Protecting Marie (7 page)

“The object of our game,” Henry had said, “is to look for stupid things. Things to throw away. And when we're done with our game, your room will be clean. How's that?”

Fanny shrugged, a bit perplexed.

“This looks like something stupid,” Henry had said, picking up a wadded piece of lined notebook paper from the floor by Fanny's bed. “I think we should throw it away.”

“No,” Fanny had squeaked, instantly aware of the rules of the game. Instantly aware that Henry's game did not involve searching for pretend, dim-witted monsters or inept fairies, but rather real things—
her
things—things she wanted to keep. “You can't throw it away. It's part of my crumpled paper collection. Come see.”

Fanny led Henry to her closet and drew back the curtain to reveal a messy pyramid of balled paper of all sorts and kinds piled into the corner and tumbling across the wooden floor. She thought that if Henry could see that the wad of paper had a place, belonged to a whole group of crumpled paper, of course he'd let her keep it. But he only wanted to dispose of the entire collection.

“How long have you been saving these?”

“Dunno.” Fanny scrunched her toes. “They're families,” she chirped.

“Families?”

“Uh-huh. The tissues are one family. The yellow paper's another. The white with blue lines is one, too. They all have lots and lots of
children. No only children. And that's the queen. Her name's Marie.” Fanny pointed to a doll that lay in shadow beside the lumps of paper.

Henry squatted and pulled the doll into the light by one of her legs.

“Careful,” Fanny whispered, tugging on her collar. “She's very delicate.”

And she was. Marie's torso and head had been cut from a Lucky Charms box. Her spindly arms and legs were thin strips of typing paper glued to the torso. The paper had been folded numerous times, accordion style, so that her arms and legs were springy. She looked as though she were dancing—one arm shooting upward, the other straight out, her legs forming an upside-down V. Fanny had drawn Marie's features with a black ballpoint pen. Her mouth was a pouty circle, and short, slitty lines served as eyes and eyelashes. She appeared to be winking. Marie had no nose, because Fanny already felt that her own nose was too big and therefore decided that a queen should have none. Her crown was a crinkly
piece of aluminum foil stapled on at a funny angle, like a ship about to sail off her head. But the best thing about Marie was her royal dress. It was made of small paper scraps glued to her cardboard body. Fanny had used everything from wrapping paper to gum wrappers to newspaper. Of course, there were snippets to represent all of the paper families. In some places the glue was so thick you could see it through the paper. In other places Fanny had dotted the paper with beads of glue.

“Those are her pearls and diamonds,” Fanny had explained, referring to the hard little globs, trying to point out all of Marie's special qualities. “Her heart is a tiny red balloon and her bones are really broken tea cups. But you can't see them.
Those
things are invisible.”

“Can
you
see them?” Henry had asked, his eyes twinkling. He held Marie up and blew at her legs. They quivered.

“I don't have to. I just know they're there.”

“Hmm.” Henry handed Marie to Fanny. He tipped his head and rested his index finger at
the corner of his mouth. Then he stroked his face thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose Marie will survive this Stupid Hunt, but most of your wads of paper have to go. Your room's a firetrap. It will be as neat as a pin when we're done. You'll like it. You'll see.” The tone of Henry's voice seemed to say, I know everything there is to know about anything that matters.

But Fanny did not like it. Her room looked empty, less comfortable, sad even. By the time the Stupid Hunt was over, Henry had filled a paper bag with well over half of Fanny's crumpled paper collection, four used tissues from under her bed, a napkin, twelve wilted dandelions, several twigs, a clump of creeping charlie, an empty ginger ale can, a scraggly bow from a birthday gift, a pen cap, two broken rubber bands, and a piece of a stale cookie.

There was a reason why Fanny needed each of these things, but she knew her father could not be persuaded to change his mind. As she had watched Henry fill the bag with her be
longings, she had clutched Marie firmly to her chest, risking bending her. She was grateful that when Henry had clapped his hands and said, “Finished!,” Marie was still in her arms.

