by Laurel Doud
“Outside?”
“Yes. You can go out on the balcony. I'll bring you an ashtray.”
“Shit, soon you'll be going to church.”
Katharine snorted and pulled open the sliding glass door to let Quince through. Quince jammed her hand in her shorts and fished out a crumpled pack and a book of matches. She lit up with practiced ease and blew out a puff of smoke. Katharine's nose began to quiver and her hands trembled; she shut the door tight.
Katharine had always hated cigarettes, and when a neighbor told her she had seen Ben smoking downtown, Katharine was sick with embarrassment. She could hear Philip's voice even now, that reasonable, logical, experienced voice, “How can I tell him to stop smoking when I smoked for ten years? You fell in love with me, married me, when I smoked. How can I tell him his life will be completely ruined if he smokes? When it isn't true. Yes, it will be hard for him to quit later on in life, but it can be done. Don't sweat it. There are worse things.” Why was that kind of objectivity so easy for Philip? Why couldn't she have it too? So now as she searched her mind carefully, she realized that she held no emotional condemnation that Quince smoked. There was none of the tightness in the stomach, the ache in the jaw. It felt good. It felt light. No roots of responsibility starting to take to this soil. Is this what it's like being an older sister, as opposed to being a mother?
They worked and sorted for another hour until Katharine declared, “Enough. I can't look at another depressing building. Or used people. Let's go out and eat. What do you want?”
Quince leaped up like a frog from its pad. “That pizza place you took me to last year. Pizza Man, right? And then let's go to that candy store. You know, the one with the rum balls.”
Katharine had seen the Pizza Man restaurant on one of her earlier walks through the neighborhood and, though she had seen numerous ice cream, candy, yogurt, and cookie stores, thought she knew which candy store Quince had in mind — the one whose front-window display was a confection in itself — Sugarbaby. Katharine hoped her instincts were correct.
Quince was as animated on the street as she had been silent in the apartment. She jump-shifted between personalities so fast, sometimes it was hard for Katharine to keep up. Quince rattled on about wanting a dog, and then about some all-day concert she and a friend had gotten tickets for. In the pizza parlor, after they had been seated, she cried, “O look, sir, look, sir! Here is more of you,” pointing to deep grooves in one of the corners of their wooden table. It read “Thisby” in stiff lines like Greek letters.
It must have taken her a long time to cut that deep.
Katharine suddenly saw Thisby at the table, her pale face and light eyes hooded by makeup and hair. She has a Swiss Army knife. A pitcher of beer and glasses sit in wet rings on the table. A pizza tray is shoved to the side, napkins balled up in mounds like cannon shot. The restaurant is crowded, and although there are many waiting for a table, Thisby and her friends aren't aware of it or, if they are, ignore it. When she and her friends leave, they won't bus any of their mess, though there is a sign hanging above the ordering desk requesting such help. The friends wait, talking about nothing in particular, while Thisby methodically chisels out her name, deeper and deeper. She has nowhere to go, nothing to do, and she's determined that it will take more than a mere pass with a sander to obliterate her. Some of her friends begin to feel uncomfortable. The management glares at them; after all, they hadn't bought that much food. But Thisby ignores them all and keeps on carving. The friends are forced to wait; they will not leave until she's finished. When she's done, she deliberately closes the knife, hands it back to the person she took it from — a stranger from the next table over — slowly drains her beer glass and stands up. The rest follow, and the busboys pounce on the table, sweep up the remains, and seat others by the time Thisby and her friends reach the door. It's as if they were never there — but for the name, gouged out like an injury.
Katharine traced the letters with her left hand, and all of a sudden felt odd. Thisby's past overlapped Katharine's present and superimposed its existence onto hers. The waitress eyed her suspiciously, and Katharine had a sudden fear, mixed somehow with perverse anticipation, that the waitress would turn and yell to the cook, “Nick, it's that girl again,” while desperately seeking to invoke the right-to-refuse-service disclaimer on the menu. But she just took their order sullenly and left.
