by Laurel Doud
“Canadian bacon, not ham, and pineapple. The big chunks, not those little canned pieces, and a few bell peppers, but not too many.”
Marion's eyes got big and sparkly. “That's my favorite too.”
“Well, why don't we go down to Mystic's on Second Street and order one. We'll order something else for the others. Not everyone has such refined taste in pizza. Goodfellow — RB — will let us use his car. You'll love it.”
Katharine hated Canadian-bacon-and-pineapple pizza, but tonight maybe it would taste like ambrosia.
“So, do you get down to LA a lot?” Katharine asked as they got into Goodfellow's car. She knew Marion would have liked the top down, but it was hard to talk in a convertible.
“Lately, yeah.”
Already shuffling her off, are we?
“Are your parents divorced?” She couldn't believe how casual she sounded.
“No, my mom died a year ago.”
“Oh, I'm sorry. I bet that was pretty hard.”
Marion shrugged and said nothing.
Well, what did you expect?
“You get along with your stepmom okay?”
“Yeah, okay.”
“How about your brother?”
“Oh, he likes her. He gets along better with her than he did with my mom.”
Bam! straight through the heart. Well, you asked for it.
“But he was being a butthead when my mom died. Even he'll admit that.” Marion rubbed her knee. “They flirt a lot.”
“Excuse me?”
“My brother and stepmom. They flirt. Like they pretend to be mad at each other and all, and he says she isn't his mom and he'll get a tattoo on his butt if he wants to, and she says she wouldn't want to be his mom but she'll paddle his behind, tattoo or no tattoo. It's all pretend, though. She doesn't act like a mom with him, and she can't decide with me.”
“What do you mean?”
“She can't decide whether she wants to be my friend or my mother.”
“What do you want her to be?”
“A dog.” Marion said it so softly that Katharine wasn't sure she'd heard correctly. “No, really.” Marion grinned. “She doesn't like dogs. She's scared of them. You know.” She demonstrated, wrapping her arms around her head like an octopus and squashing herself against the car door. “That kind of thing. Got bit as a kid, I guess.” She readjusted herself in the seat, arranging one arm in her lap, the other resting atop the door. “My mother loved dogs. Our dog died two months after she did.”
Rathbone? He died? Katharine felt the prickle of tears. How she loved that dog. Philip used to tease her that she loved that dog more than she loved him. In a way it was true. She desperately needed Rathbone's unconditional affection, the kind she had gotten from her kids when they were little but she lost as they grew older—and wiser.
“I thought he'd pine away because it was my mom who took care of him, but I think he died just because he was old.” Marion plucked at her collar. “I wanted another dog. A puppy. My mom and me both wanted our next dog to be a German shepherd. His name was going to be Atwill, after this guy who played Dr. Moriarty in the old Sherlock Holmes movies. My mom and dad had a dog before I was born named Nigel. He played Dr. Watson. Rathbone was the guy who was Sherlock Holmes.”
She remembers that?
“Dad wouldn't let me, though. Get a dog, I mean. And then he started seeing Diana, and I think he knew pretty soon that he was going to marry her, and she couldn't stand a dog.”
“Not even a puppy?”
“No, can you believe that?” Marion shook her head. “So sometimes I'd like to turn her into a dog.”
“What kind of dog? A rodent?” It was out of her mouth before she could stop it.
Marion stared at her. “My mom used to call little dogs ‘rodents’ too.”
Katharine felt sweat build up just under the layers of her skin, but Marion continued. “No … She isn't that bad. She can be okay. She lets me borrow her clothes. I don't want to hurt her. I miss a dog, though. My mom hated small dogs, you know. It got so we all thought we hated small dogs too. Dad included. But I wouldn't mind a small dog. Maybe Diana wouldn't mind a small dog either. It wouldn't have to be big.”
Katharine felt an idea take shape in her head. “How long are you going to be down here?”
“I don't know. A week. Maybe more. Depends on how busy my aunt is.”
