sure you want to? It’s not easy, reading something and giving feedback to the author… ”

“Nonsense,” she said. “I used to be a teacher. I can do it.”

“You were a teacher? What grade?”

“Grammar school,” she said. “I taught all grades, first through fifth. I left when they got into all this testing nonsense. I had my twenty-five years, so I retired and started doing what I love to do—baking. I don’t make much money, but it keeps me in car fare.”

“Good for you,” I said. I was nervous about her reading my book, but what the hell. As she said, I had nothing to lose. “I’ll send you a copy. Unless you have an eReader, in which case I can just email you a PDF file and you can read it electronically.”

“Oh, I prefer paper,” she said. “I don’t hold with those electronic things. If you don’t mind printing a copy for me, that would be great. And that way, if I see a mistake, I can just make a note for you right on the page. I think it’s more efficient, don’t you?”

I was about to answer when the door opened and Michael shouted to his mother, “I need some help out here, Peg.”

She pointed a finger at me. “You stay here. Don’t spoil the surprise. Eat your cinnamon bun. Isn’t it good?”

“It’s great,” I agreed and took a large bite to affirm the sentiment. What the hell was the big surprise?

It was actually a little thing that came with a lot of equipment, I saw shortly. Michael proudly carried in a box that weighed little when it was placed on my lap, but seemed strangely…alive. The little black and white tuxedo cat who looked up at me when I opened the cover was certainly a surprise.

“Here’s the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Peggy said, snapping a photo as I lifted the mewling little male from his carrier.

“And to the start of your life as a crazy cat lady,” Michael added.

“Oh, thank you,” I said. “What a sweetie. What’s his name?”

“He is unnamed at the moment. We’ll have to come up with a moniker,” Michael said. "How about Blackie?”

“Hmmm…Not very original, but maybe. Let’s wait and see what suits him,” I said. “Thank you so much. He’s a beauty. Look at those gorgeous blue eyes.”

“Come on, let’s get him settled,” Peggy said. “We have a litter box and some bowls and some kitten food to get him started.”

“This is too much,” I said.

“I need coffee—and I smell cinnamon rolls!” Michael said. “Stand aside, woman, I am on a mission.”

I cuddled the kitten in my sweater while Michael and Peggy recounted their trip to pick out my cat and how they knew he was the one for me by his penchant to climb on Michael’s head and claw at his hair.

“It seemed like such a Cassandra thing to do,” Michael said. “I knew he would get along with you.”

“He’s perfect,” I said. “He’s destroying this sweater, but he’s doing it so nicely that I hardly even care.”

Michael laughed. “Oh, this is going to be interesting to watch,” he said. “He’s going to make you loosen up and let down your hair!”

Peggy pulled her apple concoction out of the oven and set it to cool. “Now, are we game to tackle that attic, or were you two just talking trash about my trash last night?” she asked.

“No—let’s do it,” Michael said.

“I’m in,” I agreed.

We headed upstairs, bringing the little cat in a basket with a warm blanket for him to snuggle. “I hope he doesn’t fall down the stairs,” Peg said, looking ominously at the open hatchway.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” I promised. “Now, where do we begin?”

She steered us towards a large roll-top desk tucked under the eaves. Several file cabinets were pushed next to it, and bankers boxes filled with papers were stacked next to those. “I’d like to get all of this paper out of here,” she said. “I don’t want to just throw it out, but I also don’t have the stomach to go through it myself. Do you think you can tackle it?”

“Sure,” I said. “What do you want me to save? I mean, what am I looking for in all of this paper?”

“Well, if you can find any deeds to property that would be helpful. Any legal documents at all, in fact, should be separated from the rest of the papers. All the other stuff can just be tossed. In fact, the bank has a shredding event coming up soon, so if we can get the boxes into the trunk of my car, I’ll bring all of it over there and be done with it next week.”

“This desk is gorgeous, and the file cabinets—they are really terrific. If you don’t want to keep them, I bet you can get a lot of money for them,” I said.

“If she doesn’t want them, I’m taking them,” Michael chimed in. “I want that desk. Hey, look at this stuff,” he said. He was standing in front of a cedar closet, pulling out a fur coat.

“Nice hat,” I said.

“You like? Mom, can I take this?” he asked, pulling the gray wool fedora down over one eye.

“Take anything you want,” she said. “I’m going to bring some bags up to separate things into categories, for Goodwill and for trash.”

“Bring me a box to put stuff that I want to take,” Michael said.

“Okay,” she said. “And I need some boxes for paper to be shredded. I’ll be right back.”

When she was out of earshot I looked at Michael. “So, is she planning to put the house on the market?”

“It looks that way, doesn’t it?” he said.

“How do you feel about that?” I asked.

“I don’t blame her. The place is really too much for one person, and she does need the money,” he said. “I just hope she doesn’t regret it later. But if that’s what she wants, then who am I to object?” He tossed over a short tweed jacket. “Try this on,” he said.

“Nice,” I fingered the fabric. It fit like a glove. “This is quality stuff—she really should bring it to a consignment shop. I bet she can get a lot of money for these clothes.”

“How much will you give me for it?” she asked, coming up the stairs behind me. “It’s a Chanel suit. I’ll sell it to you. Looks like a perfect fit for you, and there’s more where that came from.”

“Mom, where did you get a Chanel suit?” Michael asked.

“None of your beeswax,” she said. “But your friend here is going to find her wardrobe very enhanced this afternoon. Let me do the women’s stuff—I’ll put the nice things aside for you to try, Cassie. Michael, you go through all of your father’s things. Cassie, aren’t you supposed to be working on the papers? And where did that kitten get to?”

