by Laurel Doud
On the bookshelves were a few stuffed animals: Gizmo the Gremlin, Chewbacca, E.T., but there were mostly books, and most of them by Shakespeare.
She reads?
There was a massive Shakespeare: The Complete Works in one volume, a leatherbound set of the tragedies, the comedies, and the histories, The Quotable Shakespeare, Shakespeare's Insults, Acting Shakespeare, the Arden edition of A Midsummer Night's Dream, the Twayne's New Critical Introduction to A Midsummer Night's Dream, the Cambridge edition of A Midsummer Night's Dream, and the Arbuthnot children's edition of A Midsummer Night's Dream. This one she pulled off the shelf, and it fell open to the Cast of Characters. Handwritten at the side was “To my Thisby Flute, May our love for this play be imparted to you as well. Love, Dad (the first Puck).”
Oh, God, I get it now. Puck, Thisby, and Quince. We've all been named after Shakespeare characters in A Midsummer Night's Dream. No wonder Quince talks like she's in a costume drama. Katharine pulled out her list of names from her back pocket. Snout the dog had his namesake in the play too. Poor animal. Even he couldn't escape.
She found a small carry-on bag and packed the Complete Works, which weighed a ton, then included a book called The Quotable Shakespeare, which arranged his most memorable lines by topic. Maybe I can match Quince quote for quote. She flipped a few pages. “Death once dead, there's no more dying then.” Sonnet 146. Shakespeare got it wrong, though, didn't he?
She decided to continue collecting, so she ransacked the desk set and found a diary, the word MEMOIRS printed in gold letters on the cover. The little brass catch was locked, but she easily forced it open with a pair of scissors. She glanced at it quickly and threw it into the bag.
She was just starting through the dresser when there was a pull on the door. A moment later she heard, “Let me in. Let me in. Or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down.”
At least she quotes something besides Shakespeare.
Katharine unlocked the door, and Quince fell into the room. She glanced around, saw the bag, and peeked into it. “O you thief. You canker blossom.” She paused. “The stuff to hock is in the living room.”
“I'm heading there next.”
Quince flopped onto the bed. She was wearing long shorts, a ragged T-shirt, and expensive-looking tennis shoes. “You're not ready for the great match.”
“I got sidetracked.”
“So I see.” Quince looked around the room at the pictures on the wall. She got up and studied one closely. “I miss Snout,” and she turned sideways so Katharine could see that she had been looking at a picture of the shaggy dog Katharine had seen in Thisby's photo book.
“I never told you this, but after Snout bit you and Dad sent him away, I was furious at both of you. You probably don't believe that I remember it, but I do.”
Katharine nodded noncommittally and said nothing. This seemed to irritate Quince.
“I do remember. I loved Snout. He was my best friend. He'd come into my room when I'd get home from the hospital and sit by my bed. I remember. When I was around seven or eight, I rode my bike up Coldwater and tried to find him. I spent the whole weekend. I called and whistled, but I never found him. And you don't even live here anymore, and they still won't let me have a dog.”
Katharine didn't know what else to do but keep nodding her head in a circular motion, neither definitely up and down nor side to side.
Quince turned away and after a bit sat down on the end of the bed again. “So, when can I come live with you?”
Oh, God. “Quince, I've been pretty sick.” That old excuse again?
Quince immediately looked hurt and pissed off. “So, what's that got to do with it?”
A voice rose up the staircase. “Come on, girls. Let's go.”
Quince slowly rose and tugged at the ends of her shorts. “Let the games begin.”
“Tell him I'll be down … anon.” Katharine sounded ridiculous to herself, but Quince didn't hesitate in response.
“Anon.”
It was the only Shakespeare Katharine knew. She remembered it from Franco Zeffirelli's film Romeo and Juliet — Juliet harking to her maid, “Anon, nurse,” while kissing Romeo one more time. She obviously was going to need to know more than that to survive in this family.
Katharine followed the sound of someone hitting a tennis ball against a backboard. Beyond a pool and a sea of grass was only — only? — one court. Puck was volleying sharply against the forest green plywood backboard. He looked very good.