“My little sister — she's your age — works at a veterinary clinic near where I live. She comes and stays with me at night and goes to work during the day. She works a lot with the dogs. Perhaps you could go with her one day, spend the night at my place, and then I'd bring you back to your aunt's.”
“I don't know,” Marion said slowly, but there was a spark of interest in her voice.
“Well, think about it. I'll talk to your aunt. She seems like a nice person. You seem to be real close to her.”
“Yeah, she's cool. She never had a daughter, but she knows what I'm going through.”
“And, of course, without your mom to talk to —”
“Oh, I always talked to my aunt, even when my mom was alive. My mom … she didn't grow up like me. She never worried like I do. She always knew what to do. She was always so sure of herself. She never messed up as a kid.” Marion shifted a bit in her seat. “She wouldn't have understood. I tried to be like her, but I couldn't. I can't. I didn't want to let her down, so I didn't tell her a lot about the things that bothered me. So I talked to my aunt.”
Ah, truth. It is a thief of hearts.
“So you and your brother getting along okay?” Katharine asked when they got back into the car with their order. She felt like a cassette tapehead — pressed on RECORD only, letting the words flow over the magnetic strip unheeded. Later, much later, she would play it back, and then, maybe, she would let herself feel.
“Me and Obi? Okay.”
“OB?”
“Yeah, Obi. For Obi-Wan Kenobi. After my mom died, we were talking about how much she liked the movies, and how she named everything after movie characters.”
Not everything.
“Like the dogs and other things. She called her car the Predator, after that Schwarzenegger movie.”
That was just a joke.
“We even had rats named Bert and Ernie.”
All right already!
“Did you know that Bert and Ernie — you know, the Sesame Street puppets — were named after two characters in that movie It's a Wonderful Life?” Marion's voice dropped down a notch. “We'd always watch it at Christmas. Diana hadn't even seen it before. I think she got confused. Well, anyway” — her voice rose again — “we figured we were named after somebody too. We tried to think of movies around the time we were born. We figured Ben was named after Ben Kenobi — Obi-Wan Kenobi — from Star Wars.”
Katharine watched her out of the corner of her eye. “And you?”
“I'm harder. I mean, we blew off Maid Marian right away. It just didn't seem right. Then we were watching Raiders of the Lost Ark again, and the girl in that is named Marion. She spells her name with an O, and she'd be someone my mom would like me to be. Taking care of myself and all. And my mom had this thing for Harrison Ford. He was, like, one of her heros.”
He is not.
“He was in both movies, you know.”
“I know,” Katharine said with something like resignation in her voice. It was all beginning to feel like too much, this dichotomy of her existence.
They drove up to the Denton house, and Katharine had to fight the urge to push Marion out on the parking strip and keep driving. Dump the kid and drive straight as piss up to Frisco and beyond. And farther beyond that. Then beyond that.
But she got out of the car and ate the pizza that tasted like cardboard. She watched her daughter laugh and make jokes with her aunt and uncle, punch her cousin repeatedly in the upper arm for teasing her, and quickly develop a crush on Goodfellow, who looked so handsome in his khaki shirt with the sleeves rolled up, following him with h
er eyes, asking him questions about his job at the studio in such a way that was endearing and irritating at the same time.
Katharine felt like the Monster in Frankenstein, who is taught to speak — and his only profit on it is, he knows how to curse.
Act 4, Scene 2
Youth! Stay close to the young and a little rubs off.
— MAURICE CHEVALIER, Gigi (1958)
Katharine bumped the waiting tape cassette into the car stereo. There was some static and then Mr. Mulwray's voice poured into the car. “Taking care of business, Miss Bennet. I'm not sure whether I told you that sometimes I'll be sending taped reports. When I'm on the road, like now.” Sounds of fast-moving vehicles periodically threatened to overpower his voice, and there was a loud backfire like a gunshot. “I've found the only way my reports get done is to tape them. Kelly will be sending you a transcribed copy in a few days.”
