The Miniaturist
by Shauna Checkley
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
Her mother’s lips parted as if to speak. But Cynthia stormed to her room with bag in hand. She slammed the door. Flopping onto her bed, she forgot her earlier resolution and reached for her cellphone.
u da ho of my dreams
Cynthia felt like calling the cops, but she shut her phone down and put it away in her night-table drawer. She closed her eyes. She felt hot, angry and tired. She turned on her fan and felt a little relief.
Eyeing the bag, Cynthia decided to work on her new interest. She carefully removed the contents of the bag and unwrapped each miniature piece. She marveled at the tiny, yellow, wing-back chair that looked like a beautiful insect on the palm of her hand. She then unwrapped all the other pieces.
Gazing thoughtfully at the model box, she began to plot the interior design for it. Like a chess player, she carefully moved pieces around. But now how did that Graham guy get his box looking so good, so perfect?
Cynthia closed her eyes and tried to recall the Edwardian scene. When she finally had it looking like a close enough facsimile to what the master miniaturist had made, she stopped. She stared at the box. She eyed her creation. Yet she found it deficient somehow. It just didn’t seem to have the quaint charm that his possessed. Still not right, she fretted... Something’s amiss...
But then it came to her. Glue! How could I have forget to get glue! She balked at her oversight, then made a mental note to pick some up tomorrow. At least I’ve got the pieces sort of arranged right... sort of...
Then a knock came on her bedroom door. “Come in,” Cynthia said
It was her mother. Her brow was like a washboard, her mouth downturned. Instantly, Cynthia knew something was amiss. “The Dans just had their hours cut at work. They’re coming to talk things over. I’ve just made a fresh pot of coffee if you’d like to have a cup.”
“I need glue,” Cynthia said
“For what?”
“My mini-box.”
Her mother stared at her in disbelief. “Is that all you can say when your stepsister and her family are bottoming out?”
They paused. Cynthia shrank.
Quietly closing the door, her mother left.
Cynthia frowned at the unhappy news. But what am I supposed to do about it anyhow?
Still, she ruminated on the situation. Everyone referred to them as the “Dans” simply because she was Danielle while he was Daniel. It seemed to Cynthia that the twosome shared everything: jobs, tobacco, their toddler Kelsey, and even names. But she had never really bonded with them as the Dans were in their early thirties, nearly a generation removed.
Instead, Danielle and Cynthia had settled on a simple tolerance for one another rather than a true fondness or relationship. While Cynthia was growing up, her older stepsister was always busy with friends and boys and life while the quiet, scrawny little child often went unnoticed.
Yet Cynthia became remarkably adept at learning how to fill voids. She used technology and crafts and books, the way others utilized people. She became insular and self-sufficient, even inventing cyber friends and family when there was a dearth of the real flesh and blood thing.
It had always been so. Since their families amalgamated in her early school years, Jerry and Danielle joining Cynthia and her mother, rounding out as one plural unit.
Craving a coffee, however, Cynthia journeyed to the kitchen. She eagerly followed that rich aroma that filled the air.
“I really think we should drop the cruise idea. The kids may need some help y’know.” Her mother spoke while leaning against the kitchen cupboards, nursing her own cup.
Cynthia watched as Jerry’s lips tightened. Then she saw how every muscle and vein in his neck seemed to realign like some fine inner tuning had just occurred. There was a look of angry betrayal in his beady eyes. Cynthia had witnessed it before, when she or someone failed to say or do what he expected.
“Tell Dan to start looking, then! I sure hope they had sense enough to save!”
“Save what?” her mother began, “You know how fast money goes,”
Hurrying to the coffee maker, Cynthia quickly poured herself a cup. As her parents had only just quit quarreling over pricey home renovations recently, she didn’t wish to be cast headlong into a new battle.
But then the “Dans” walked in. Danielle was downcast, while her husband appeared angry and tired-looking. Their toddler, Kelsey, was asleep in her mother’s arms, a limp, cherubic bundle with her mass of gold waves. Though everyone nodded to each other, there was a thick, undercurrent of tension that was nearly palpable.