Maybe this isn't such a terrific idea.
Quince was pulling a racket from a cabinet that was hooked onto the outside of the fence; she then bounded onto the court to Puck's side. Watching Quince bounce about caused tears to pool behind Katharine's lower eyelids. How like Marion Quince revealed herself to be. Half child, half young woman. And able to somersault from one extreme to the other.
Robert Bennet took the other side and immediately started hitting the ball to Puck and Quince. Katharine was encouraged; Quince was not very good, and hopefully, Thisby wouldn't be expected to be much better. She opened the cabinet, and there were three rackets to choose from. She furtively tried the grips of all three — they all felt wrong — and took the last one in default. She walked onto the court and at the side bench carefully retied the tennis shoes she had found in Thisby's closet. Quince continued to be silly.
“Concentrate, Quincey,” her father said rather irritably.
I see that he can get away with calling Quince “Quincey.” What is it about fathers that they can do what mothers can't?
Quince hit a ball into the net and raced to pick it up. “My legs can keep no pace with my desires.”
Her father responded seriously, “Question your desires, know of your youth, examine well your blood.”
Quince stuck her tongue out at him, which he did not or chose not to see.
Puck was silent.
Katharine's apprehension grew. I can't keep this up. I'll be unmasked. She waited a moment longer and then forced herself to stand, hitching up the overlarge shorts. She moved into the forehand court, and Thisby's father almost reluctantly moved over to the backhand side. A ball rolled to Katharine's feet. She picked it up, bounced it, and sent it rather feebly over the net, though well within the court. Quince did not hit it back. Did not even try. She and Puck were staring at her. Katharine jerked her head and saw Thisby's father staring too.
Jesus Fucking Christ. What have I done wrong now? I just hit the goddamned ball over the net. What, Thisby never hit a ball over the net before? Her anger crosscut to panic. She searched frantically for clues to their surprise. She felt her brain begin to clot; soon all would be lost. Seconds seemed like hours — their questioning looks, time immemorial. Katharine looked at Thisby's father standing with his racket at his side … his left side. Katharine looked down at Thisby's arm, her right hand holding the racket and dangling at her right side. Katharine felt the proverbial lightbulb click on above her head. Oh, my God, Thisby was left-handed.
She started to fabricate some godawful story when Robert Bennet said, “Great Scott, Thisby, this is amazing. I never knew you could do anything right-handed. You never showed any signs of being ambidextrous before.”
“It just happened,” she said lamely.
“I wonder if there is any medical precedent for this.” He stopped to consider. “I'll have to ask Bev the next time I see him.” He frowned sorrowfully, but it was feigned. “We were the only lefties in the family. Now I'm the only one left.” He smiled again. “Pun intended.”
So much for strangeness. I suppose the truth that some body snatcher has invaded your dead daughter would be a lot harder to swallow than Thisby's waking up one morning having switched the dominant side of her brain.
“Ready?” Robert Bennet asked, and when the others nodded, he spun his racket. “Thiz, I'll serve,” which was just fine with Katharine.
The match was a disaster. Quince refused to be serious. Her father refused to lighten up. Puck w
as silent, mostly playing the ball at his father. Katharine was too shook up to concentrate on the game. She was also exhausted. To move became agony, and she could feel slick sweat packing her face like a beauty aid.
She and Puck were facing each other across the net. He glanced at her, then stared. He held up his hand to stop Quince from serving. “Thiz, are you all right?”
The sound of genuine concern surprised her into the truth. “No,” she croaked and lowered her racket. His solicitude seemed to tilt the court, and she slid off the edge.
They got her to one of the chairs by the pool, and Puck knelt in front of her.
“Her body's a passable carcass,” Katharine heard Quince say.
Puck draped a wet towel over the back of her neck.
“Thisby never could take the heat,” Robert Bennet declared.
Katharine saw Puck's jaw twitch.
Robert really doesn't want to get it, does he? This irritated her. She wanted to slap him out of his preferred blindness. Your daughter needed help, needed some control exerted over her, and you didn't do it. Did you? “I think it's more the years of abuse,” she said louder than she had intended.