The tape had arrived in the mail that morning, and although Katharine could have listened to it in the apartment, she waited until she would be driving; it would be easier to listen to the tape when her arms, legs, and subconscious were engaged elsewhere.
“I don't have a tremendous amount of new information for you. The girl — what's her name?” There was the sound of pages being shuffled. An irate horn from a nearby car burst on the tape. “Yeah, yeah,” yelled Mr. Mulwray away from the microphone. “Freeway maniac,” he murmured. “Where was I? Oh, right, the girl — Marion — is down in Long Beach, visiting her father's sister and husband. I'll be sending out one of my operatives to watch her for a few days. There'll be an additional charge for that, but it won't be too bad. Don't worry. Let's see. The girl continues to play a great deal of tennis. She was in a tournament two weeks ago and won a couple of rounds.”
A little late, Mulwray.
“Mr. and Mrs. Ashley are vacationing in San Diego for a couple of days. I won't be assigning anyone to follow them. You said the children were your primary concern. I understand the boy has been hired as a housesitter for a neighbor while they're all gone. And there appears to be a young lady in his life. Her name is Allie Fox.”
Katharine didn't know anyone by that name, anyone who went to Ben's school. She felt something like jealousy flare up and smolder.
“She works at the bank as well. She's an older woman. Nineteen. They went to that new Harrison Ford film on their first date. She drove. After the show they went back to his house and talked for quite a while in the car. 'Round midnight, he kissed her and got out of the car. From the sidewalk he waved and called to her to drive defensively. I'll keep you informed as things progress. Mulwray out.”
As Katharine pulled up in front of the Dentons' house, she was warmed by the thought that her words, her admonitions, her warnings of love — drive defensively — were being passed down by her son. It was a legacy of sorts.
In the three days since True's party, Katharine had managed to spend each night alone in Thisby's apartment, although she made sure she was safe and locked up before nightfall. She would make herself wait until dark before pulling the blinds and turning on every light. She couldn't expect Goodfellow always to be there to bail her out. Like now. Vivian had come back from Texas, and Katharine realized he would spend his time with her.
She had hardly slept. She didn't really feel tired — more like wired, and that stretched sensation was beginning to feel something like normal. But she also felt attuned, as if she were listening in on everyone else's lives, their bandwidths chafing her skin to irritation.
The voice that whispered in her ear was more subdued. It wasn't silent, but it didn't nag at her. Sometimes, when she had so many Classic Cokes that dingleballs swelled up all over her tongue and she knew with every fiber of this body that wine would smooth out the phoofums, the voice would begin to hum, building up a wall of white noise against which it would broadcast its next message: Eat Me. Drink Me. She would try not to listen, though often trying not to listen only made her listen harder, and she would waver from an affirmation of another life to a resignation of a second death. It sounded so peaceful.
She had been surprised when Puck came over the night before. He didn't call first; he just showed up. She hadn't seen or heard from him since True's party.
She froze when the doorbell rang. She didn't want to look through the security lens, as if whoever it was would nightmarishly liquefy like mercury right through the hole and gobble her up.
After he came in, and she stilled her beating heart, she was not sorry for the interruption. A UCLA fall schedule of classes had come in the mail that morning, and she had been looking it over when the doorbell rang. The descriptions of the classes confused and frightened her. She had no idea how she should start. She didn't even know what interested her anymore. Here was the opportunity of a lifetime — actually, twice in a lifetime — college, again, with years of adult experience behind her and youth in front of her. But it just made her feel bad. She should be desperate to take advantage of it. Why else had this whole thing happened?
She had slipped the material under the pillow on the couch, but Puck was preoccupied and wouldn't have noticed anyway. He was upset and wanted to talk. Vivian, again. She had come back from Texas even more unsure of their relationship than when she had left.
