“That where you’re from? I was wondering with your accent, and you talk so fast.”
Accent? “Yes.” Mary tried to talk slower. Ye-es.
“Would you like some tea with your pie, dear?”
“Only if you’re making it already.”
“I am. We’re not much for coffee in this house. My husband can’t – couldn’t – tolerate it. His stomach.”
“Tea’s great, thanks. May I help you?”
“No, thanks. It’s good for me to move around. This is exercise, for me.”
“Thanks, then.” Mary couldn’t remember the last time she’d drunk tea, but she wasn’t about to put Mrs. Nyquist to further trouble. The older woman was placing a white teapot on a burner at the stove and she could have been Mary’s mother, except for her perfect command of English and nonviolent nature in general.
“My goodness, I sit all day nowadays, except when I’m cleaning.” Mrs. Nyquist bustled around the gleaming kitchen, an Early American type with red-and-white cushions tied to the backs of the wood chairs. The counters and appliances were a spotless white, and the air smelled vaguely of orange-scented Fantastik. On a side table next to some old photos stood a grouping of brownish figurines, which Mary thought might be Hummels, but wasn’t sure. In South Philly, statuary was restricted to a dashboard St. Christopher or a bobblehead Donovan McNabb.
Mrs. Nyquist was shaking her head. “I even cleaned the garage last week, it gave me something to do. Aaron was so disabled by his stroke in those last years, and taking care of him was a full-time job. Now I have all this free time.” She waved her hand in the air, as if shooing away a bumblebee. “Please, taste your pie.”
“Wow, this is great!” Mary said, scooping a forkful. It tasted like blueberry pie, only sweeter. She took another bite and hadn’t realized how hungry she was. “It’s so nice of you, to feed me so late.”
“It’s my pleasure.” Mrs. Nyquist bowed her head graciously. “Will’s right about one thing, I do like the company. He’s worried about me, thinks I’m getting blue. He even wants to set me up with a man from church, on a date!”
“You, too?” Mary laughed, and so did Mrs. Nyquist. “What is it with the blind dates? I’d rather watch TV.”
“Me, too.” Mrs. Nyquist returned to the table and set a steaming mug in front of Mary, with a fragrant triangle of a Lipton tea bag inside. “How do you take your tea?”
“How should I take my tea?”
“I take it plain.”
“Then so do I,” Mary said, making Mrs. Nyquist smile again as she went back to the stove and poured herself a mug of tea, then came back to the table with it and sat down. An oversize men’s Timex slipped down from her wrist, undoubtedly her husband’s, and she still wore her wedding band. I’m a widow, too, Mary thought, but for some reason, couldn’t say. She settled for, “You must miss your husband.”
“Every minute.” Mrs. Nyquist sighed. “You know, they say everything happens for a reason, but I’m not sure I believe that anymore.” Behind her glasses, the older woman’s blue-eyed gaze was direct and even, and it struck Mary that this was going to be a real conversation and not just small talk. It was hard to bullshit an old lady, which was only one of the things she liked about them.
“Honestly, I never thought that everything happened for a reason. I still don’t. It’s just something we say to each other to get us over it, whatever it is. The hard part.”
“Maybe. I used to believe that God has a plan for us, each of us. The longer I live, the less sure I am of that, too. What do you think?”
“I believe in God, but I think he’s a lousy planner.”
Mrs. Nyquist smiled over her steaming tea. “So is there a plan, at all?”
“Not unless you have one.”
“So what’s left then, if there’s no plan?” Mrs. Nyquist set down her mug. “What is it that your generation believes in?”
Mary smiled. “You’re asking the wrong girl. I can’t speak for my generation. I’m not even sure which generation I’m in, half the time.”
“So, then, what do you believe in, Mary?” Mrs. Nyquist waited expectantly, and all of a sudden, Mary knew the answer. She had just realized it, sitting in a dark farmhouse, with a very kind stranger, in the middle of Montana.
“I believe in justice. And in love. And in not getting over it, because that’s too much to ask of a human being.” Mary collected her thoughts. “Getting over it is the wrong thing to want, anyway. You should never expect to get over it, the best you can hope is to live past it. And you go on. Your past becomes a part of you, you just fold it into the gnocchi dough and keep rolling.” Mary was surprised to hear her voice break, so she scooped another forkful of pie, and Mrs. Nyquist seemed to let it register, still listening, until her unlipsticked mouth curved slowly into a smile.
“You know, you may be right, Mary.”
“It’s possible. I’m wrong so often, the odds are on my side.”
Mrs. Nyquist laughed. “No, I can’t believe that. You’re a very thoughtful young girl.”
“It’s the huckleberries. They have superpowers.”
Mrs. Nyquist laughed and sipped her tea with the tea bag still inside, and so did Mary, because she felt like they were friends now. “But you came to see my husband, and I’ve gone on and on. What was it you wanted to see him about?”
“I understand from Mr. Milton that your husband was at Fort Missoula, during the war.”
“He was,” Mrs. Nyquist answered, and her voice suddenly echoed the clipped tones of a military wife. “He couldn’t serve because of his heart, which bothered him so much. He always felt he could have served, he felt quite fit and healthy, and took some pride in it. In fact, the doctor said a less fit man would never have survived his first stroke. It was the second that killed him.”
“I’m sorry.” Mary had said it before, but this apology was sui generis. The ultimate apology. “I am doing some research and trying to identify an internee I found in some old photos.”
“Maybe I can help you. I worked at the camp for a time, as a secretary.”
“You did?” Mary asked, surprised. “The cashier at the museum didn’t mention that.”
“I doubt they know, at the museum. I was unofficial, you see. They were so short-handed during the war, Aaron had them hire me. For free.”
“You needed a lawyer.”
Mrs. Nyquist laughed.
“Well, if you wouldn’t mind looking at the photos, I brought them with me.” Mary went digging in her bag and pulled out the two photos.
But she had barely set them on the red-and-white placemat when Mrs. Nyquist emitted a gasp.
Twenty
“My goodness!” Mrs. Nyquist said.
“What? Do you know them?”
“This does take me back. I’m sorry, it’s just so surprising to see these!” Mrs. Nyquist’s aged hand fluttered to her throat. “I do know that man.”
Yes! “Which one? It’s win-win, to me. One is named Amadeo, and I don’t know the other, the man in the cap.” Mary pointed at the mystery man, and Mrs. Nyquist met her fingernail to fingernail.
“I know him, this man, the man in the cap. I recognize him. Everybody in our office knew him. He always wore that cap, just that way.”
“You’re kidding!” Mary edged forward on her slippery cushion. “Do you know his name? I think he may have been a friend of the other man, the shorter one, Amadeo Brandolini. Do you know the short one in front?”
“Let me see.” Mrs. Nyquist picked up the photo and looked at it through her bifocals. “No, I don’t know him.”
“You sure? Amadeo was a fisherman from Philly.” Mary was trying to jog Mrs. Nyquist’s memory. “He committed suicide. He and the man in the cap worked in the beet fields together.”