Broken Pieces: A Novel (4 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

That evening, over an awkward dinner of pizza and mozzarella sticks, Albert and I set about the task of practicing lines.

We sat at the kitchen table, and images from my childhood played through my mind as I ran my hand across the script’s cover.

Like still shots from a movie, I remembered my father’s head bent low over a new script, my mother’s soothing voice coaching him, bolstering his confidence with her unwavering belief in his abilities.

There would be laughter out back, when they’d break from rehearsal to join me in a game of hide-and-seek.

There would be dancing and music and dress rehearsals after the lines had been learned.

Then, after everything changed and everyone was gone, there had been silence.

Most nights after dinner my grandmother cleaned, mopping the kitchen floor until it shone, a seemingly futile attempt to erase the pain of our past by wiping away the dirt.

My grandfather had died a year earlier, and I often wondered if the weight of losing her husband and her daughter so close together had been the reason she’d lived for only another ten years. She’d survived just long enough to raise me, then checked out.

“Destiny.” Albert’s voice broke through my thoughts. “You all right?”

His simple question tightened the knot in my throat, but I nodded. “Lost for a moment,” I said, doing my best to hide how affected I felt, sitting here with him at the kitchen table as though our estrangement had never happened.

“
The Squeaky Door
,” I read aloud from the script’s cover. “By Howard Carroll.”

“A genius,” my father said, shifting smoothly from his concerned tone to his actor’s voice. He pushed to stand, closing his eyes as he warmed up with a flourish of hands and posturing.

I shook my head and said, “Never heard of him,” pretending somehow I might have, when in fact I’d purposefully avoided the theater all my life.

My father launched into a soliloquy on the artistic significance of the oft-neglected Howard Carroll.

“Which is why this production is so important,” he said, pacing from one end of the small sitting room to the other.

I refocused my attention and narrowed my concentration on the prize at the end of this particular exercise.

Early tomorrow I would load Albert Jones and his luggage into my car, and I’d drive them to New York. After a quick visit to the latest theater to hire him for its stage, I’d return home to Paris alone.

Eventually the voices of these two days would fade, disappearing along with the voices of the past. With any luck at all I’d move forward with the opera house work, and my father’s anomalous surprise visit would go down in the history books as just that.

An anomaly.

An undeniable melancholy pulled at my heart, but I shut it down, focusing instead on the words printed on the pages before me.

“Well, then,” I said. “We’d better get to it, so you can do his genius justice.”

“Which is precisely why I thank you,” he said with a dramatic bow. Then he added, “A bit like old times, isn’t it? You helping your old man with his lines?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

Albert closed his eyes and breathed in slowly through his nose, then out through his mouth. He drew his arms into his chest and out. Into his chest and out, diaphragm expanding with each inhalation.

Drama. The man had always loved his drama.

After the sixth inhale/exhale production, I decided it was time to forgo the theatrics and get down to business.

“In this scene, your character—”

“Bob Drummond.”

“Bob Drummond,” I repeated. “In this scene, Bob Drummond and Helen Carter are about to meet. It seems that Helen has fallen and injured her ankle.”

“And Bob will carry her to safety,” Albert interrupted.

“Very well. Shall we?” I raised the script and waved it in the air.

He nodded.

“Helen Carter is on the ground, writhing in pain, dragging herself toward a set of stairs, when you say . . .”

Albert gathered himself, pulled himself taller, and I’d be damned if he didn’t make himself appear younger. “Hello, there . . . Miss,” he proclaimed loudly, his theater voice exploding inside the small space.

I shook my head. “Not even close.”

“Give me the line, and I will deliver it with perfect recall.”

Perhaps he wasn’t exaggerating about his difficulty with lines. Genuine concern whispered at the back of my brain. I squinted at the script and then up at my father. “How long have you had this script?”

He tapped his head in a manner suggesting I’d forgotten about the incident.

“How long?” I repeated.

“Weeks.”

“Have you looked at it since your accident?”

“I have been . . . distracted.”

Hadn’t we all.

