The Breakup (13 page)

Once Mary made it to America, Roger insisted that she had no choice but to marry him. He told her she would live like a princess,
that she would want for nothing. When she hesitated, he changed his approach. He told her that what she had done was illegal,
and that the American government had special jails for girls like her. Mary was as gullible as Roger was convincing, and over
time she decided she would have to make the best of it. She learned to like the pale American who disappeared for days, even
weeks at a time, and eventually, began even to love him. He let her have a cat. He promised to send her to school. She hoped
to become a nurse.

I can’t even begin to describe what I’m feeling now, the disgust about Roger’s scheme, the horror and pain of losing Mary,
the wrenching feeling that I somehow led her to death. Why hadn’t I paid closer attention to the herbs she’d wanted me to
buy? Why hadn’t I secured the house? Where did I get the neocolonialist notion that I should take charge of this Filipina’s
life, as if my own wretched existence was something to admire and model, as if I could manage her life any better than I’d
managed my own? I have
now been awake for twenty-six hours and I’m starting to hallucinate flies on the wall.

’Til next time,

V

Reverend Lee just left. I called him last night, woke up his wife (who seemed irritated). He slept on the couch in the family
room. He brought Pete to school this morning. He comforted and counseled me, prepared tea for me, held me, prayed with me
and prayed for me until I was finally able to fall asleep. I told him everything about Roger, Mary, my father, the unedited
version. And through it all, he never judged, or blamed, or shamed. He listened with an open heart, and when I was done, he
held my hand and helped me pray. What did I pray for? The power to face another day, to be the kind of mother my son deserves,
to honor Mary without blaming myself. And I prayed for the strength to face new challenges: coming to terms with my father’s
dying, surviving the divorce proceedings, and starting a new life as a woman alone.

Reverend Lee wanted me to pray for the power to forigve Roger, but I’m not there yet.

’Til next time,

V

Lynette called at 7
A
.
M
. to remind me about the
Heirloom Roadshow.
“We should probably get there no later than nine if we want to get out stuff appraised.”

My eyes were still crusted shut. I didn’t think I could wrench myself from bed, but Lynette would not relent. “Come on, Val,
you need to get out. Curtis will watch the boys. Besides, you wanted to get that sculpture appraised, didn’t you?”

I roused Pete, slapped a cold Pop-Tart on the table, and put new makeup over my old makeup.

As I’d expected, the armory was packed and hot and smelly. There were four video cameras trained on four appraisal tables.
Lynette and I chose the table with the shortest line, presided over by a big-boned silver-haired woman who identified herself
as Sally. She wore a bright red linen blazer, a long black twill skirt, and those beige leather orthopedic shoes the manufacturers
of which try to pass off (unsuccessfully) as sneakers. An hour and five minutes later, it was Lynette’s turn. She put her
box of plates on the table. Sally quickly examined them, pushed her glasses farther up on her nose, and thumbed through a
small reference book. She gestured toward the camera, and it glided toward her. “Lynette, you told me that this china was
a gift from your grandmother, yes?”

“Yes, it was a gift from my mother’s mother,” Lynette answered. “It was a wedding present.”

“Do you know where your grandmother obtained it?”

“Um, I think it was her mother’s.” Lynette’s voice was high and gurgly, like a contestant’s on
Let’s Make a Deal.
I think she sensed, as I did, that her granny’s old plates might be worth something.

“Well, Lynette, your grandmother’s wedding present is a very fine example of Flow Blue dinnerware. Flow Blue started production
in the early 1800s and remained popular for about a hundred years. It’s believed that this style was invented by Josiah Wedgewood.
Lynette, you’ve heard of Wedgewood china?”

Lynette shook her head excitedly. “Yes, oh yes!” Lynette turned around and threw me a wild-eyed look.

“Well, Lynette, you may be interested to know that Flow Blue china was produced with a technique known as transfer printing,”
Sally droned on, in a flat but authoritative voice. “The ink was forced to bleed through the china when a volatizing agent
was added, usually ammonia. Early Victorian Flow Blue, which is what you’ve got here, Lynette, was the first style produced
by the company. Lynette, based on the oriental pattern, I believe that this set was produced between 1835 and 1850. Lynette,
do you want to know what your grandmother’s dinnerware is worth?”