Cynthia made a beeline to her bedroom. Don’t wanna be around for any surly remarks. Settling on her bed with the coffee, Cynthia was comforted by the protective enclosure that was her bedroom. It was a tiny space, but it served her well in moments like this. She could shrink and shrink and hide away. Yet as she sipped her coffee, she was accosted by all her recent stressors. Cyber predators and bullying. Quitting her oppressive job. Money squabbles. The Dans facing a cut in work hours. Her poor, ruined father.
She recalled the last sighting she’d had of her dad prior to today. She had been walking to a drug store when he seemingly emerged from the shadows and began panhandling for cigarettes. She was shocked by the change in his appearance. Where is the handsome, clean-shaven daddy with the curly hair that I adored? She remembered the one from the old days that would tickle her, hold her in his lap, toss her in the air. Then she recalled that horrifying rupture. His breakdown. The breakup. Everything.
Setting her coffee aside, Cynthia then reached for her pillow. She sobbed deeply into it. She hadn’t wept so hard in years and was surprised by this outpouring of grief, though it brought a sense of relief as well.
Why is all of this happening? And why did my beloved daddy have to be felled by mental illness? Like one light after another was going out, so was this darkening of her world. She felt helpless before it all, as tiny and defenceless as the miniatures on her desktop.
Just gonna look for glue. There might be some around here... Cynthia went to the kitchen and began rummaging through the junk drawer. Pizza coupons. Birthday candles. Balloons. Pennies. Lighters. Key chains. One blue dog bootie. A handful of petrified-looking breath mints. Cynthia decided to go look in the bathroom cupboards.
“We help them or I swear to God that’s it!” her mother threatened Jerry. Peeking through a crack in the partially opened bathroom door, Cynthia saw her mother looked like she had been split in two with only her evil half showing.
The two Dans were leaning against the island in the kitchen. They were passing a cigarette back and forth. Daniel was stoney-faced while Danielle looked bemused.
God knows, she’s used to all the theatrics. Finally, Cynthia found a tube of Superglue. Hurrah! Just what I need! She plucked it out of the drawer and left.
Yet, like smoke, tendrils of their invective followed her. “Why can’t Daniel’s family ever help out? Why is it always us?”
“Look, this is about baby Kelsey, for God’s sake.”
Still hearing their operatic exchange through her bedroom door, Cynthia wondered: Is this an old fight? Or a new one? Yet as she heard “the Dans” bandied about, she knew it was only a continuation of today’s new fracas,the cutting of hours. Still, she wondered at how they fought all the time. Every one of them. She sensed that she was living in a house of cards. Just as her previous home had teetered and crashed in her early years, she believed this one was little better. And she felt a shiver pass down her spine.
Cynthia returned to her desk where the mini box sat. She set about gluing the pieces in place. Rug. Grandfather clock. Everything. She worked slowly and carefully. Much to her chagrin, though, she almost glued her thumb and forefinger together. Sometimes she miscued and missed the designated spot ever so slightly. It aggravated her perfectionism.
Finally, she was finished. She appraised it. Looks okay, but there’s something missing. She couldn’t figure out why it lacked the luster and the beauty and the shine of the miniaturist’s model. Just what is the problem, anyhow?
Leaving it to dry and set in place, Cynthia returned to the kitchen. She saw that the family fight had morphed into a family huddle. Everyone was quietly sipping coffee and exchanging furtive glances. Danielle was calmly smoking. Daniel and Jerry were shaking hands.
Then Jerry slapped him on the back and mumbled, “Sorry ‘bout that.”
Her mother was smiling and holding baby Kelsey. “They’re going to move into the basement,” she told Cynthia.
Cynthia felt a wave of relief. It was all settled. “Come see what I made,” she said.
The group followed behind her.
“It’s lovely,” her mother gushed.
Baby Kelsey pointed a chubby, pink finger at the model box and cooed.
“It sure is,” the Dans spoke almost in unison.
“But it’s missing something,” Cynthia whined. Then it came to her in a flash. “Light. It’s missing light. That’s what!”
“I can wire it up for you,” Daniel offered. “A little light will work miracles for it.”
Cynthia nodded and smiled.
Copyright © 2023 by Shauna Checkley
