VANESSA WATCHED IN DISBELIEF as her husband prodded forward a young woman in poverty rags and ugly man-boots, a woman with a maroon turban over her head, her face gray and plain. She was from a world Vanessa had never seen. Vanessa couldn’t tell if the woman was or could be attractive, and didn’t care. She was too shocked by the appearance of this fragile, frightened being inside her house.
“This is Isabelle,” Finn said. “Isabelle, meet my wife, Vanessa.” He had a smile on his face, like he was introducing his good friends to each other!
Vanessa stood, speechless.
Finally, she remembered herself and said, “How do you do?” She glared at her husband.
The woman mimicked her precisely. In a Slavic-sounding accent and a hard voice, she said, “How do you do?” But she did not glare at Vanessa’s husband.
“Where are you from . . . Isabelle, is it?”
“Isabelle Martyn Lazar,” the woman said, her head high, her thin shoulders squared. “Ukraina.”
“We say Ukraine in America,” Vanessa said.
After the slightest pause, Isabelle said, “Ukraine in America.” The words were spoken in a perfect imitation of Vanessa’s soprano.
“You speak English?” Vanessa asked, grimacing in confusion.
“I speak English now, no?” The accent and the gritty voice were back.
“Will you excuse us, please?”
In the hallway, Vanessa whirled to Finn, her face distorted. “Finn, no!”
“Vanessa, I’m sorry, darling.” He squeezed her shoulders. “I had no time to think. Schumann ambushed me. He asked me to hire her as a favor. I couldn’t say no.”
“I’m saying no now. Take her back. Please.”
“Listen, let’s give her a chance for a month or two. It’s an extra pair of hands, we can always use those, right?”
“Finn!”
“Sweetheart, just the other day you were saying how you were feeling slightly overwhelmed.” Finn looked her over. “And I can’t help but notice that you barely got yourself together for our evening with the family.”
“I am perfectly together,” she said. “And you weren’t here either.”
“I was at work. And then halfway across town. But you were right here, darling. And you’re still not ready . . .”
“I’m entirely ready.”
“You look wonderful,” he said. “No question about that. But the pins in your hair are from this morning. You’re wearing almost no makeup—”
“I’m wearing neutral makeup, appropriate for a summer night.”
“Only on one eye, darling. You forgot to neutrally make up your other lovely eye.” Finn smiled.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Perhaps she can help you so you don’t have to do everything in such a rush. Get the girls ready, play with them, take them to the park, that sort of thing.”
Vanessa blinked. “We have Edith for that, thank you very much.”
“Edith is not as young as she used to be. She has trouble with the stairs and navigating the turns on our landings. Doesn’t like to go up and down hills. Junie told me they didn’t go to the park at all last week! It’s summer, darling, the best time in Boston. Yet the girls are cooped up in the house.”
“Finn, we have a patio and a garden, and—oh, what am I saying, this isn’t about the girls or the park!”
“Isn’t it?”
“You brought a strange woman into our home to live with us without talking to me first!”
“I’m talking to you now.”
“That’s just a formality, Finn.”
Finn peered earnestly into her face. Vanessa knew the expression well. It was his tireless persuasion face. Calm, good-natured, full of reasoned argument, her husband persisted until Vanessa became okay with whatever it was he needed her to be okay with. A third child? Sure. A wanderer from a foreign land? Certainly.
Vanessa marched back into the parlor room. “How did you get here, Isabelle?”
“We walk,” she said. “We walk from Schumann.”
“Where did you come from?”
“Schumann,” Isabelle repeated.
“Oh, my goodness! Why can’t I make myself understood? Do you have immigration clearance to live here in America, to work here? Finn, can you help? Can you make her understand what I’m asking her?”
“Our boat sink in night,” Isabelle said. “Big shtorm. Many people die. Not me.” But she didn’t say it like she was blessed. She said it like she was cursed.
“What boat?”
“I don’t know name of boat.”
“Your ship sank?”
“Yes. Ship crash at Lavelle.”
“Where?”
Finn interjected. “I recall reading something a month or so ago about a merchant ship accident at the east end of Boston Harbor. It hit some rocks and capsized. That’s probably what she’s talking about.”
“Why would she be on a merchant ship?” She turned to Isabelle. “Why were you on a merchant ship?”
“I don’t know what merchant is. My ship crash.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Vanessa. “But that’s not our fault, is it? We are not responsible for the shipwreck, are we? You haven’t answered any of my other questions. You did, however, answer a question I wasn’t asking.”
“I want to answer, but I really don’t know name of boat,” said Isabelle.
Vanessa turned on her heels and stormed out. Finn followed her.