Katharine mentally punched through the thin membrane that was Thisby and picked up her water with her right hand.
When their order arrived, it came with the attention of two young men at the next table. Katharine supposed they were nineteen, twenty — too old for Quince.
They began to discuss Raves, the bar Katharine knew from the message on Thisby's answering machine. But there seemed to be more than one rave; they were all over the LA Basin. She slowly realized that raves were roving portable nightclubs whose whereabouts were spread by word of mouth. Katharine began to despair that she would ever learn this foreign language fast enough to protect her double identity.
“Thisby's been to a lot of raves,” Quince volunteered, and the boys turned toward her expectantly. Katharine shrugged noncommittally. The conversation sagged until Quince picked it up again.
Katharine watched the interplay with fascination. It was a verbal dance, sashaying in and then bowing out. One boy, with his sad eyes and scraggly facial hair — oh, Ben, have you shaved off that awful stuff yet? — tried to redirect the conversation toward her, but Katharine was content to hang back and watch.
When they were finished eating and back outside, Quince rolled her eyes. “What a couple of punk rampants.”
“They were?” I didn't think they were total … punk rampants. Their awkwardness was kind of endearing.
Quince pulled the corner of her lip up in a sneer. “Not Hercules could have knocked out their brains, for they had none.”
Katharine laughed. “You mean, you've known sheep that could outwit them? You've worn dresses with higher IQs?”
Quince laughed with her. “Okay, so they weren't that bad.”
They walked on, and Katharine forgot about the boys. She worried about how she was going to entertain Quince after dinner — she was afraid Quince had some sort of trouble in mind. But on the way back to the apartment, after Quince filled up on Sugarbaby rum balls — Katharine had nothing, though the sweets called to her like sirens — they rented a movie. It was a slasher film that neither of them had seen before. It was so bad, they hooted at it with great pleasure, throwing popcorn at the screen. “Don't go in there, you triple-turn'd fool,” Quince yelled at the heroine.
It seems like old times.
The next morning they weeded through the photographs they had chosen the previous day. Quince indeed knew a lot about photography and had Thisby's eye without the despair. In the beginning, Quince was hesitant to give her opinion, as if Thisby had disparaged her too many times before. But, bit by bit, Katharine was able to coax Quince into offering it.
“Shooting any pictures lately?” Katharine asked, taking a leap of faith.
Quince looked at her with so much suspicion, Katharine was worried she had risked too much. “Not much. My camera's acting up.”
“It is? Why don't you use … mine?” She jumped up and fetched the Nikon FM2 from the box in the utility room. She placed it and all the paraphernalia in front of Quince. Quince stared at it, looked back up at Katharine, and then back down at the camera hungrily. Katharine rushed on, “I mean, I'll be so busy getting this exhibit ready, I won't be taking any pictures. It's just sitting around not being used. And it should be used.”
Quince reverently unsnapped the cover and lovingly took out the camera. Katharine grimaced, remembering how roughly she had handled it before. “Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind,” Quince murmured.
“It's okay. Really. I'm not going to use it.” Ever.
“Dad'll get mad.”
“Oh, the hell with Dad. I can get mad too.” Katharine saw a flash
of fear in Quince's eye. “Hey, it's my camera,” she said to quiet Quince. “I can loan it to whoever I want. To be really honest, I'm not sure I can ever take another picture. I want to do this exhibit, but then I think I'm finished. I've got to move on to something else. Really. I want you to have the camera. Think of it as a loan. You just gotta take good pictures as payment.”
Quince didn't say anything but tucked the camera back into place and set it and the accessories case by her stuff. Katharine watched her with growing, but unasked for, affection.
Act 2, Scene 5
To live a second life on second head.
— SONNET 68,7
Katharine continued to spend time walking around Westwood. It wasn't as odd as she thought it might be, or as uncomfortable. Knowing her geographical base anchored her, and it also made the days go by faster as she waited to hear from Mr. Mulwray.