That night, before bed, Henry, Ellen, and Fanny had ice cream on the screened back porch. It was a muggy night, with only a slight, seldom breeze. Bugs flitted against the screen, drawn by the overhead light. Henry let Fanny pour her own chocolate sauce, and she rewarded herself with an abundance of it. She felt she deserved it. Because the ice cream was melting so quickly, Fanny stirred it and ate it like soup. The bowl sweated. Water dripped onto her nightgown. Henry praised Fanny to Ellen and called her Fancy and Fanfan—his pet names for her that he only used on rare, special occasions. But Fanny barely heard; she was already anticipating the next Stupid Hunt, trying to figure out a way to protect Marie, certain that Henry would look for her, find her, and throw her away.

The Stupid Hunts went on for months. Each week Fanny found a place to hide
Marie. And each week Marie survived.

Had it only been in Fanny's mind that Henry had been hell-bent about getting rid of Marie? A complete misconception? An overactive imagination at work?

Now, at age twelve, Fanny had long outgrown Stupid Hunts and Marie. She simply kept her door closed, her messy room hidden from Henry. And Henry rarely entered her room anymore, and when he did, he generally refrained from commenting, although a few times Fanny had noticed him glance around and roll his eyes before leaving.

Fanny still had Marie. She didn't think about her much; she did, however, know exactly where she was. Marie had her place. It was the back left-hand corner of the bottom drawer in the white file cabinet that stood near Fanny's dresser. Henry had given the file cabinet to Fanny when he had bought a new one for his studio. Fanny had nothing to file, per se, so she used the file cabinet as a secure home for her most prized possessions. The cabinet drawers locked. Originally, this fasci
nated Fanny, because she had never owned anything like this before, never had the chance to be secretive in this way. There was no lock on her bedroom door, no lock on her jewelry box. Once, after receiving the file cabinet, it occurred to Fanny that having it during the days of the Stupid Hunts would have been a perfect solution to her problem. She could have placed Marie, or anything else she was worried about losing to Henry, in the cabinet and turned the key, guaranteeing safety. It would have been as simple as that.

The key to the cabinet clinked against Fanny's house key as she kneeled and pulled them out from under her shirt. She had worn both keys around her neck for years. The house key was solid and heavy and golden. The key to the file cabinet was thin and silver and nearly weightless. Fanny opened the bottom drawer. She laid the bottle of silver dragées down right next to Marie.

The file cabinet was filled with many beloved things: three shells Fanny had found when she went to Martha's Vineyard with her
parents one summer; a translucent handkerchief stitched with rows of leafy daisies that had once belonged to Grandmere, Henry's mother; a Christmas stamp from England, torn from an envelope, of a snowman looking at a child through a window; a black-and-white photograph of Henry as a boy riding a tricycle; a color photograph of Ellen as a girl drowning in a wave of Oriental poppies; three ribbons—one red, two white—that Fanny had won at a summer track meet for children at the university; and a sketch of Fanny, an infant, curled up with her fists at her mouth like a kitten, drawn by Henry.

There were smooth stones from their cabin in the woods, a multicolored beaded necklace Ellen had worn to her high school prom, and a bicentennial quarter. There was a brittle maple leaf crown Ellen had woven for Fanny's last birthday. And there was the small slip of paper on which were written directions to the farm where Nellie now lived. Fanny had unfolded and folded the paper so many times it was beginning to fall apart at the creases. She won
dered if she'd ever have the courage to visit Nellie. She wanted to, and she didn't. She thought she would; she knew she couldn't.

Before closing and locking the drawers, Fanny gingerly removed Marie. Marie was swaddled in a sheet of tissue paper so thin Fanny could see Marie through it as if she were embedded in ice. Fanny unwrapped her. The doll seemed so small and flimsy now. Her arms and legs were folded in against her body like the petals of a flower. Fanny peeled them away. “Will it be a merry Christmas?” she asked Marie.

Marie lay in Fanny's hand, still and silent.

“That's exactly what I was thinking,” said Fanny. She bundled Marie up, placed her back in the file cabinet, and closed the drawer with a
rmm-click.

