The Border of Paradise: A Novel Read Free Page B

Francine. She said, ‘Well, Marianne is an excellent singer, and she’d be honored if you had her perform at your party.’ I was so shocked! Really—inviting yourself to a party, and then inviting your daughter to perform, too? It was like she’d heard about the party for years and finally decided that it was high time they make the list. Before I could figure out what to say, she said, ‘She does a truly beautiful “O Holy Night.” She’ll be so pleased.’ And by then it was too late, they were as good as invited by George himself.”
    “Goodness.”
    “Maybe they won’t show,” Mrs. Pawlowski said. “Maybe they’ll get in a horrible car accident. Did I just say that? I’ve been drinking wine all day, just sipping while cooking, and I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. But we’ve known each other forever, haven’t we? You won’t tell anyone?”
    The doorbell sounded. “Oh,” Mrs. Pawlowski said, and went down the hall. She peered through the peephole, and then she opened the door for the Orlichs. Coming in was balding Mr. Orlich, who had absurdly round cheeks, and Mrs. Orlich, who held the wine. There was Marty, who was now taller than I was, although I would be quite lanky and nearing six feet by the end of senior year, and he had on a lumpy red-and-white-striped wool hat that I presumed a relative had knit for him.
    But Marianne. That moment in the sitting room was the first time that I found myself paying any attention to a girl, let alone a girl slipping into the shape of a woman. If I was neurotic about stuffed animals as a child, as an adolescent I was even more neurotic about girls, who seemed not quite human to me. Yet here she was, a sylphlike fourteen-year-old, wearing a red angora sweater with a matching skirt and low heels with girlish white stockings, and there was her startlingly white-blond hair, which had a slight wave to it, and here was a broad smile that spanned her round face. I invented none of that; that is exactly how Marianne looked that day when she walked into the Pawlowskis’ house.
    She followed her family into the sitting room, where they hovered over the canapés, and chose their cucumber sandwiches and treats, before settling together on a love seat kitty-corner to mine. Marty stuck his tongue out at me. I did not respond.
    “Does anyone need anything?” Mrs. Pawlowski asked.
    “No, no, everything looks fantastic,” said Mrs. Orlich, “this is quite the spread you’ve got here.” She looked at her daughter. “Marianne? Isn’t there something you wanted to ask Mrs. Pawlowski?”
    Marianne stared at her mother for a moment, and then asked Mrs. Pawlowski if she could sing “W Zlobie Lezy” before dinner was served.
    “Oh yes, of course—George and I are dying to hear it. I can even accompany you on our Nowak grand.” She looked around. “Please, everyone, enjoy the hors d’oeuvres. There are plenty more in the kitchen. Caroline? Benjamin? Something to drink?”
    I kept watching Marianne, unaware of how strange I must have looked, but when Mrs. Pawlowski took everyone’s beverage requests and returned to the hallway, Marianne stood and followed her, saying, “Excuse me,” and I was alone again.
    Soon the house was crawling with people. Most of them came from our church, St. Jadwiga, but many of them were neighborswho knew Mr. Pawlowski because he was an affable man and the sort who knew everyone. One of the Stopka children, a six-year-old named Emily, took it upon herself to attach herself to me, her pigtails whipping as she swung her head with her tongue out. My memory of six-year-old Gillian is so different from my memory of Emily Stopka, so much brighter. As I searched for Marianne I gave Emily a paluszki to eat, to keep her occupied, but she maintained her attachment as though she were in love, and the adults were too busy socializing to pry her from me. Emily followed me into the enormous piano room when it was time for Marianne to sing, and put