Tracy examined it. “Wow. I’m surprised it’s still in one piece in this house.”
“I keep it hidden. I only take it out on Christmas Day.”
“It’s beautiful.” She handed back the box. “Let’s blow this dump.”
Macy followed Tracy out of the house, quietly closing the door behind her.
Today I met Macy’s best friend, Joette. From Macy’s description I fully expected wings and a halo, not a Utah Jazz sweatshirt and a White Sox baseball cap.
MARK SMART’S DIARY
I looked outside and shook my head. It was snowing again. It was only November and I was already sick of the snow and the cold. It would have been difficult to find Macy’s home with the mailboxes and curbs covered with snow, but Macy had instructed me to look for the duplex with the most Christmas decorations. It was easy to find. I recognized Macy’s car in the driveway and I pulled in behind her.
The door was decorated with a Christmas wreath. I rang the bell, and a petite woman in her early forties wearing a sweatshirt and a White Sox baseball cap opened the door. Her red ponytail was pulled through the back of the hat.
“You must be Mark.”
“I am.”
“I’m Joette. Come in.” She looked past me. “Ah, it’s snowing again.”
I stepped inside. “Yeah, you get a lot of snow here in Utah.”
“Especially this year.” She shut the door behind me.
The living room was small and looked lived in, but it was neat and well cared for. It smelled pleasant, like one of those scented candles—nutmeg and cinnamon. There were pictures around the home, mostly black-and-white photographs: like Ansel Adams landscapes. In the far corner was a picture of Jesus, and beneath it, on a dark maple stand, was a Bible. Peculiarly, a framed Wizard of Oz movie poster hung above the fireplace.
The house was decorated for Christmas. There were two crèches displayed separately on the end tables at each end of the sofa: one carved of olive wood, the other pastel porcelain. Across the lid of an upright piano a mass of pink angel hair flowed between three large glass candleholders.
“Have a seat.”
I sat down at the sofa, and she sat down on the opposite end, her hands folded in her lap. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” she said. “Macy’s told me a little about you.”
“And you still let me in?”
“We always take in strays,” she said smiling. Her expression changed to one of concern. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s a hard thing. I lost my mother when I was in high school. I still miss her.” She sighed and noticeably changed the topic. “So Macy says you’re from Alabama.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You certainly are. No one in Utah says ‘ma’am.’ Except Macy. But you can call me Joette. Or Jo. That’s what Macy calls me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said instinctively, and she grinned.
“Sorry.”
“No, I quite like it. So the two of you are off on an adventure today.”
“I think so.”
“I’m glad you’re going with her. This isn’t an easy thing for Macy to do alone.”
Macy walked into the room. She was nicely dressed in slacks and a suede jacket, and she had clearly spent extra time on her hair and makeup. I guessed that since she hadn’t seen her father in fourteen years she wanted to make a good impression. “Hi.”
I stood. “Hi. You look nice.”
“Thanks.” She turned to Joette. “I should be back before work. Don’t worry about dinner.”
“Okay. Good luck.” Macy kissed her.
“It was nice meeting you,” I said.
“Likewise. I hope I see more of you.”
“Thank you. Me too.”
She followed us to the door and stood there as we walked to the car. I opened the car door for Macy, then walked around.
When I climbed in, Macy said, “That was a good thing.”
“What?”
“Opening the door for me. Joette was watching. She’s big on boys opening car doors.”
“Glad to get off on the right foot.” I started the car.
“So, what did you guys talk about?”
“Nothing much. She told me she was sorry about my mother.”
“Jo lost her mother when she was in high school.”
“That’s what she said.” I put the car in reverse and paused. “Where to?”
“It’s in Magna. Do you know where that is?”
“It’s west somewhere.”
“Just get on Twenty-First South and head toward the Oquirrh Mountains.”
I pulled out of the driveway and started off. After a few miles I said, “Tell me about Joette.”
Macy smiled. “Jo’s my angel. She’s the most beautiful soul I’ve ever met.”
“So you like her then?”
Her smile broadened. “Like chocolate.”
“That is love.”
“When I first moved in with her, Jo worked until two or three in the morning, but I was off before midnight. So instead of going to bed, I would stay up and clean the house and vacuum and do the washing and ironing. After about two weeks I woke one morning and Jo was sitting on the edge of my bed. She said, ‘We need to talk.’ Of course I assumed I’d done something wrong. She said, ‘It’s about the cleaning.’ I said, ‘I can do better.’ She just looked at me, and then she said something I’ll never forget. She said, ‘Macy. You don’t have to be perfect to live here or to make me love you.’ That was it. She got up and left. I started to cry. It was the first time I had ever felt unconditional love.” Her eyes moistened. “I’d take a bullet for her.”
“You’re lucky to have someone to love like that,” I said.
“I know. I don’t take it for granted. What’s scary is I almost lost her a few years back. She had cancer in her eye. Thank goodness the cancer went into remission. It’s been almost three years.” She took a deep breath. “I’m so grateful. I couldn’t live without her.”
“What’s with the Wizard of Oz poster?”
