Numbers: Rational, Irrational, and Accidental Page 2
This she carefully dug through, removing books of old check stubs, an accordion file of coupons that had expired in the 1990s, and a very long, curly phone cord. Underneath it all was a black Remington 7 Noiseless portable typewriter, probably made in the 1930s. It was thick with dust, and some of the keys were jammed, but as soon as she saw it she knew it was what she wanted.
She lifted it out of the crate and replaced all the other items. Brushing away the dust of many years, she could see that it had been well cared for during its useful life. The cloth ribbon was completely dried out, but once she un-jammed the keys, they all worked perfectly. From the other room she could hear Rosa and Francis making small talk.
Martine sat and wept silently for a few minutes, thinking of the words that Mimi had produced from the instrument: letters, lists, stories, and who knew what else. She dearly hoped that the papers she had been given contained lots and lots of pages made from the typewriter.
There was such a permanence of the text produced by it. Unlike the words produced by Martine’s laptop, these words had to be both carefully thought out and carefully executed. Martine was old enough to remember using correction tape in high school, and she knew that corrections were even more of a pain with these older machines.
Once she had regained her composure, and checked a wall mirror to be sure her makeup wasn’t too badly smudged, she carried it out to the living room, cradling it almost as if it were an infant.
“I’d like to take this,” she said, as Rosa and Francis both stood.
“OK,” said Rosa softly. “You’re sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
“Very well then. I’ll go tell the ladies, and if you want to follow me to my office, I have a few papers I’ll need you to sign,” she said cheerfully.
Martine nodded. Francis came to her and relieved her of her precious burden. “I’ll put it in the car,” he said.
“Put it on the back seat,” she said. “I want to be able to see it.”
***
Feeling expansive after helping carry out Mimi’s last wishes, Martine decided that they would not sleep in the car on their trip home, but would have a real bed and a real roof over their heads, and a real bathroom each night.
Francis didn’t really care much. He lived on the road and could sleep under any conditions. While Martine’s car wasn’t as roomy as a tour bus, she was far better looking than Nelson, their driver. Not only that, stopping for the night with Martine didn’t involve sound checks and having to be up for a show. Instead it portended peace, maybe a movie, maybe sex. It was a nice change.
She took the boxes from Mimi’s up to the room each night, planning to go through them a little at a time. Each box was numbered, as was each key, and she did it methodically. What she planned to do with the contents of the box she had no idea. If nothing else, she would treasure them until she died, and then they would become Tingo and Email’s problem.
The first night, at a generic hotel in the desert, Martine sat on one of the double beds with the first box in front of her while Francis sprawled on the other bed with a guitar watching a television show on HBO about vampires who really enjoyed sex. Martine opened the first box and experienced a minor coughing fit at the dust that emerged. Taped to the inside of the top of the box was a sealed envelope addressed to her.
The letter inside it read:
Dear Martine,
You took the typewriter, didn’t you? I knew you would. You probably don’t remember my letting Tingo play with it when he was a baby. One day when he was about two, you brought him to me so that you could get your hair cut. You and he said “Bye!” an infinite number of times, and he waved his little hands at you until your car was out of sight. Right after that, he turned around, put his hands on his hips, and said, “Now.” As in, “She’s gone, let’s get down to business.”
I let him play with the typewriter, and of course he jammed the keys. But those things are indestructible, and if you could find a ribbon, or a way to re-ink the spare ribbons I’ve enclosed in one of these boxes, it would still be perfectly serviceable. Of course you would have to get into the habit of using the lower-case “L” rather than the numeral “1,” but I have no doubt you’re up to the task.
Do with these papers what you will, Martine. Cherish them, burn them, line the cat box with them – as long as you go through all three boxes first. I won’t care, because I’m dead. But secretly I hope that you will find something to treasure in here. And maybe little Amelie will too. That one has a flair for writing, Martine. She may outdo both of us.
Finally, thank you for accepting these papers. My children would have dumped them – of that I have no doubt. There is a life chronicled here, through recipes, letters, notes taped to doors, and the occasional newspaper piece. I am vain enough to believe that they deserve to be held in kind hands, at least for awhile.
All my love,
Mimi
“Jesus Christ, did you see that Martine?” asked Francis. “That chick he was getting it on with, the one hanging from the wrist straps, had this, like out-of-body thing. And he just kept right on banging her. Now I’d think that kind of thing would kill a boner.”
“Sorry I missed that,” said Martine absently, still holding up Mimi’s letter.
Martine’s phone burbled, indicating she had an email from Email.
It read,
ZOMG Mom my adviser wrangled four hours of independent study credit for me for putting out The Scrote! All the copies disappear within two hours of printing and the other schools in the system are calling me about expanding to other campuses. Alex is freaking out and a cover we did with a picture of Roswell wearing a football uniform with that black shit under her eyes has been made into a T-shirt! I love you so much Mom and I can’t wait till you get back OMG OMG OMG I am so excited about college. BTW I have to go Friday and get a Pap test. I’ll make them bill dad.
“Everything cool back home?” asked Francis.
“Yeah, everything’s fine. Remind me to call home several times our last 24 hours on the road. I want to give the kids ample time to remove evidence before I get back.”
“Do you think Tingo might want to come with me one day when I’m in the studio?”
Martine looked at Francis with an expression of surprise mixed with slight confusion.
“God yes. He’d never ask, but I guarantee that if he can get off work he’d love it.”