“OK. Here we go.” I walked to the window, cradling the script in my hand. “If I remember correctly, I used to feed you the first few words and you’d take it from there.”

Albert nodded.

I began. “Perhaps I can . . .”

I waited, studying my father’s expression. If the man weren’t so darned stubborn, he’d simply admit he couldn’t remember a word. Instead, he improvised.

“Perhaps I can call you a cab,” he said, baritone voice booming.

“No,” I said, moving to where he stood, stopping in my tracks when he gave me the palms-in-the-air-don’t-come-any-closer warning.

Frustration crossed his features, frustration and fear.

He hadn’t been exaggerating.

Albert Jones had no idea what his first line was, and it was a simple line.

Sympathy edged through me, softening the hardness I’d worked to maintain since he showed up at my front door.

“The goal of the scene is to come to her aid, if that helps you remember.”

He looked at me blankly.

“OK. I’ll give you the line, and you repeat it back to me.” I forced a reassuring smile. “Simple, right?”

He nodded, and I read the line. “‘Perhaps I can be of some assistance.’”

Albert shook his head. “I don’t think that’s quite right . . .”

“I’m reading the script.”

He frowned.

“That’s your line. ‘Perhaps I can be of some assistance.’ Try again?”

He nodded.

“Helen Carter is on the ground,” I repeated, “dragging herself toward a set of stairs, when you say . . .”

I held my breath and waited. My father’s face fell blank.

He had to be kidding me.

“Albert?”

Color rose in his cheeks, and he blinked. He moved to the refrigerator and opened the door, pulling out a bottle of beer.

Fear quickly replaced my concern—the sort of fear a child learns after her world shifts.

I flashed on the image of a favorite figurine, shattered in a drunken rage, and remembered how he’d changed after my mother’s diagnosis, and even more so after it became evident she wasn’t going to survive.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He held up the bottle. “Is this all you have?”

“I thought you didn’t drink anymore.”

He’d quit the day of the funeral, promising me he’d never drink again.

A tangle of frustration and shame played out across his features, and I realized he might drink every day for all I knew. Just because he’d quit drinking once didn’t mean he hadn’t started again.

“Do you still drink?”

“No,” he answered.

Much to my relief, he set the bottle back down on the counter. He shoved his hand through his hair, leaving the strands in utter disarray. “No,” he repeated, as his features fell. “I’m going to bed.”

I took a backward step. “What about your lines? What about rehearsal tomorrow?”

“I’ll reread the script on the drive.” Then the light faded from his eyes. “I’ve put my bags in your grandmother’s old room. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” I said, understanding why he’d chosen that room instead of the one he’d shared with my mother.

Ghosts.

I reached for his arm as he brushed past me, and he hesitated momentarily.

“You’ll go back to your life tomorrow. Right?”

Sadness washed across his gaze, and he shook his head. “I’ve sublet my apartment. I have no place to go back to.”

I dropped my hand from his arm, my mind fumbling to understand his intention when I understood it all too well.

“I should have told you sooner, but I’d like to stay here with you, Destiny. If you don’t want me, I’ll go to the inn.”

Jessica’s question ran through my head.
What if he wants a second chance?

I could only manage one word. “Why?”

“I want to spend time with my daughter.”

Too little, too late.
I thought, exactly the same thing I’d said to Jessica. But by the time I’d recovered from the shock of his words and the knowledge that he had no place in New York to go back to, he’d disappeared down the hall and up the stairs.

I thought about following him. Thought about ranting and raving and demanding an explanation for why on earth he thought he could sublet his apartment and barge back into my life. But the truth was, the day and Albert’s presence had wrung me dry, and a very large part of my being simply needed to shut off the noise in order to survive.

I grabbed the beer he’d left on the counter and headed for the one place I’d find quiet.

I found Marguerite sitting on her back patio, a glass of iced tea puddling condensation on the table beside her. The line of storms that had threatened all day had not yet broken, but the night sky flashed in the distance, the accompanying rumbles of thunder drawing nearer and nearer.

I curled up on the bench beside her, remembering countless days spent in this exact spot or inside, wrapped in a blanket on her sofa.