While Fanny straightened her room, she could hear the linen closet door open and slam shut. Again. Again. She could hear Ellen walk heavily across the floor. She could hear the floor creak and hangers clatter against one an
other and ring. Fanny knew that her mother was organizing, too. They were both killing time, waiting for Henry. Like mother, like daughter. Frowning, Fanny decided to quit. She would leave her dresser drawers open. She would leave her dirty socks on the throw rug. She plunked herself down on her unmade bed defiantly and rested her eyes. Within minutes, her whole body yawned, she was so drowsy. Spots swam beneath her eyelids. She tightened and relaxed her eyelids, and the spots pulsed like flames.

As she was drifting off, Ellen's voice kept replaying in Fanny's head: “Scratch the surface of anyone and you're bound to find complexities.” And “Secondhand pain is the hardest to deal with.” Ellen had said these things to Fanny while they had been cleaning up the kitchen after baking cookies. The remarks had come right out of the blue. The remarks, Fanny knew, referred to Henry, but she didn't quite understand them. Was her mother trying to explain Henry? Rationalize his behavior? And her father wasn't the only one dealing with pain. Or
maybe that's what “secondhand pain” meant—that Ellen and Fanny were feeling pain, too, because of Henry, and that theirs was worse.

Fanny didn't know. It all confused her. She did know, however, that what her parents did or how they felt had a strong effect on her. If Henry, for example, was in a grouchy mood—not to mention skipping his sixtieth birthday party and staying away for the night—it cast a shadow over everything. It occurred to Fanny that children, as they grow older, probably forget how awful it is to experience that powerlessness; if they didn't, they would never have children of their own. They'd be too afraid of the influence they'd have.

Sometimes Fanny wondered if
she
would have children. Sometimes she thought that having a baby to take care of would be wonderful. She loved playing with Mary Dibble's three-year-old brother, Joey. Since she had no siblings of her own, she had taken a special interest in Joey—sending him origami birds in colored envelopes through the mail, hiding small bags of candy in his room, phoning the
Dibbles and asking for Batman, his latest obsession and dual identity. He had just begun to call her Auntie Fanny, having been prompted to do so by Mary. Whenever he said it in his high, tittery voice, Fanny felt a rush of pride.

The mattress squeaked as Fanny turned over. She lay on her side, her head on her flattened hands, her legs bent. After a deep sigh, she fell asleep thinking of Joey and Mary and Christmas and presents and snow and skating in circles and circles and circles. . . .

“Fanny?”

Knock, knock, knock.

“Fanny?”
The door opened, Ellen peeked in, and a triangle of light bleached the floor. “Fanny, telephone,” Ellen said, approaching the bed.

Fanny yawned and sat up. “Is it Dad?” she asked.

“No, it's Mary. She's calling from Florida. Here.” Ellen handed the portable phone to Fanny and quietly walked out of the room.

“Mary?”

“Fan, hi,” said Mary Dibble. “I miss you.”

“Me, too.”

“I'm having the worst time. I wish you had come with us.”

It had been such a difficult decision for Fanny to make. Part of her had wanted to go with the Dibbles. But a bigger, stronger part of her couldn't bear to be away from her parents for Christmas. She had agonized for a week in October, straining to picture it both ways in her mind. And then there was her father's birthday. That's the excuse Fanny finally used; she told Mary that it was because of Henry's sixtieth birthday, and the party they would surely have, that she felt she couldn't go.

Both Ellen and Henry had given their approval freely, almost pushed Fanny to go. “You'll have fun,” said Ellen. “It's kind of exotic to have Christmas in a warm place,” said Henry. If only they had said no, it all would have been so easy. She wouldn't have had to decide. She could have told Mary the simple truth and then pretended that she was furious with her parents.

Fanny knew that if she had gone, she would have been homesick. She might have gotten a tan, but she would have had to endure a lump in her throat the size of a plum the entire trip.

“It's not so great here, either,” said Fanny. She paused and rolled her tongue. “My dad didn't show up for his party.”

“Why?”

“I'm not sure. My mom says it's because he's afraid of turning sixty, or something. I don't know.” Fanny didn't want to say more than that. Talking on the telephone was a poor substitute for having a conversation face-to-face. Mary would hear everything when she came home. “Do you have a tan yet?”

“Try a burn. I'm kind of pink all over. I fell asleep outside at my grandma's. I hope I look normal by the time we come back.”