She chuckled. “You noticed. Joette’s a Wizard of Oz maniac. I think she believes that everything you need to know about life can be learned from The Wizard of Oz. That poster was autographed by Bert Lahr.”
“Who’s that?”
“He played the Cowardly Lion in the movie.”
I nodded. “Impressive.”
Macy spoke less the farther west we traveled. Magna is an old copper-mining town, its main street largely abandoned and dying. Macy stared at the buildings as we passed them, and I wondered how much she remembered from her childhood. She suddenly pointed.
“I remember walking to that store. We lived on that street up ahead, by the old theater.”
I turned at the corner where a battered yellow theater marquee overhung the street. What letters remained partially spelled the title of some forgotten movie from a previous decade, like an interrupted game of hangman. I drove slowly, straining at addresses on the homes or mailboxes or where snow didn’t cover the curbs. Three blocks later Macy said in a voice low with disappointment, “I think that’s it.”
I stopped the car and checked the address she’d written down. It was the right house number but the place was clearly abandoned. The windows were boarded over with large sheets of plywood spray-painted NO TRESPASSING. The yard was surrounded with a waist-high chain-link fence. The snow was piled in high drifts on the west side, and weeds and thistles peeked out here and there from the snow. We climbed out of the car. Macy opened the gate, then stepped up through the snow to the house, her feet sinking into the white up to her thighs. She climbed onto the porch and peered through the boards into the house. I followed her up and stood next to her. She said to me, “I want to go inside.”
I checked the front door but it was locked. I looked around to see if anyone was watching us. I could see no one around, so I grabbed the corner of the plywood sheet nailed over the north window and pried it off. I had to thro
w all my weight against it, and it fell back on the porch with a loud crash. I looked at Macy. “I’ll get the door for you.”
I climbed inside. The house was dark; I flipped on the light switch to no effect and realized what a stupid thing that was. I was glad Macy hadn’t seen me. There was a musty, pungent smell of mold from rotting carpet and drywall.
I unbolted the front door. Macy walked inside and stood in the center of the living room and looked around. We weren’t the home’s first trespassers. There was a man-made rat’s nest in the corner strewn with empty beer bottles and cigarette stubs. There was graffiti on the wall. Macy didn’t seem to notice any of it. She wandered quietly from room to room with me in tow.
“This is like a dream of a dream,” she said. “It seemed so much bigger back then.” She started down into the basement, but it was flooded with several feet of water. She descended to the lowest stair possible, looked around, then came back up.
“Everything’s gone,” she said sadly. “How will I find him now?”
I frowned. “I’m sorry,” I said.
She walked out the front door. I locked the deadbolt and was climbing back out the window when someone shouted. “What are you doing in there?! The sign says NO TRESPASSING!”
An elderly black woman with silver hair stood on the sidewalk in front of the house. She was nearly as broad as she was high, and wore a bright red wool coat with faux fur collar and black buttons as big as sand dollars, and black rubber galoshes. A sheer scarf was knotted over her head, and a small plastic shopping bag was draped over the crook of one arm. A silver-haired Yorkshire terrier pulled at the leash she held, sniffing around in the snow.
Macy was feeling bad enough, I thought, without an altercation with some cranky old lady. “We’re just leaving,” I said. I took Macy’s arm and walked her down the steps. The woman just stood there staring at us.
“They should’ve torn that place down years ago. Place is a magnet for hobos and runaways. Which are you?”
“Excuse me?” Macy said.
“Which are you, hobos or runaways?”
Macy stopped. “We’re neither,” she said gently.
“Someday someone’s gonna set fire to that place and the whole neighborhood’s gonna go up in flames. Not that anyone would mind that much.”
“Let’s go,” I said, tugging at Macy’s arm.
Macy didn’t move. Instead she stepped back toward the woman. “I was looking for someone who used to live here.”
“No one’s lived there more than ten years, honey.” Then the woman strained to look at her. “Come closer.”
To my surprise Macy walked over to her. When she was within arm’s reach, the woman squinted and examined her more closely. Then she slowly reached out and touched Macy’s cheek. A smile broke across the wrinkled face. “Well, now, you’re just all grown up now, aren’t you, little Macy?”
Macy looked at her in astonishment. “How do you know my name?”
“Why would I forget that?”
“Do I know you?”
“You did. You used to play at my house almost every day.” She gazed into her face as if waiting for her to remember. “We’d get the old player piano going.”
Macy looked down. “I remember a piano. I’d play at your house?”
“Almost every day, especially when your mama was so sick. You and your sister would come over and ask me for chocolate. I used to have them Brach’s stars in the plastic sacks.”
“You know my sister?”
“I should hope so. Well as I know you.”
“Do you know my sister’s name?”
The woman just looked at her. “My stars, what have they done to you?” She tugged on the dog’s leash. “You come home with me. We have some catching up to do.”
The old lady turned and looked at me. “I know I don’t know you.”
“I’m a friend of Macy’s,” I said.
She extended the grocery bag to me. “Well, friend, would you mind carrying my bag? I’m an old lady.”
I took the sack from her. “No problem.”
She turned to her dog. “C’mon, Fred, let’s you and I take Macy home.”
