by Laurel Doud
“Listen, Flute”— he said it as if it were an obscenity — “I didn't agree to drive you to Mom and Dad's so we could kill each other on the way. I am not my father, no matter how you see it.”
“I am not my father.” Geezus, does that mean more than the obvious? Father … Father … Robert Bennet. Ohhh. Robert. Rob. I'm not supposed to call him Rob.
“Well, what should I call you?” It was out of her mouth before she could stop it.
He glared over at her. “You know, you can be such a bitch,” and he fell into a rigid silence.
Well, so much for Attempt Number One, but at least he hasn't called the men in the white coats. Thisby-as-bitch is obviously within character.
They turned left onto Hillcrest Road from Santa Monica Boulevard. The street was lined with grand houses in a hodgepodge of architectural styles, and palm trees flanked the sidewalks like security guards.
The houses on Hillcrest Heights were set farther back from the street, hidden behind tall trees and scrub. They turned into a gravel driveway, drove around tall boxwood hedges, and stopped under an attached overhang. Honeysuckle twined in and out of the latticework, its sweet yet heavy fragrance spilling into the warm air. Katharine walked to the front of the house and stared up at its facade. It was two stories tall with a steeply pitched roofline. The lower level was brick, and the top story had cream-colored plastered walls with dark crisscrossing half-timbers. Small diamond-shaped panes in the long, narrow windows glittered in the afternoon sunlight. The flower beds bordering the house were filled with pansies, violets, daisies, primroses, and cowslips.
I would have loved to have been able to plant a flower garden like this at home.
She followed Rob through a side door into a kitchen filled with soft pale light. Honey-colored cabinets lined the walls, contrasting with the gray slate flooring and the gray-blue walls. There was a freestanding island sporting a double sink and a large cutting board. Copper pots hung overhead from a dropped-lighting fixture surrounded by batten. A cook's kitchen. The counters were tiled with large apricot-colored squares, and everywhere there were flowers and herbs in hanging baskets and in pots on shelves. Katharine could identify parsley, rosemary, and thyme amid the profusion.
Anne Bennet was leaning against a counter. She wasn't as tall or as thin — well, who would be — as Thisby, but she was an attractive woman, though older than Katharine by six or seven years. Her hair was salt-and-pepper — Katharine's would never have grayed this elegantly — and pulled back in a short ponytail that accentuated her green eyes. Her slightly crooked nose was dotted with freckles. She had an air of genuine casualness — something that always seemed to turn into sloppiness in Katharine — and Katharine was envious and surprised. She had expected, well, someone more affected, more staged.
A fire lit up in Anne Bennet's eyes when she saw Thisby, and a smile, shy and hesitant, appeared on her face. She put down her coffee mug on the sideboard and approached.
“Welcome ever smiles,” she said, and looked liked she didn't know what to do with her hands.
As Anne came closer, Katharine almost reeled with the hunger radiating from her — the wanting, the longing to touch Thisby, yet the fear she would send her daughter flying away like an autistic child. Katharine recognized the look with a sickening feeling in her heart. Emotions she thought she had burned away, but had merely banked, sprang from the ashes like mythical phoenixes, and with their talons tore down her barriers as if they were mere celluloid. Haven't I seen that very same face looking back at me in the mirror when my children pulled away from me, jerked away from me, ran screaming away from me? Katharine stepped forward and embraced Thisby's mother.
Anne stiffened in surprise and pulled back first. “You look … nice.” Her eyes strafed over Thisby's hair, and Katharine watched her bite back a comment. Katharine was awed by her control.
But if everyone is going to be nervous about what they say around Thisby, then maybe they won't pay attention to what I say. … This may not be a bad thing.
Anne turned to her son and, with a hand on his upper arm, kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, Puck.”
He made a noncommittal sound in his throat.
Puck? His name is Puck? She looked at him closely. What kind of name is that?
“So how are you?” Thisby's mother asked brightly, turning to Katharine.
I … I … “I'm okay.”
