My Jane Austen Summer: A Season in Mansfield Park

by Cindy Jones

  I entered the stage, smiling shyly, my character as loath to participate in the follies as to consider amateur theatricals in her uncle's absence. Willis sat directly in my sight, underlit by candlelight, free to stare if he so desired. He clapped and smiled as if he'd forgotten every wrong thing at the moment. Then Pippa reached over and took his hand, and envy plunged me deep into pain.

  "And now, ladies and gentlemen"—Nikki spoke with greater enthusiasm—"the Fanny you've been craving these two hundred years. The Future Fanny of Mansfield Park, as Jane Austen really meant to write her, please welcome Forward Fanny." Applause and laughter exploded as the audience realized Forward Fanny was none other than Sixby in drag. Wigged and flat-chested, he air-kissed the audience, his arms and shoulders clearly straining the jumbo gown, a wolf in sheep's clothing.

  Nikki cleared her throat but people were still laughing and Sixby milked the moment. "For our first question," Nikki said, waiting for quiet.

  Sixby and I turned to Nikki.

  "We'll start with you, Traditional Fanny."

  I stepped forward, taking care to balance myself.

  Nikki read from a card. "Please tell the audience what you would say if Mary Crawford rode your horse—without asking. You have ten seconds to respond."

  "I would say"—I cleared my throat—"I have been out very often lately, and would rather stay home." This was straight from the book. "I would not wish to appear rude or impatient or create suspicion of either emotion, but," and here I was improvising, "I would concede my horse, confident that Edmund would recognize the slight and privately offer me his reassurance." I stepped back and then added, "I would wait in my attic garret for such private reassurance." I did not dare look at Willis.

  Nikki's eyebrows rose and the audience smiled. "Forward Fanny, same question. Take your time responding."

  "I would say," Sixby said, jutting his lower jaw and bobbing his head like a tough girl, "Bitch. Off my horse." His delivery was perfect.

  The audience laughed and then applauded.

  "Thank you, Forward Fanny," Nikki said, smiling in spite of herself. As Nikki read the next question, I watched in horror as Philippa, charmed by the skit, gave Willis a little kiss on his cheek. I spoke my line and the skit moved on but it was all a blur as I struggled to recover basic faculties.

  "Traditional Fanny," Nikki said, "is there any chance you would marry Henry Crawford?"

  "No. How wretched and how unpardonable, how hopeless and how wicked it is to marry without affection," I said. Take that, Willis.

  "Forward Fanny, would you marry Henry Crawford?"

  "Interesting question," Sixby reflected. "I've been imprisoned in this manor house, living off the wages of sin for so long, I don't even know if I like men!"

  Laughter and applause.

  "Last question," Nikki said. "Are you in or out?" Nikki looked at me. "Traditional Fanny, you're first, two seconds."

  "If you refer to my social status, I was presented at a ball given by my uncle to honor my brother William and me. Otherwise, I am in love with a would-be clergyman, out of my mind with jealousy of the competition, increasingly lonely in my attic room, and outraged at the discovery of a new half sister in the colonies." Now he knew everything.

  Nikki grimaced and the audience laughed politely, as if they got it.

  "Forward Fanny?"

  It was the way he said it. "I'm in and out." Sixby extended his arms, caressed the words, and the audience loved him. "I like Edmund and Mary. They hooted. "Even better"—Sixby played them along—"I can play Anhalt and Amelia. And back to your earlier question, there's room for both of us on that horse."

  Under cover of Sixby's performance, I dared peek at Willis. He was smiling.

  "And now"—Nikki's voice projected above the crowd—"each of the Fannys will present their closing remarks. By toss of the coin"—we paused while Nikki threw a coin over her shoulder, announcing, "Traditional Fanny goes first. Keep it short."

  I took a deep cleansing breath and launched myself. "I am Fanny Price," I said, "no more and no less than the character Jane Austen lovingly drew to play the protagonist in Mansfield Park. I will never change. Adaptation and reinterpretation are futile protests against prose consigned to posterity. Long after you have sung your last alleluias, I will be cutting roses in the hot afternoon and walking to the parsonage in the rain. And even though I am shy and Mary Crawford is witty, Edmund will choose to love me for as long as readers engage the text. The novel is mine. I win. I stay."

  The audience applauded. I dreaded the end of the skit. They would leave together and I would be alone in a way I hadn't been since meeting Willis.