“Yes, oh yes!”

“Lynette, your grandmother’s Flow Blue dinnerware has an estimated value of $200,000.”

Lynette jumped to her feet and clutched at her chest. “Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!” She waved her hands in front of her face to
stave off tears of joy. “Thank you so much!”

“You are most welcome, Lynette,” the woman said, signaling for me to sit down. “Your name?” she asked.

I cleared my throat. “Valerie Ryan.” I tried to angle my head so I wouldn’t appear to have more than a single chin.

“Okay, Valerie, let’s see what you’ve brought us today.” The camera moved in as I pulled the piece out of my canvas tote bag.
Sally bent forward and pushed her glasses back up. “Tell me about this piece, Valerie.”

“Well, this was given to me for my birthday. It’s bronze and I have been told it was in the family for a while. I think it
originally belonged to Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt, a gift from the queen of England.”

The woman turned the piece in her hands, ran her index finger over it. I felt light-headed. I couldn’t wait to cash in.

“Well, Valerie, this is an interesting piece indeed,” she began. “It was a gift, you say?”

“Yes, a gift from, uh . . . it was a gift.”

Sally looked at me over the top of her glasses.
“Well, Valerie, have you heard of Frederic Remington?”

I nodded slowly. Oh my God, Roger had given me a Remington?

“Valerie, Frederic Remington was born in 1861 in Canton, New York,” Sally began in her flat way. “Remington’s illustrations,
paintings, and bronze castings captured the wild adventure of the American frontier. Valerie, your little cowboy here is an
example of the Remington style. I believe it was produced sometime around 1975.”

I assumed she meant to say 1875. I didn’t interrupt her.

“If this sculpture had been bronze, it would be worth perhaps a thousand dollars, maybe more. Your piece, however, is painted
plaster, Valerie, and actually a very nice example of painted plaster at that. Because your piece is in decent condition,
Valerie, I would place its value at about thirty-five dollars.”

“I’m sorry? Thirty-five dollars?”

The woman turned to the cameraman and gestured for him to cut. “Valerie, your piece is what we in the business call a WPOC.”

“Excuse me?”

“A Worthless Piece of Crap, Valerie.” She scratched a small spot on the back with her fingernail, exposing the white plaster
beneath. “I’m sorry, Valerie.” On line behind me, a burly old man in red
plaid shorts snickered. Everyone else pretended they hadn’t heard Sally’s appraisal.

I stood up. “Thank you, Sally.” I grabbed my plaster cowboy off the table and chucked it in an empty metal trash bin. I peered
inside and was happy to see that his head had cracked off.

’Til next time,

V

I’m finally starting to feel like myself again. I found the strength to clean the house, and it felt good to pack up the rest
of Roger’s things. I was aware that I felt no longing, no sadness, not the slightest wistfulness. Just a gratifying sense
of completion as I rolled the strapping tape across the boxes and marked them with a black Sharpie: R. Tisdale. Right then
I was glad that I hadn’t changed my name to his.

’Til next time,

V

Spent the morning with Omar Sweet. According to the laws in our state, Roger is guilty of third degree
“criminal sexual conduct” if he engaged in penetration with someone under sixteen. But Mary obviously can’t testify, and it
would be hard to prove they had sex unless there was a witness. Since it’s unlikely that Roger sold tickets to the deflowering
of his virgin “bride,” it looks like I’m the one who’s screwed now.

’Til next time,

V

I had a nightmare about Roger. I dreamed that he was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding out a red rose. When I reached
out to take it from him, the flower turned into a crow. It snapped its sharp beak down on my fingers and wouldn’t let go,
and the pain was unbearable. I tried to shake it off, but it wouldn’t release me. I woke up sweating and crying, and couldn’t
get back to sleep until four in the morning. I really feel and look like crap now but I’ve got to get myself together for
Pete’s school carnival. I have been assigned to staff something called the “toilet toss.” I have no idea what that is, but
given my appearance and general state of mind, it seems appropriate.