Big Day. We learned Macy’s sister’s name. It was hanging from her Christmas tree all along.
MARK SMART’S DIARY
The woman lived just three houses down from Macy’s old home in a red brick house with cloth awnings that looked altogether out of place in a neighborhood where prefab houses covered in aluminum siding were the norm. She had lived in the same home for fifty-seven of her eighty-two years of life, she told us.
With some effort she climbed the seven steps of the concrete porch; we followed after her. She brought a tangle of keys from her coat pocket, unlocked the door and we all went inside.
She crouched down and unleashed her dog, then stood. “I’ll take the milk now.”
I handed her the bag, and she hobbled off to the kitchen, leaving Macy and me alone in the living room. The front room was rectangular, the floor covered with gold shag carpet, the walls coated with faux gold-leafed wallpaper yellowed with age, especially near the windows. The furniture looked like it had been bought in the fifties, and the house smelled of lilac air freshener. On one of the walls was a faded mural of Hawaii. Mounted on the opposite wall was a display of Wedgwood plates above an antique player piano, a leviathan of an instrument with wood cabinetry set in a herringbone pattern.
In one corner of the room was a squat artificial Christmas tree with a single strand of lights hung haphazardly across it. In the opposite corner of the living room was a three-stepped étagère of burled walnut adorned with porcelain figurines. Macy walked over to it and squatted down to examine the dolls. I sat down on the couch and watched her.
“You came on a good day,” the woman said from the other room. “I’m going to be hand-dipping my Christmas chocolates. Cordials and haystacks.” She came back into the room carrying a plate of cookies. “Haven’t changed much, have you, girl?”
Macy turned to her. “Excuse me?”
“You loved those dolls. Always went right to them.”
She cocked her head. “I remember these.”
“See that one with the broken arm?”
“Yes.”
“You did that. Well, maybe Noel did it and you took the blame for it. Never got the truth out of you; you were always looking out for her.”
“Noel. That’s her name,” she said as if it had just been pulled from somewhere deep in her mind. “It’s on my Christmas ornament.”
“Christina Noel. Born Christmas Day.”
“I always felt something whenever I heard that song,” Macy said, “‘The First Noel.’”
“I always sang that to her when you came over, even in the summer. You both were the cutest little things. You made quite a sight coming up the walk hand in hand. I used to tell you, you should sue the county for building the sidewalk so close to your rear.” She laughed.
“I used to sing to you too. Your favorite song was ’You’re a little bit of honey that the bees ain’t found.’ And you liked that song from Mary Poppins, ‘Feed the birds, tuppence a bag…’”
The woman’s voice was irregular and scratchy like an old vinyl record, but it washed over Macy like a warm wave. “I used to have a voice,” she continued.
“I remember,” Macy said.
“Had a trio with my sisters. We were popular back then. Sang at the opening of St. Mark’s Hospital. Course I had looks too, and you can see where that got me.”
She held out the plate. “Ginger snap?”
Macy took one. “I love ginger snaps,” she said.
“I know. Take two.”
Macy took another, then the woman offered the plate to me and I took one. Then she took a cookie for herself. “I used to tell you that if you ate one more ginger snap you’d turn into one. You believed me too. You’d puzzle over that like it might be a good thing.”
Macy said hesitantly, “I’m sorry, but I don’t remembe
r your name.”
“You just called me Nanna. My name’s Bonnie Foster.”
“Bonnie Foster,” Macy repeated. “Did you know my mother well?”
“You don’t think your mother would just send you off to a stranger’s house, do you?” She pushed herself up by her knees. “Just a minute.” She left the room, and we could hear her rooting through the hall closet. She returned carrying an old shoe box. “Want to see a picture of her?”
“You have pictures of us?”
“Course I do. All of you. Even your father.”
Bonnie set the box on the coffee table in front of us. Macy reached for the pictures. The first photo was of two little girls posing in Easter dresses.
“That’s me and Noel?”
Bonnie smiled. “Cuter than a bug’s ears.”
“You look alike,” I said.
“Oh yes,” Bonnie said. “The two of you could’ve been twins if it wasn’t for the age.”
Macy went through several other pictures of her and her sister. In one of them the children sat on a woman’s lap.
“That’s my mother,” Macy said softly.
Bonnie looked over. “Your dear mother.”
“She was beautiful.”
“Heavens, yes. She was beautiful inside too. Your mother was a saint.”
Macy looked at her quizzically. “A saint?”
“It’s a sin to counsel the Lord, but I don’t know why He always takes His best when we need them so badly down here. There He’s got all those martyrs and saints, and when we get one of them down here it’s like He just wants them back. He should have taken your father.” She quickly turned away. “I shouldn’t have said that. Now I’ve sinned twice. I’ll be keeping Father Lapina busy at confessional this Sunday.”
I thought of my own situation and how many times in the last few weeks I’d thought the very same thing, that it should have been my father.
Macy set down the picture. “You said my mother was sick?”
“She had cancer of the lung.”
“Cancer? You mean she didn’t die from drinking?”
“Your mama? Heavens no! I don’t think she touched a drop in all her life. Where’d you get that fool idea?”