“Good. I hope so. I mean, of course you are.” Her face flushed, and she hurried on, recklessly, nervously, without hearing what she was saying. “Puck said you said you were better. I'm sure you are.”
Katharine opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
Rob's — no, Puck's — face hardened. He snorted and left the room. The women continued to look at the door long after he left.
“Of course, we're all still worried about you. Puck especially.”
Yeah, I bet he is.
“So how've you been? Have you eaten?” Katharine could see that Anne Bennet was beginning to crack, the dam threatening to burst. “You know,” she continued, “maybe you'd like to visit that treatment center we talked about before. I mean, maybe they could help you fill in the blanks. Puck tells us you've forgotten some things.”
Katharine's own panic began to rise and drew near to spilling over. Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus. Treatment center. Discovery. Mental hospital. The funny farm.
“No … Mom.” The word was stiff in her mouth. Her parents had died two years apart, her father only last year. I guess it's been two years now. Both had slowly wasted away while Katharine frantically tried to make their decline more comfortable. To call this woman “Mom” seemed as if she were defaming her own mother's memory. But it has to be done. To get back, it has to be done. “I'm okay. Really. It's just temporary. I'm sure. I'll remember after a while.”
Anne was sizing up that answer critically when the phone rang, and she reluctantly turned to answer it. “Well, for only a moment, Edwina. I have family here,” she said in a professional voice. “Yes, for that moment, you may have all of me.” She turned toward the kitchen sink. “Yes, I understand that, but I also told you that they were not hardy and had to be treated delicately. …”
Katharine looked around and quickly went through the door that Puck had used. It led into a large, overstated dining room. The table, one that could easily seat eight without leaves, was stained the same shade as the dark paneling, and at its center was a magnificent arrangement of blood red roses in a crystal vase. This room was more what Katharine had expected. It was beautiful, elegant, and coordinated. She had always thought she would like to live in a house that looked like this — perfect down to the last detail — but she thought, You don't live in a house that looks like this, you show a house that looks like this.
Around the corner, out of sight, Katharine heard a female voice. “Well, hello, every mother's son. Are we all here to rehearse our parts?” The voice made Katharine's skin ripple. It was a voice of cultured sarcasm and practiced indifference.
“Shut up, Quince” Katharine heard Puck respond in tired anger.
“Did she really come?” Katharine thought for a moment that this was another person speaking but then realized it was the same voice, stripped of the precious tones.
“In the kitchen,” Puck said.
There was the sound of feet, and a slight figure almost bowled Katharine over. The figure pulled up, and Katharine watched a mask drop over the young face that was filled with anticipation and excitement.
The girl stepped back and called loudly to the invisible Puck, “Comb down her hair! Look, look! It stands upright,” and then, after squinting exaggeratedly, called again, “No, it's okay. It's only Thisby of the odious flowers.” She paused at what sounded like the front door slamming and then spoke directly to Katharine. “I never figured you'd agree to come for something like this.”
Jesus. She's Marion's age. Fourteen. Fifteen. She was dressed in faded jeans that threatened to slip off her hips and a pla
in white T-shirt. Her hair, flat black at the roots and bleached stark white at the ends, lay on her head in spiked clumps like a wilted sea anemone. Her makeup was severe, the mascara dark around the eyes and her lips were raisin-colored. She wore silver hoop earrings, to which she had attached additional pieces, like a charm bracelet, up the entire curve of both ears. A nose ring skewered her lower septum and was worn, perhaps, to camouflage the stretched upper lip and the slight but telltale scar of a cleft lip. She must have had a good surgeon — unlike Katharine's older cousin Rachel, whose cleft lip remained visible despite numerous cosmetic surgeries. The young girl's nose still had the look of something not quite finished, though.
“Why shouldn't I come?” Katharine asked, trying to get on the offensive.
“Jesters do oft prove prophets. Why should you come? Empty pocket?”
“I think so,” Katharine agreed.
The girl grinned maliciously. “I knew it had to be something like that.” She stopped a moment and looked at Katharine intently. “You look different, you know. I mean, not just the clothes, though if the soul of a man is his clothes, you're in deep shit. You look like you've been sick.”