“He’s a talented kid, Martine. Hell, he’s a lot more responsible than I was when I was his age.” Francis laughed to himself and stared off, probably remembering some of the trouble he’d managed to get into at 22.
“That would mean a lot to him, Francis,” said Martine. “And to me too. You know, I … it’s really sweet of you to offer.” Francis looked at her and felt his insides jump a bit when he saw how her eyes sparkled.
“Don’t mention it,” he said. The vampires were naked and going at it again, so Martine went back to looking through the box while Francis resumed his viewing.
***
The third night on the road, most likely their last as long as they got an early start Friday morning, Martine opened the final box from Mimi in the hotel room. She was alone, because the hotel they were at had a grand piano in the empty lounge, and Francis asked if he could play it. The manager was thrilled and had the bartender send him a steady supply of whisky while he played. By 9:30 the place was almost crowded.
Martine flipped through the files in the box. There was a thick folder of recipes, another of yellowed newspaper clippings, and a final folder with a relatively new looking, sealed envelope. The envelope had also been taped with old-fashioned cellophane tape, which had yellowed, and this was the only thing to indicate it had been there for awhile.
She carefully opened the envelope and sat stunned at what she found inside. She dumped it out and began counting: there were 100 hundred dollar bills and a handwritten note.
Dear Martine,
Brock was my grandson, and I loved him, but I also know that he treated you very shabbily when you two divorced. I remember when Amelie was about 12, she visited me during her summer break. We had just finished having a snack and I was about to throw away my apple core, and she grabbed it off my plate. “Can I have the rest of it?” she asked. I was shattered. I knew you were working hard, and my heart broke to think that my own great-granddaughter was that keen about not wasting food.
Brock was very good about calling me every week, and so I devised a game. Every time he made a derogatory reference to you, I made a mark on a piece of paper. And when I hung up, I counted up the marks. The next day I would go to the bank and withdraw that many hundred dollar bills and set them aside. That’s where these came from.
I stopped after I had 100 marks, because I felt like it wasn’t psychologically good for me anymore, but I specifically set it aside for you and the children. I am sad and angry to know that whatever Brock gets from my estate won’t be shared, but that’s life, and he won’t change. And I knew that had I left you anything beyond these papers, Brock would have tied things up in court until it was all eaten up by the lawyers.
When Amelie went back home that time, I told her to call me any time you were short of money for food and I would send some. But she never did. Very proud, that one is. I know that you will share this money with the children, but you should ask that they not tell their father where it came from.
Sincerely,
Mimi
Francis tiptoed into the room shortly after midnight and flipped on the bathroom light so he could see his way to bed. He found Martine wearing one of his shirts, asleep in a pile of money, a scenario that was basically the opposite of his worst nightmare. Still a little buzzed, he bent down to get a closer look and saw that it was indeed legal tender.
After brushing his teeth and splashing some water on his face, Francis turned down the other bed in the room. Then he carefully brushed the money away from Martine’s sleeping form, picked her up, and carried her to the other bed before climbing in next to her.
They both began to wake up around seven. Francis wondered if he should ask what had happened. But he knew that even Martine wasn’t secretive enough to just pretend like the big pile of money on the other bed was nothing.
“I guess you saw the stash,” she said when they were both awake. She stroked the back of Francis’ head.
He nodded.
“It’s from Mimi, of course. She knew her family would freak if she left me anything substantial in the will. Pretty cool, huh?”
“It’s fantastic. What are you going to do with it?”
“Well, it’s for me and the children, so I’m going to divide it up between us. I’m still paying legal bills from the last time Brock took me to court, so I imagine I’ll use it for that. It will be nice to have that expense behind me finally. But we should take one of the bills and have a really nice breakfast, don’t you think?”
Francis kissed her softly on the mouth.
***
They made it back to Martine’s house as the sun was going down. Nobody was home, and everything appeared to be in order. There was even food in the cat dish. Francis wanted to stay with Martine, but he told himself he would only stay if she asked him.
Martine really wanted Francis to stay, but she felt guilty at having taken a week’s worth of his time, so she didn’t ask. She didn’t want to put him in the uncomfortable position of having to turn her down politely. “You want to come over sometime this weekend?” she asked.
“Sure, baby. How about Sunday?”
Within half an hour of Francis’ departure, Email’s car roared into the driveway. Martine had already decided that if Email was going out, the talk about the money would have to wait until another day. And since it was Friday, it was a sure bet that she wasn’t going to be spending the evening at home.
“Mommy!” she cried as she set her backpack on the table and put her arms out.
“How are you?” Martine asked.
Email rolled her eyes slightly. “I had to reschedule the Pap smear. She got called away.”
“Oh? Did she have to go deliver a baby or something?”
“No, it was some unspecified vagina emergency. I’m going back Tuesday.”
“OK. How’s school?”
“Fantastic! Can I tell you all about it tomorrow? Roswell and I are going to a movie.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Martine unpacked her things and sorted them out so she could do laundry. She still had Francis’ shirt. She wondered if maybe she should call him to let him know she had it, and concluded that it would be the polite thing to do. She got his voicemail.
“I have your shirt, Francis. I’m sorry. I guess I tossed it in with my things when I got dressed this morning. I’ll wash it and give it back to you Sunday. Are you gone next week?”
She paused, then continued.
“I just want to say that I love you, Francis, for going with me and for being so nice to me. I put people off … I know I do. I love you for understanding that about me. And for coming around anyway. I hope you have a good day tomorrow. See you Sunday? Call me.”
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