Puck shot her a look of surprise. Thisby's father ignored the remark and looked behind him.
Anne Bennet was coming around the hedge in a swimwrap, carrying a towel. She took in the scene and hurried over. “What happened? Is she all right?”
“I'm fine,” Katharine answered. “I just overdid it. I'll be all right in a second.” She gently pushed Puck's hands away. “Thanks. I'm okay now,” she told him.
He moved back. The other members of the family hovered around her until Anne waved them away and pulled up a chair beside Katharine. Soon Quince was dunking Puck in the deep end, and Robert Bennet had stretched out with eyes closed in a lounge chair.
“They like each other,” Katharine said wistfully to Thisby's mother, indicating Puck and his sister. A montage of images of Ben and Marion flicked on and off in her brain.
“Puck can always get Quince worked up. You two used to be like that,” Anne Bennet added.
Us two? Thisby and Puck? That was hard to imagine. Katharine could feel only animosity from Puck. It was a tangible dislike that slapped her in the face whenever she came near. Then she remembered the photographs in Thisby's earlier albums and the ones on the wall in the upper hallway. There had been a time when they had been friends, buddies, pals, cohorts. Something happened. Sibling rivalry, certainly. Maybe it was Quince, but Katharine figured Thisby was the instigator. She was the one who pulled away. Maybe Katharine could patch things up.
She got up and stood at the edge of the pool. “Can I join you?” she called.
“Gee, Thiz,” Puck said, looking up at her and letting Quince out of a headlock, “my lifeguard badge expired last year. I wouldn't count on me saving you. How 'bout you, Quince?”
“Me? Hercules couldn't save her. She sinks like a navy.”
“You gott deathwish or something, Lady Ophelia?” Puck dunked Quince, and she came up sputtering. “I'm finished, you little squirt,” he said. “I've got some things to do.” He executed a jacknife under the water and swam to the other side of the pool.
Quince stroked to the other end, reciting as she went, “She chanted snatches of old tunes till that her garments, heavy with their drink, pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay to muddy death.”
Katharine watched them enviously; she really had loved to swim. But she somehow knew that Puck and Quince were right — although this body was thin, it was dead weight in water. It would sink like a navy. Katharine could remember, though, when she was young, cold mornings at the pool, steam hovering over the water like fog, the soft slap of flip turns and muffled voices, the lane lines bobbing against the wake. Swimming was the only time she ever felt light.
Fuck 'em — and she turned around.
With sudden clarity, she realized that swear words were appearing like teleprompted lines in her mind. She used to swear before she had kids — not a lot, but enough to decide to stop swearing, to even think in swear words, when Ben was born. She always hated to hear children swear, and she felt she should be a good role model. In the last couple of years, she had heard Ben swear like a longshoreman, and she had even heard Marion use expletives, but Katharine had practiced abstinence so long, she hadn't regained her fluency. Now it seemed so easy to swear. Too easy.
She moved to a lounge chair on the other side of Anne Bennet and lay down.
“So tell me,” Thisby's mother said lightly. “Who's the current beau?”
Katharine always asked questions. Philip had cautioned her never to ask questions she was unprepared to hear the answers to, and she tried to be circumspect, but she often felt in desperate need to ask questions. Even when it felt as though she couldn't stop herself and, therefore, should stop herself, she asked, “Where are you going? Where have you been? Who are you going with? Is your homework done? How are you paying for that? What happened to the last five dollars I gave you? Who's driving? Do I know her? When will you be home?”
Katharine could tell that Anne Bennet really didn't want to know but couldn't help herself either. I remember that perverse desire to know the worst. “No one,” and Katharine hoped to God that this was true. She didn't know exactly what would happen if or when the current beau — maybe it was the guy who had left all those messages — showed up, but she knew he wouldn't be current for long. Not that she had had any experience at dumping guys. She was dumped once, right before she met her husband. Ex-husband, I guess I have to say. I am an unmarried woman. We were never legally divorced, but I guess death is the ultimate form of divorce.
“Thisby. Are you all right?”