Coming home from the grocery story on Monday, Katharine passed by and then backtracked to an innocuous-looking building. The sign painted on the window read:
THE ANIMAL HOUSE:
LOW-COST VETERINARY CARE
BOARDING KENNELS
ABANDONED, SPAY, AND NEUTERING SERVICES
Katharine felt that if Quince could volunteer there, it would be a perfect match. I doubt the animals would care what color hair she has and how many earrings she wears.
She went inside. The young man at the front desk looked exactly the way he should have looked: tall, thin, with a calm, gentle face — even the stripes of his cotton shirt were muted and soothing.
“Do you need any volunteers here?” she asked.
He took her back to meet the office manager, Pepa Marcos, who looked like … a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown. She was mucking out a dog kennel whose resident had given birth to nine puppies three weeks before. Pepa was ecstatic about a volunteer. “Your timing is perfect. One of our boarders” — she gestured to the kennel — “gave birth sooner than expected. And for some reason this summer, we haven't gotten the student help we usually get from the University. We could use another person to handle the odd jobs. Maybe then I could finally catch up on my paperwork.” But as Katharine watched her affectionately scratching the head of the German shepherd mother, she wondered.
“It's really my sister who I'm asking for. She's fifteen. A hard worker, very focused.”
They did not look so pleased then, and Katharine could see Ms. Marcos framing some well-we-thank-you-for-your-kind-offer rebuff. Katharine knew this was where Quince should be, so she recklessly added, “She can work two or three days a week, and she'd be staying with me, just down the street. She could walk here.”
What the hell are you doing?
The office manager eyed the other kennels that needed to be cleaned and agreed to hire Quince on a trial basis.
As they were walking back to the front room, Katharine felt compelled to add, “There's one more thing you ought to know.” The other two tensed. “Quince looks a little different. I mean” — Katharine self-consciously put a hand through her hair — “she has colored hair and a lot of earrings.”
They visibly relaxed. “Oh, that's okay,” Pepa said, waving it off. “The animals don't care as long as she's good. And like Conrad here, I don't hire just ordinary people.”
“I think you'll really like it,” Katharine added lamely for the third time the next morning. Quince wasn't saying much as they walked to the clinic, and Katharine couldn't tell what that meant.
She didn't have to worry long. As soon as Quince saw the puppies with their blunt little faces, butterball bodies, and mewling voices, her tough demeanor melted. Pepa and Conrad watched Quince closely as she carefully made her acquaintance with the mother. Only when the mother was comfortable and settled did Quince approach the puppies. Knowing looks were exchanged between Conrad and Pepa, and Katharine felt like shouting, “Bingo. We've got ourselves a winner.”
Pepa explained to Quince the mutual trial basis, and she had to agree to be punctual, reliable, and hardworking.
One of the last Girl Scouts.
“And I understand you'll be staying with your sister on the days you work here,” Pepa remarked as they were setting up the first two weeks of her schedule, beginning Thursday.
Quince looked at Katharine, puzzled but hopeful. Katharine hadn't quite gotten around to mentioning that part to Quince.
If you ever were.
“Yes, that's right,” Katharine conceded.
Come on, it won't be that bad. She's a nice kid.
“Cool,” Quince said, and Katharine felt the downside tug of responsibility.
That afternoon, after she had dropped off Quince at home, Katharine drove down to Melrose Avenue, where, according to the phone book, there was a profusion of art galleries.
The Ziegfeld-Zelig Gallerie, its logo two large intertwined Zs, was just off the main street. Its inside paid homage to its humble beginnings as some sort of sweatshop, with tube railings on the spiral staircase, exposed steel buttresses, and skylights with their metal-encased panes propped skyward.
The photographs along the first exhibit panel were all contemporary and were split evenly between color and black-and-white. Most of them were either abstracts or landscapes, but there were a few documentaries.