Until I’d been old enough to stay alone, I’d walked straight to Marguerite’s every day after school while my grandmother worked to supplement the money my father had sent from New York.

Marguerite had stepped wholeheartedly into the void my mother’s death had left behind. She’d never once complained about her space or her time or her life being crowded by a grieving young girl’s presence.

Instead, she’d opened her heart and her home, and she’d pulled me inside.

“So,” she said, as she’d said to me more times than I could count, “How was
your
day?”

I looked at her loving eyes and wild auburn curls, and I let loose a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob.

Marguerite wrapped her arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. I leaned hard, as if I were once again ten years old, hiding inside the safe borders of her backyard as my motherless world raced by.

Then I told her everything.

The storm finally broke a little after ten. Fat splats of raindrops hit the panes of my bedroom window, and I wished they could wash away the past twenty-four hours, somehow returning my life to exactly what it had been the day before.

Solitary. Uncomplicated. Comfortable.

The rain quickened, and a sudden image of my mother’s violet chairs popped into my mind.

I pulled a pair of jeans on under my nightshirt and raced for the stairs, reaching the back kitchen door just as lightning flashed and crashed close by.

I carefully tucked them close to the back wall of the house, one by one, where they’d be safe beneath the overhang as the long-anticipated summer storm raged outside.

CHAPTER SIX

Albert and I made most of the hour-and-ten-minute drive from Paris to the city in silence the next morning.

He studied his script while I focused on the road, thinking about how special our trips into New York had once been.

Sure, I’d had occasion as an adult to travel into the city with Jessica and her kids or for conferences, but the streets and crowds had never again held the allure I’d once experienced standing in Times Square, holding my mother’s and father’s hands.

When Albert shut the cover on the script, I shook off the past and dove into the present.

“Well?”

“I think I’ve got it,” he said, although he didn’t sound terribly convincing.

“Good to hear.”

I navigated onto the ramp for the Lincoln Tunnel, then charged headfirst into the questions that had been bombarding my brain.

“Do you plan to commute daily from Paris to the theater?”

Silence.

“Albert?”

“Why don’t you ever call me Dad?” he asked.

I answered with a sharp look.

“The commute?” I asked.

“I’ll arrange for a car.”

And even though he’d told me he hadn’t started drinking again, I needed to ask one more time for my peace of mind.

“What was that beer all about?”

My father’s voice fell soft. “That was a weak moment.”

“I hope so,” I said, although I couldn’t shake the feeling that it had been something more.

We were in a lot and parked before I had a chance to ask the rest of my hard-hitting questions, like did he plan to stay in Paris forever, and if so, how soon would he be taking a room at the inn?

Jackson Harding stood waiting at an unmarked burgundy door, the opening almost imperceptible along the expanse of wall edging the sidewalk on West Forty-Fourth as we made our way from the lot to the theater.

He wore an outfit much like the one he’d worn the day before. He appeared pleased to see us, his smile genuine as he held open the door and ushered us inside.

“Welcome to the Manchester,” he said, his deep voice rumbling in my ear.

A shiver danced across the back of my neck as I walked into the air-conditioned space.

Jackson led us through a cluttered room and past a desk covered with clipboards, empty candy wrappers, and partially full soda bottles.

“So this is where the magic happens,” I said, taking in the backstage area.

Narrow passageways stood tightly lined with props. Small changing areas were framed only by well-worn curtains. Dresses and jackets and suits hung on the wall in collections by character.

Theater employees hustled past, chattering about staging and props and moving equipment.

Although the brick walls showed their age, the space felt alive. For a fleeting moment, I understood my father’s love of this place and other theaters like it.

Here, he could inhabit a different world for weeks or months, taking on the persona and clothing and life of a character in a play. Here, he could shed that same world after the show had finished its run and left audiences entertained.

Here, he never had to be himself.

Jackson had been saying something, explaining who did what as they rushed past. I snapped my attention back to his words as I followed behind him.

“Is it chaos on show night?” I asked, unable to imagine what the space would be like during a performance.