Katharine focused back and saw that Anne was leaning across the space between them. “Sure. I'm fine.” Anne sat back in her chair.
If only that were true. If only Anne could truly believe it. Katharine knew exactly how glad Anne would be if it were true. She knew how she'd feel if it was true with Ben.
Katharine looked over and saw that Anne Bennet was crying, silently and discreetly, tears slipping off her high cheekbones and sliding down to the corners of her mouth.
Katharine sucked in her cheeks and held the spongy flesh with clenched teeth. What we parents go through. And our children are clueless. To be fair, we were clueless when we were kids too. And I don't think kids ever really know what parents go through until they have children themselves. Only if you can live long enough as a parent — as a grandparent, really — to see it. Hal Holbrook said in the movie about Mark Twain, “When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years.” But I didn't get to live long enough for Ben and Marion to find out how much I had learned.
I think I'd be better off dead. Really dead.
Katharine was dreaming. It was one of her recurring nightmares. She's back in high school, a new class schedule in hand. The backs of her fellow students are disappearing behind slowly closing doors. They know where they belong. She is frantically searching for T-2. She reaches a room numbered “2,” but to her horror, it's S-2. Running through the fat air to get to the “T” wing, she sees that the numbers on the class-room doors are up in the hundreds. Time ticking by, and the tardy bell soon to ring. She can feel the second hand clicking over to the next minute. She will be late. She will be reprimanded. She will get detention. She will be noticed.
The tardy bell was ringing in her ears when she jolted herself awake, shaking. Her heart slammed offbeat. She could still hear the bell and realized it was the sound of a Piccolo Pete firework, screaming and then dying in the warm air. The pool deck was empty, the sun low on the horizon. She had been asleep for some time.
She tried to shake the shards of the dream loose but then realized why her heart pounded so and why she was trembling. It had been the same old scenario — new schedule, wrong room, tardy bell. But the
dreamscape had been different. The classroom she had been searching for had not been at James Marshall High School with its sprawling, barrack-style wings. She had been lost in a two-story building of white stucco and Spanish tile. She had been lost in Thisby's high school.
The dream still clung to Katharine like a sticky cobweb as she started up the steps to the back door. Through the window she could see Anne Bennet working at the center cutting board, the light in the kitchen rosy from the setting sun. Katharine wanted to stand there on the outside and watch forever, but Thisby's mother seemed to sense something and looked out to where Katharine stood. Katharine sighed, opened the door, and stepped into the kitchen.
“Did you have a nice rest?” Anne Bennet paused in midchop.
“Yes, thank you.” Katharine felt awkward and formal again, like a first-time houseguest. Well, aren't I?
“We decided to just let you sleep. I'm sure you needed it.”
“Yes, I'm sure I did. Thank you.” Not wanting to stand there and do nothing, Katharine offered to prepare the vegetables. Anne moved to the stove.
As Katharine cut up the carrots, she picked at them. They were quite good, not store-bought but garden-fresh.
“Trying to change your eating habits as well?”
Katharine jumped. She had forgotten she wasn't alone.
“You used to love vegetables when you were a baby,” Anne said, reminiscence in her voice. “I could never figure out just what happened. I guess it was trying to get you to work in the garden with me. But you preferred photography with your father. And you were so good at it.”
Katharine turned; Anne had stopped stirring and held the spoon poised and dripping over the pot. She looked at Katharine. “I'm sorry.”
Katharine was seeing with her own split-screen memory. In one corner was Ben coming home with his hair dyed a shocking chartreuse. She had made such a fuss about it. Oh great, she had thought, now I'll be known as the mother of the boy with green hair. She had dragged him like a baby to her hairstylist and stayed until the color was stripped and the hair was dyed back to near its natural shade. She had played every trump card she had over him. She didn't think he ever forgave her for that. He turned quiet and sneaky then. I think he vowed he would get back at me. Well, getting bad grades and taking drugs was certainly a good way. What was so awful about the hair? It would have grown out. It would have faded out. Hair is such a transitory thing. Maybe there would have been another battleground, and the outcome would have been the same. But maybe not.