“Dead sick,” Katharine said, and suddenly realized how tired she was. I can't will this body any longer. What a charade.
“He that dies pays all debts.”
What am I missing here? Why is she talking like some costume drama?
Thisby's mother came into the dining room. “That woman. I swear. Oh, Quincey, you're home. Good.” The girl gave her mother a vicious look, and Anne sighed. “I'm sorry. I forgot. Quince. It will take me a while to change over completely.”
“It's not as if it isn't my real name or anything.”
“I know, Quince. I'm sorry. I'll try harder.”
Not Quincey? Quince … As in the fruit?
Anne turned to Katharine. “Your father's down at the studio, but he'll be home shortly. He'll be so pleased to see you.”
Katharine watched Quince roll her eyes.
“So come on back into the kitchen. We'll talk there.”
“Things are often spoke and seldom meant,” Quince quipped.
Anne ignored her, and they returned to the kitchen. This was a talking kitchen; Katharine could almost see Anne leaning against the counters, laughing, Quince sitting on them Indian-style like Marion preferred, Puck up on one of the tall stools. Who would want to talk anyplace else? Katharine sat down at the breakfast table and worried about how much talking she was going to be required to do.
“Quince, why don't you get something to drink for your sister?”
“A soda would be great,” Katharine told her.
Quince eyed her narrowly but then handed her one from the refrigerator. She then sat down at the table. Her mother obviously wished her gone but realized she wasn't leaving and decided it would be too draining to try to oust her. It had been very similar with Marion, though Marion was so quiet, so unobtrusive, it was hard to remember she was even there. Consequently, she had heard a great deal more than she should have. Katharine and Philip spoke about Ben in front of her, and Katharine never knew how much Marion passed on. Ben and Marion were growing closer as Ben was severing as many ties, real and imaginary, between his parents and himself as he could find or manufacture. As children, Marion and Ben had fought like normal siblings, assuming the other had meant the worst in whatever was said, but now they hardly ever argued. Often she'd pass by Marion's room, and she would be at her desk doing homework while Ben would be lying on the bed, daydreaming. At the beginning, Katharine had suggested that Ben go back to his own room and do his homework, or bring it in and do it in Marion's. For her troubles, they shut the door on her.
“Shooting anything new?”
Katharine finally heard Thisby's mother through her reverie, and it took her a few moments to figure out she meant shooting pictures. “No, I'm not. Haven't for a while.”
“Well, I'm sure your father's offer is still good. We'd love to have an exhibit.”
“I'd take the money and run,” Quince said.
Anne ignored her. “Well, you think about it,” she said, and seemed to gather her courage. “So, what do you think about school in the fall? Ready to go back?”
Katharine struggled to think how to answer. “I don't know,” she stalled. “I'd like to get healthy first.” Then money.
Quince muttered, but not too quietly to avoid notice, “Assume a virtue, if you have it not.” This finally elicited a stern look from Anne, though she herself had been almost squinting at Katharine, as if that would allow her to see her daughter better and truer. Quince held up her hands in acquiescence.
Quince is aptly named. Like the fruit, inedible until cooked.
Through the kitchen window, Katharine saw a man exit a detached building and head toward the house. As he got closer, Katharine knew this was Robert Bennet — patriarch of the Bonkers Bennet clan.
He walked into the kitchen, searching for one face. When he saw Thisby's, he beamed. Katharine could see Quince stiffen as she noticed it too. It seemed to Katharine that Quince had even watched and waited for it, as if it would confirm yet again everything she had ever felt. Oh dear.
Katharine felt herself blush. He's a good-looking man, isn't he? Anne said he was at the studio. Is he an actor? A few years older than Philip, Robert Bennet had the look of one who could wear white while gardening and never get dirty. His silvery blond hair, although artfully cut, was beginning to thin. He wasn't as tall as his son and was slighter, though he obviously stuck to some sort of exercise regimen. All of them look like they frequent the gym on a daily basis. Well, except, of course, for Thisby and Quince. They're a couple of scarecrows. He was tanned, and his blue irises were circled in black like some sort of ocular eyeliner, which made them stand out like separate entities from the rest of his face. His smile was hypnotic, and Katharine felt almost forced to respond in kind.