She was halfway down the second panel when a gentleman approached her. He was in his mid-forties, dressed in pleated black pants and a white shirt. His hair was pulled back in a long and luxuriant ponytail, one diamond stud in his left ear. He had beautiful teeth and nice eyes, but Katharine figured later it was his manners that had made her pitch Thisby's exhibit. He had taken her purse, her bag of Farmers Market bread and set them aside as if he were a butler. He brought her some good coffee, and it tasted like Philip's. She missed being waited on.
She had not brought any of Thisby's work, nor had she planned to ask about exhibiting. She was going to appear only as a potential contributing artist, but she found herself spilling her plan to him almost before they finished touring the gallery.
“So you'd like to have an exhibit of your own work, and you're willing to pay for it. Or at least,” Max von Mayerling corrected himself as he noticed Katharine beginning to interrupt, “your father is willing to pay for it. Publicity included.”
“I know it sounds like my father is just paying for a hobby. Poor little rich girl. But the photos are good and local and provocative. There's a surreal feel to them that's hard to explain” — damn straight — “but I think you'll be impressed.” She could see that he was interested, so she gave him Thisby's best smile.
“Okay, okay.” He smiled back. “I give up. Bring by some of your work.”
Katharine could tell he was humoring her — flirting with her, but humoring her. Why didn't I bring any of Thisby's work? Stupid. But maybe I can convince him. Thisby would have been able to convince him, I'm sure. I could try it, but nicely.
“What's your name?” he asked.
“Thisby. Thisby Bennet. I really would like —” She stopped; something seemed to shift in him, but Katharine couldn't tell what it was. There was certainly some sort of recognition, but she didn't know what kind. It made her nervous, and she could feel a prickle of cold sweat between her shoulder blades. The smell of her strange self filled her nostrils.
“You're Robert's daughter? I know your father.” Katharine relaxed. “He may remember us more from our studio on Sunset Boulevard.” He considered her again. “Did he suggest our gallery?”
“He doesn't even know I'm thinking about exhibiting.”
Max nodded slowly. “I think we can work something out. Can you come back tomorrow morning with your portfolio? Say, around ten?”
“Sure,” she said hesitantly. There's that portfolio again. Where would Thisby have put it?
Katharine left feeling excited but a little guilty. Thisby's father's name had certainly turned the tide, but after thinking about it awhile, Katharine didn't care. She didn't care if it was his name and his money that got this exhibit going. S
he didn't even care how good Thisby was, whether she had been a talented amateur or something truly special. It just doesn't matter.
She was back the next day with Thisby's portfolio. She had found the large, zippered case propped up behind a filing cabinet in the darkroom. Inside were twenty mounted photographs of varying sizes separated by large sheets of thick waxy tissue paper. Thisby had signed the mats, and Katharine recognized the photos as the results of Thisby's tramps around the city.
… I've been spending a lot of time at Venice Beach. Me and my friends. What a scene. One night we grabbed the flyers some asshole born-again was passing out, the one who drags a cart behind him with the dummy in it. Weird shit. We preached to the tourists. When we got some money we let the old chink man rattle his bones for us. He told me I was a bright hot spark but would be extinguished soon. Fuck yes. Party hardy and leave a good looking corpse …
… the little black kids thought I was some reporter come to put their picture on the front page of the Times. They got in the way of my shoot but then …
… the suits were out in force today. What empty architecture they wear …
Max looked silently through the entire run, sometimes scrutinizing them with a magnifying glass. “You print these yourself?”
“Yes,” Katharine lied.
“Hmmm …” He shuffled a couple of them. “Some of these are good as is, but one or two I'd like cropped differently. This one, for instance.” He held up a photograph of a squat structure made out of concrete blocks — a beach bathroom. There was a sandwich board on the ground in front of the entrance, PLEASE USE OTHER BATHROOM. It was foggy, or maybe it was late. The sky was gray and so was the sand and the building and the man who stood at the side with his back to the camera. There was a faint sheen to the wall in front of him, waist high, that dribbled down to the base of the building. “If we crop abit more on this side, the pisser is even more diminished. Could be very effective. How many have you pulled for the exhibit?”