’Til next time,

V

The toilet toss involves a real porcelain toilet and a bucket of beanbags. The toilet was provided by a Mushroomhead whose
husband owns a plumbing company. I’m trying not to make any paranoid assumptions about how I was chosen to staff that particular
game.

’Til next time,

V

As Pete and I drove to the mall, a police car came screaming up behind me. I was sure it was after me (busted brake light)
but when I pulled the Jeep over, the car sped past me and pulled into the Arby’s parking lot. Close behind, two firetrucks
and a second police car.

As we passed, I saw an elderly man on the sidewalk, facedown and motionless. The two ambulance drivers knelt beside him. “What’s
going on, Mom?” Pete asked.

“I don’t know, honey.” I reached back and squeezed his hand. “I don’t know.”

Pete was quiet for a long time. Finally, he asked me, “What is death, Mommy?”

Oh boy. I wasn’t ready for this conversation.
“Well, nobody really knows, sweetheart,” I began. I talked about the concept of the spirit, the soul. I briefly described
how death was viewed in other cultures and civilizations, like the Egyptians. I talked about heaven, rebirth, the circle of
life. I reminded him about his goldfish, and the parakeet. “Even though we don’t know for sure what it’s like to be dead,
sweetie, a lot of people are pretty sure that it’s not an ending, but a kind of beginning, of a new kind of life.” I was rather
proud of my response to Pete’s question, considering I hadn’t even prepared.

I watched Pete’s expression through the rearview mirror. He looked confused. “What is it, sweetie?”

“I thought it’s when you can’t hear. Hunter says his great uncle Harry is deaf. He talks with his hands.”

“Deaf? I thought you asked me what it’s like to be dead.”

“I already know all about that,” he said, rolling his eyes. “It’s when your heart stops. Can you put on my Frog and Toad tape,
please?”

’Til next time,

V

If I’d ever wondered what Ben Murphy has been up to, or whether he might make a suitable mate, I have my answer.

I brought Pete downtown to see a local group called the Marvelous Merlin Society perform outside the public library. (Pete’s
been interesting in King Arthur ever since we rented a video called
A Kid in King Arthur’s Court.
) I’d seen the group around town before, a motley crew that could euphemistically be described as artistic, but realistically
as geeky losers. On May Day they skip through the streets shaking tambourines festooned with crepe paper streamers. There’s
a juggler who uses only two beanbags. Even I can juggle two beanbags.

The show began with a miming court jester who clambered around like a monkey in an attempt to engage the audience. He danced
around a toddler, who started screaming. His mother carried him away. Then he swiped at a woman’s lovely and quite expensive
straw hat (I recognized it from the Talbot’s window), sending it flying into the street, where it was promptly flattened by
a teenage girl on a dirty yellow moped. The menacing mime/jester finally took his leave, and then the musicians appeared,
playing bells, small stringed instruments, and wooden flutes.

Then I saw Ben. He was dressed in orange tights, a billowy white blouse, and big green bloomers with velvet suspenders. He
wore pointy black satin slippers and a garland of shriveled yellow dandelions on his head. He was dancing a kind of hopping
jig, arms linked with a fair maiden who was actually quite agile for someone her size.

After a few lively turns, Ben and his lady started dancing in my direction. He didn’t seem to notice me. I ducked my head
into my bag and kept it there for the rest of the performance. I would have left if it hadn’t been for Pete, who thoroughly
enjoyed the show and, when it was all done, asked if he could meet the jester. I told him we had to move the Jeep or we’d
get a ticket, and I was glad he was young enough to think meter maids work on weekends.

I guess Ben Murphy wasn’t really right for me in the first place.

’Til next time,

V

A local woman is missing.

The story was on page two of today’s paper, an odd position considering that no one ever disappears in this town, unless some
camper gets sloshed and passes out in the woods. The second page is usually reserved for obituaries, car accidents, DWIs and
the occasional lost farm animal (last summer it was a fugitive ostrich). And it’s an odd position considering the stories
that made it to page one: Chung Foo restaurant closes. Seventy-three-year-old grandmother earns high school diploma. City
council approves
north side shopping center. Public pools open for business.