The Charmers: A Novel(24)

Later, when I was a success and told this story about myself, I claimed I did not care. All I knew was that I loved my mother, and she loved me. My mother told me I was destined for better things than life in this village where those other girls, the ones that had mocked me, would themselves end as beaten-down housewives, with too many children, and probably with a drunk for a husband struggling to provide a roof over their heads, because work was scarce and young love long since lost.

You, the stranger reading this now, will know, or at least you can find out, who I became. Who Jerusha used to be, that is, because now I am no one. I barely remember myself the extravagant, joyous, carefree life I led, that began with my introduction, still clutching my mother’s hand, a too-young thirteen, innocent in the ways of the world and with no idea that a body could be used for sexual purposes, or that men would want my body, or that later I should find fulfillment, pleasure, even find “myself” in giving that pleasure to my lovers. Never a husband, though. Unlike my school friends who married for a house, I paid to keep my own roof over my head, kept my closets filled with couture dresses, evening gowns that sparkled the way I had imagined them in my dark little house, while now I had crystal chandeliers to light every corner. I had new friends to share this with me, friends that enjoyed my success, who cared about me for who I was, the same girl I had always been, the naive, too-extravagant “beauty” who all her life, when she looked in the mirror never saw that beauty, only the poor child with the broken shoes and her uncombed, too-red hair tied back with a piece of string.

That is, until the day Maman brushed out the tangles, washed and ironed my blue smock, hitched up the too-long stockings bleached back to whiteness in an ammonia-smelling cauldron, and who purchased new shoes with the little money she’d hidden from the man who was my father. He had never married her and came only at night, usually Friday when he had been paid and gotten drunk and wanted her, and later would not remember where his money had gone. Maman did though. It was in the black leather satchel with my borrowed schoolbooks.

Choosing a day when my father was gone to work in a faraway area, Maman cleaned me up, tied back my hair with a black ribbon she’d bought specially from the tinker, smoothed me up and down, and tied the newly polished shoes that shone like coal on top. She walked with me to the train station and bought two one-way tickets to Paris, where she told me I was going to be a star on the stage.

I believed her, of course. Who else could have taken me out of that village, dressed me up, fixed my hair, my shoes, so I could get to go on the stage? Me, who had never so much as seen a real stage, only the traveling circus in its small drafty tent with the dancers in their tatty finery, and the clowns that ran through the aisles tripping over their enormous shoes and making the children laugh. Was I, I wondered, clutching Maman’s hand, about to become one of those dancing girls? Would I get to wear a sparkly tunic like theirs? Would I wear ostrich plumes in my hair that nodded with every step I took? Could I even dance?

It turned out it didn’t matter if I could dance or sing. All I had to do was stand there, in the glare of the stage lights, in tights and silver shoes with high heels and a sequined tunic, my immature breasts covered with a fold of tulle, and smile at the unseen audience, who loved me.





18

Mirabella

I put down Jerusha’s letter, more of a diary I thought, suddenly ashamed of intruding on another woman’s personal life, on her thoughts and emotions. Diaries were not meant for other eyes: they were the writer’s inner thoughts, wishes, memories, expressions of their fears and pleasures. I had no right to know Jerusha’s.

I stuffed the thin pages back in the blue envelope. It was too small and I was afraid of crumpling them. Jerusha had written so carefully, she had put them in this envelope herself, never knowing who might read them. Yet, surely she had realized that one day, maybe long after she was gone, somebody would. Why else would she have told her story, especially after all the notoriety, when she had been accused of murdering her lover? Yet I could not bring myself to intrude on her thoughts now.

Restless, I went outside into the garden, pacing the path that led to the pebbly little beach. To my right was the dual driveway that serviced both villas, mine and my neighbor’s, the oh so uncharming Dr. Chad Prescott, whose pink shorts I recalled too vividly for a woman who supposedly hated him. Well, disliked him, anyway, though he was undoubtedly good-looking and he had played a part in saving my life. At least in helping to fix me up after the accident, plus rushing to my aid and saving me from the villain with the gun, who later, even the Colonel had not been able to find, let alone identify. Had I even so much as thanked Chad for that? I could not remember, and taking the path that led to his villa, I decided to do so now.

Despite the early hour, I found him outside his triple-size garage hosing down a British racing green Jaguar convertible—which means it seats two in front and with a squeeze, two in the tiny space in back, a myth I’ve never gone for. However, the thought was irrelevant since I did not believe this man would ever put any passengers in the back, maybe not even in front. It was obvious from his intent expression and the way he stroked his hand lovingly over the surface that this car was his toy and he was not a boy that shared.

“How about taking me for a ride?” I said, putting him on the spot and startling him at the same time. He had not heard me approach, he was so intent on what he was doing. I liked that: a man who can concentrate that hard would be good at whatever he did. I’d heard he was a brilliant surgeon but I’d bet he would have been a great car mechanic in another life.