“What does she want from me?” He circled the furniture in the living room. Katharine could see the tension in his neck and jaw. His hair fell forward into his eyes. She watched his long fingers comb it back over his forehead. “I don't know what she wants from me.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened,” he said, exasperated, thumping down hard on a chair. “It's the same old thing. We're too different. We don't think alike. I'm never happy. I'm —”
“Are you happy?”
“Me? Shit. I don't know. Look who's talking. Are you?”
She was taken aback. Her mother used to say when Katharine was growing up, “I only want you to be happy.” It wasn't until her twenties that Katharine realized what a crock, what a set-up, that was. She was always feeling guilty before then because she wasn't happy. At least, not all the time. When she was happy, she would try to wrestle it into staying, but it never would. She would feel worse — she had achieved that mythical state but just couldn't sustain it. Then she realized that it couldn't last. Shouldn't last. Because in order to know when you're happy, you have to know when you're not. You have to get the reverse. It was the natural reaction to an unstable state. Action-reaction. Yin-yang.
“On and off,” she answered. “But I don't go around trying to be unhappy.”
You don't?
Katharine ignored that voice. “What about your job?” she asked impulsively.
Puck's face clouded over. “What about my job?”
“It makes you miserable. Anyone can see that. Everyone does see that. Your parents. Your father — Dad — especially.” He didn't even notice her slip. “Even Vivian. What are you doing it for? Vivian's not stupid. She sees it's more important for you to stay in a job that makes you miserable than to leave it and get a job that might make you happier. Maybe she thinks she has something to do with that.”
“Vivian? She has nothing to do with my job. You don't know anything about it.”
Don't I?
He had resumed his widow's walk pacing around the coffee table. “I like to finish what I start. And, unlike some people, I like to keep my word and honor the commitments I make.”
One of the lords of discipline. How I know the signs.
“I know what I'm doing,” he said curtly. He slowly sat down in the chair again and seemed faraway for a long time. He drummed his fingers noiselessly on the table, his forehead deeply ridged. He raised his head after a while, his forehead smooth. “Okay. I take your point. You know, I think I even know where the problem is. I think I know what to do now.” He stood up to leave. “You know, I'm really glad you're here. You've been a lot of help to me lately.” Katharine watched — when he twisted to look for his car keys — how his shoulder bl
ades were defined by the creases in his shirt. He turned back around and looked at her with some confusion. “But sometimes it's like you're a completely different person. Sometimes I don't think you're really my sister. Quince says you're a changeling.” He gestured forward with his hands. “You even look different. I've never seen you look” — he stopped in embarrassment and ended lamely — “so good.”
Katharine felt confused too. She knew what he meant, though. She had been filling out like Marion, the boyish lines softening into slight curves, and she was feeling more womanly. But it scared her. It was the first time she had ever been thin, and now she was putting on weight.
At the door, she touched him, the tips of her fingers spread out lightly along his forearm. He turned toward her and awkwardly hugged her, one hand pressing her head lightly against his chest.
Katharine strapped Marion's small overnight bag on the luggage rack over the Porsche's trunk. They were going to pick up Quince at the Bennets and then go back to Thisby's apartment. It had been easy to get Emily to agree to the scheme, and Quince, though not overly enthused, did not vehemently object.
Katharine and Marion made sporadic small talk over the street noises. The top was down on the Porsche, since Quince was going to have to scrunch herself in the space behind the seats. Katharine desperately wanted Marion and Quince to be friends, just as she had wanted her parents and Philip to like one another when they first met. Katharine could tell that Marion was nervous too. She remembered that Marion had never really liked going to playgroups, knowing uncannily of parents' odd belief that, by virtue of being a kid, she'd automatically get along with all the other children. Play nice, now. But Marion had always been a self-contained, self-sufficient child who didn't need to be surrounded by playmates — unlike Ben, who needed constant outside stimuli.
As they pulled up in front of the Bennet house, Katharine wondered whether an automobile was discreetly sliding past the driveway while the driver jotted down, At two-fifty, the two females exited the automobile, the elder self-consciously tugging at her shorts.