She didn't quite know what to do now. Her own father, the quintessential quiet man, had never been this young, this vital, with this much presence. She stood up clumsily, but Robert Bennet felt no awkwardness. He closed the space between them and hugged her unreservedly. And Katharine found that it felt good. It felt good to have strong arms around her.
“It's so good to see you, Thiz. You look marv'lous. Mar-ve-los,” he concluded in an exaggerated Latin accent.
Death becomes her? Ha, ha.
Quince was standing behind her father, sticking her finger down her throat in pantomime.
“It's nice to be here … Dad.” Katharine pulled away self-consciously.
Robert Bennet held his daughter's body at the shoulders. “You look good. You really look good. The hair? Well,” he gestured noncommittally and turned to his wife. “Doesn't she look good?” His wife agreed with a smile, but the truth was still in her eyes.
Katharine realized that to him, TB probably did look good. The fact that he wasn't seeing her waxen and stiff in a coffin — anything other than that — was “looking good.” Katharine felt sorry for him.
Robert turned to his wife and asked in an almost disapproving tone, “Is Puck around?”
Katharine was mad at him then. You just don't get it, do you? Your daughter's dead and this is the extent of your greeting? I bet you didn't even know how bad things had gotten with Thisby. They must have known something was wrong; at least, Anne should have. But that didn't seem fair either. Thisby had obviously left home some years ago, and her parents didn't see much of her. How could they know the extent of it? Thisby wasn't going to tell them. Katharine could tell Puck knew more, but she didn't think he had told his parents everything he knew or thought he knew.
“I need to talk to him. Unfortunately, right now,” Robert said.
Quince grinned, as if in anticipation. “The good fellow went thataway.” She pointed out the window toward the front of the house.
Robert started out of the kitchen but then turned back. “I'll meet you two on the court in forty-five minutes. Quincey,
you and Puck against me and Thiz.”
Tennis? Does he mean tennis? She used to play some women's doubles when the kids were babies and she had worked only part-time. She hadn't played for years, unless she could call hitting the ball with Marion last fall when she was getting ready to try out for the freshman team “playing.” “I don't … I don't …,” she started to protest.
Anne overrode her, “I think I saw some clothes you left in your room that would work. I think you can find everything you need.”
Everything I need. But I need a lot. More than one room could possibly offer.
Katharine found the monument that was Thisby's room. It was dark, shuttered up against the summer heat, and Katharine ran her hand up the inside wall, flipping the switch. The light gave the room a staged look — a teenager's room as envisioned by a mother. The clutter, the knickknacks, the whatnot, were all put away, neatly and symmetrically, the purple flowered wallpaper matching the quilt on the white canopied bed and the cushions of the window seat. A place for everything and everything in its place. Katharine knew the signs.
She stepped hesitantly to the windows, looking back toward the door, afraid that a cadaverous-looking housekeeper would suddenly appear and hiss, “It's a lovely room, isn't it? The loveliest room you have ever seen. Can't you feel her in here? Can't you? It's you who ought to be dead, not Thisby. Why don't you end it all and have done with it? Go on. Go on. Don't be afraid.”
Her hand was on the window latch. Through the slats, she had an unobstructed view to the brick patio below her. Go on. Go on. Don't be afraid.
She grabbed the shutter knobs and threw the blinds open, letting the sunlight in to dispel the phantoms.
Thisby's room was lined with photographs, mostly her own, mostly unframed — just tacked up. Katharine recognized faces she had seen in the photo albums in TB's apartment: the girlfriend Maxie, the dog Snout, the boyfriends. There was a photograph of her parents taken many years ago; the caption read “UCLA Drama Department. A Midsummer Night's Dream, Spring 1962.” Robert was crouched over a sleeping Anne. He was holding a sprig of what looked like heather.