Jackson pointed to carefully marked pieces of tape beside each chair, vase, and prop. Labels. “Precision,” he said. Then he stopped to press his hand to my shoulder. “How were the lines?”

Something fluttered deep inside me, but I ignored the unwelcome sensation.

“A bit rough.” I shrugged. “But he spent the entire ride over reviewing the script.”

We’d lost sight of Albert momentarily, and Jackson led me beyond the backstage area, up a flight of ancient, sloping metal stairs that led to another narrow hallway.

I caught a glimpse of my father as he entered the second door on the right. Jackson blocked the door with the toe of his polished loafer, then we followed uninvited into the small, stale space.

A dressing table sat against the far wall, complete with a large mirror framed by makeup lights. Jackson flipped a wall switch and the room came to life, dust motes whirling through the air, jostled free by our entry.

He gestured for me to take the room’s one seat, a navy-blue velour sofa that looked as though it had seen better days—many, many better days. As touched as I was by his apparent chivalry, I shook my head and remained standing.

“Would you like to run some lines?” he asked Albert. “Warm up a bit before you head downstairs?”

Albert appeared momentarily startled, but quickly recovered. He pulled himself taller, lengthening his spine. He inhaled deeply through his nose, and I watched as his diaphragm expanded. He transformed before my eyes from the broken man who had gone to bed defeated the night before to the Tony Award–winning actor I’d seen mentioned in the Paris news from time to time.

“How about the first parlor scene?” Jackson said.

I flipped through the pages of the script and fed my father the setup.

“You are looking through the curtains, and your mother says, ‘Watching the stars, Bob?’”

When I lifted my gaze from the script to the man, he’d transformed fully into the character of Bob Drummond. He stood tall, his stance younger, stronger, and he gazed toward the wall as if peering through an invisible window.

“There’s nothing like the night sky,” he said, his baritone stage voice rumbling through the small room. “Nature has a way of reminding us how things should be. Like this.” He gestured dramatically, taking a few steps to his left and turning. “This is peace.”

Life and vitality shone in his eyes, and I stood speechless, staring at the man I hadn’t seen in years.

“Nicely done.” Jackson gave a single clap.

My father ran through several more pages of the scene, his confidence visibly improving with each passing moment.

“Fantastic,” Jackson said when he’d finished. “Perhaps a quick trip back to your hometown was exactly what you needed.”

Then he shifted his attention to me. “Why don’t I show you the rest of the building while your father heads off to rehearsal?”

I suddenly couldn’t wait to get out of the theater.

As impressive as my father’s command of his lines had been, his performance served as a stark reminder that this world was what he’d left me for.

Jackson reached for my elbow, his dark gaze showing a hint of concern. “You all right?”

My stomach fluttered again, and I silently berated myself. I didn’t do fluttering stomachs. Didn’t do the weak female role.

“I just need to something to eat,” I said, waving off his touch. “I’ve gotten a great sense of the place, though. Thank you.”

Jackson studied me a moment too long, apparently not fully convinced by my answer. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’m a little hungry myself. Want to grab an early lunch?”

He turned to Albert. “I can have you driven home later, since you’ll be tied up in rehearsals all day.”

Albert nodded.

I hesitated before I answered, but then I thought,
What the hell, a girl has to eat.
“OK.”

We walked Albert downstairs, waiting as he disappeared into a small group gathered backstage; then Jackson and I headed for the exit door.

Our arms brushed together in the close quarters, and I pulled my phone from my pocket to hide the fact I felt flustered. I also hoped to see a text or email regarding the opera house renovation, but found none.

“I’m actually glad we have this opportunity to talk a bit more,” he said. “How do you feel about hot dogs?”

“Hot dogs?” I laughed nervously.

“Not a fan?” He raised his brows, then smiled. The move lit his face and softened his features.

“OK,” I said. “Hot dogs it is.”

We headed down Thirty-Fourth toward a group of food carts.

“Somehow, I pictured you as more of a power-lunch-and-cigar sort of guy.”

“That’s breakfast,” Jackson said, deadpan.

I laughed, startled by his show of humor.