We all looked around and I found the cat curled up in a box of old paper, his pink nose hidden deeply under his big paws.

“Shhhhh,” I said. “He’s over here, and he’s all tuckered out.” I looked at him for a moment. “I’ve got a name for him: Louie.”

“What kind of a name is that for a cat?” Michael asked. “I think Blackie is better.”

“No, his soul is a Louie,” I said.

“Oh,” Michael said. “Can’t argue with that.” He turned back to his trunk.

I took off the jacket and put it on the back of the desk chair, opened the desk top, and started to sort papers into boxes that I labeled “Shred,” “Recycle,” and “Keep.” I found titles to cars that I wasn’t sure Peggy still owned; insurance papers, tax papers and employment records that were well over ten years old. I discovered a trove of letters that I slipped into kitty's basket, to be looked at later (I know, shame on me), and folders containing Michael’s school work, report cards, artwork, and SAT scores. I hooted when I saw those.

“I guess somebody went to college on an athletic scholarship,” I yelled. “I don’t think I know anyone who scored this low on the SAT.”

“Let me see that,” he said, coming over to the desk. “This is only the math score, you moron, the total is down here.”

“Made you nervous, though, didn’t I?” I said, laughing. “Did you really not remember, or were you not sure about your scores?”

“It was a long time ago, and I wasn’t a very good student back then,” he said.

“That’s an understatement,” Peggy piped up. “In fact, I think I had to bribe him with a pizza dinner for him and his buddies if he took the test. Food has always been a strong motivator for my boy.”

I decided to create a box that I labeled “Michael” and placed those school items inside, along with college acceptance letters, transcripts, dean’s list notices, and a large file containing bills and cancelled checks. Michael could get rid of those later if he wished, I figured.

Moving quickly through several other boxes, I sorted out old tax returns (shred), car maintenance records (recycle), and home repair records (recycle). Warranty folders for appliances large and small were saved for Peg to review and discard if the items were no longer in use. An entire set of boxes was devoted to Peggy’s sixth year and MA degree studies.

“What do you want to do with this stuff?” I asked.

“Chuck it,” she said. “I’m done with all that.”

“Okey-dokey,” I said. I saw Michael open and then quickly shut his mouth. We exchanged a look, but I put the boxes in the pile labeled “Recycle.”

Michael called out a moment later. “Would you look at this!” Both Peggy and I stood up and went over to the trunk where Michael was half submerged. He stood up, holding a wedding dress against his chest.

“Mom, is this yours?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Put it away.”

“It’s very nice,” I said. I shook my head at Michael as he turned, looking for a mirror.

“I wish I could wear it,” he said. “But it would never fit me. You were a tiny little thing, weren’t you?”

Peg turned away and went back to the other trunk. “I thought I asked you to go through your father’s clothes,” she said.

“I am, but this was on the bottom of the trunk,” he said. “You must have forgotten that it was in here. What should I do with it?”

“Maybe we can burn it later,” she said. “How does that sound?”

“A little harsh, actually,” he said. “How about I just put it in the consignment pile instead?”

“No, it’s trash. I don’t want anyone else wearing it, ever. You got that? Trash.” She took the gown from his hands, rolled it into a ball, and chucked it down the stairs. “I need a break. Can I get anybody a drink?”

“I could go for a refill of coffee,” I said.

“I was talking about a real drink, but sure, I can bring you coffee if you want,” she said. “Mike?”

“I’m good,” Michael said. “Sorry, Mom.”

“No problem, babe. This is why we’re up here. Time to clean house,” she said.

When she was gone, Michael and I stood on opposite sides of the attic looking at each other. “What was that all about?” he said.

“I think there’s something more going on here than just cleaning house,” I said. “She seems to be really tightly wound. Seriously. You should take it easy with her, see if you can get her to talk about it later. You know? But be gentle—no more wedding gown antics.”

“Sure. I don’t think she’s going to open up to me. But I’ll give it a shot,” he said. “Maybe she’ll talk to you more if I’m not around, you know? Girl talk?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll try,” I said. “But stop digging through her stuff for now. You’re just making things worse.”

He turned around, a leather vest looped through his arms, its long fringes dancing wildly. “Okay, but wouldn’t you love to know the story behind this?” he asked, grinning wickedly.

“Michael…”

At that moment the kitten launched himself from the shadows onto the fringe and made a frantic climb onto Michael’s chest, claws digging into the suede vest. We were laughing hysterically when Peggy came silently up the stairs with drinks in a cardboard box.

“That’s just perfect,” she said. “Why don’t you take all of my things to the garage and let the cat destroy them, Mike? No need to sort anything out after all, is there?”

She turned and went as silently down the stairs as she’d come up. We stared at each other. I was mortified. “Oh, Michael, that was bad. You better go and apologize to her,” I said.

“Shit,” he said. He got up and untangled the kitten and the vest and handed both of them to me. Before going down the ladder, he took a long drink from one of the glasses. “This might take a while,” he said.

“Go,” I said. “Tread lightly. I’ll stay up here.”

I returned the vest to its trunk and the cat to his basket, took a glass from the box and went back to my own work on the masses of paper to be sorted. One of the drawers in the desk was locked and since no one was around, I took the opportunity to jimmy the lock with a couple of nails and a paperclip. When the drawer slid open, I uncovered the secret life of Mr. Calvin Simone.