He sidled up to a white hot-dog truck, gesturing for me to order first.

“Mustard and relish,” I said.

“Ah,” he said. “A traditionalist.”

Then he ordered. “Heavy on the sauerkraut, please.”

He traded the vendor a ten-dollar bill for our hot dogs, and we made our way toward an oasis of green nestled between Broadway and Avenue of the Americas.

I recognized Herald Square instantly.

Macy’s giant storefront loomed across the street, and the statue of Minerva and two bell ringers served as an imposing focal point. Two women stepped away from a bench, pushing strollers as they sipped on oversize coffee cups.

“Good?” Jackson asked, tipping his head toward the now empty seat.

“Perfect.”

A slight grin pulled at one corner of his mouth, and I caught myself watching him. I shifted my attention to the gardens, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

The summer flowers were in full bloom, and if I’d possessed any sort of talent for small talk, I might have made a smart comment about the juxtaposition of color and tranquility with the surrounding craziness of the city.

Instead, I sat down without saying a word, wondering why in the hell I cared about my lack of conversational skills.

“Your father is a Broadway treasure,” Jackson said. He pulled a carefully wrapped hot dog out of the bag, spotted the yellow mustard, shook his head with a teasing smile, and handed me my lunch.

He unwrapped his own hot dog and devoured half in one bite.

“Broadway treasure,” I repeated, wondering where this line of conversation was headed.

“Albert Jones has been a fixture on these streets for a very long time.” Jackson gestured toward the crowded sidewalk and the bedlam of taxicabs and buses maneuvering for position in the traffic rushing past.

“When I was just starting out, your father gave me a chance. Said he liked what he saw. We’ve never looked back.”

“Until now,” I said, sensing a definite
but
in his tone.

Jackson polished off the end of his hot dog and set the crumpled paper between us on the bench.

“I know he looked impressive today,” he said, “but he hasn’t been himself lately.”

“Since his accident?”

He shook his head. “Even before the accident.”

Words from decades earlier ran through my mind.

She hasn’t been herself.

“Is he sick?” I asked, concerned.

“I don’t think so.” He blew out a sigh, as if he’d run the possibilities countless times. “Distracted, I think. But usually he’s never distracted.”

“How about since his injury?” I asked. “Worse? Better?”

“He actually seems detached,” Jackson answered. “Maybe he’s had enough.”

“Of acting?” I couldn’t imagine. As far back as I could remember, acting had been my father’s life.

Jackson’s features softened. “He’s had a full workup. MRIs. Cognitive tests. Echo-cardiogram. Vascular tests. You name it.”

“All for a bump on the head.”

“A bump on the head of Albert Jones. Once Broadway’s brightest star.”

“Once?”

He nodded. “Even the brightest stars dim eventually.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I’m trying to say that maybe he needs a break. Some time off.”

“He told me he sublet his apartment,” I said.

Jackson studied me seriously. “I think he’s sincere about wanting to spend time with you in Paris.”

But
why
?
I thought.
Why now?

“Let me ask you something,” I said. “Has Albert ever spoken about me by name? Shown you a picture?”

Jackson met my stare, our gazes holding a moment too long.

He drew in a long, slow breath. “As I mentioned, he’s talked about you a few times. Never with a picture, no. And never by name.” He chuckled suddenly. “Oddly enough, I was actually under the impression he had a granddaughter.”

“Granddaughter?” My laughter matched his. “Maybe he’s been keeping a second family all these years.”

Our laughter faded then. Perhaps we both realized that what sounded like a crazy possibility wasn’t that crazy. After all, the man had led a completely separate life from mine, and I was the last piece of his first family.

I picked up Jackson’s crumpled paper, crossed to a trash can, and tossed it along with the remainder of my hot dog.

“What will you do if he stays in Paris?” Jackson asked when we met on the sidewalk to head back toward the theater and my car.

“The same thing I did when he left Paris,” I answered. “I’ll live my life.”

“That’s the thing about life, though, isn’t it?” Jackson brushed the front of his jacket as we walked, chasing invisible crumbs. “Sooner or later, she throws every single one of us a curveball.”