  Nikki sighed. "Closing remarks, Forward Fanny?"

  Sixby drew closer to me, his male sweat and his stubble dead giveaways if anyone had doubts. "I concede," he said, taking my hand. "I concede Mansfield Park to this Fanny Price." As he raised my hand in victory, I saw a way not to be alone, a way out of my pain. "And I think I'm in love," he added. Sixby lifted me off the ground and kissed me; the unrehearsed spectacle of the two Fannys embracing created a fitting end of hostilities for the Fanny Wars. The audience hooted and whistled; there was more laughter and applause. Sixby and I left the stage together, holding hands as if we both knew what came next. I could lose myself in him, numb the pain at least for a while.

  We passed through the butler pantry and into the main hallway where My Jane Austen waited, pacing nervously. People lingered, stepping outside to smoke. But as Sixby ducked into the Freezer to drop off his dress, Willis approached from the ballroom door, walking straight to me.

  "Are you all right, Lily?" he asked, very serious.

  I shivered. I wanted him alone in the music room, not here in the crowded hallway with Pippa on her way. I had two seconds to decide what to say. Continue playing Fanny Price and say yes, absolve Willis, and suffer in silence awaiting a miracle? I played myself. "No," I said and stared him down. When he left, it would be over. Once he was gone, I wouldn't be able to breathe.

  "There you are," Pippa said, walking up, pushing her arms into her sweater. She handed Willis her purse while she arranged herself. I shivered again. "You were just delightful," Pippa said to me. "Weren't they, Willis?"

  "Yes," Willis said without conviction.

  "Are you cold?" Pippa asked. She heard my teeth chattering. "Willis, give her your jacket, she's freezing."

  I wasn't cold, just nerves hyper tensing.

  "We don't want anyone freezing to death." She removed the jacket from Willis's back herself. "We'd never sell this old house with the frozen ghost of Fanny Price wandering the halls." She smiled.

  I slipped into Willis's still-warm jacket, the armpits damp from perspiration, folded papers in the pockets. Surely he'd do something to spare me the grief of watching him walk out with her. But he just looked at me, waiting, as if I were at fault. I thought I might speak my mind in front of everyone, right there in the hallway, but Sixby rejoined us and Omar appeared from the ballroom as applause signaled the end of the follies.

  "That was fun." Pippa stifled a yawn, touching Willis's arm. "But it's getting late," she said. Willis stood watching as Sixby stood behind me, both hands on my waist.

  "Nice jacket," Sixby said, lifting me slightly as if I were a ballerina.

  I spoke recklessly over my shoulder to Sixby, certain that Willis could hear me. "I feel like improvising some more."

  "You've got my attention," Sixby said.

  Willis turned away and the agony began. He touched Pippa's shoulder and she nodded, stepping away from us, a thick curtain drawing around their casual intimacy, separating them as a couple.

  "Let's go," a no-nonsense Omar said to me as people distracted Sixby to autograph their programs, but I swatted his hand, watching Pippa wave to us as Willis ushered her out the door. Once Willis was outside, I ran. My Jane Austen followed close behind. I disappeared into the darkness beyond the gathering, moving through halls by memory, hiding behind a door until I could be sure
Omar wasn't looking for me.

  Twenty

  Floundering in the dark, I gathered candles from the office stash since the orange cord did not power my destination. A candle lit my way past dead people in portraits as I climbed the stairs to the second floor, holding on to the rail to keep from falling. At the top, I sobered, remembering where I was and entertaining second thoughts. By the time I found the door I sought, my second thoughts had receded, replaced by surging desperation of pain. Plunging into disaster felt so much better than lame suffering.

  Inside, my candle illuminated the Romeo and Juliet poster taped to the wardrobe door, assuring me I'd found Sixby's room. I placed candles strategically, the floorboards creaking as I relocated myself to another time and place in a different body. It wasn't me doing this. Removing Willis's jacket, I buried my face in the fabric, taking a good hit of his masculine scent before placing the folded jacket on a wicker chair. And then, rather than picture the engaged couple walking home together, I sat on the iron bed, once painted white, and unlaced the ribbons around my ankles, removing my slippers. Instead of imagining their good-night intimacy, I peeled the knee-highs off my legs and swept a dead fly off the covers.

  My Jane Austen worked on another list in the candlelight: "The Bad Men in Lily's Life," and there, at the top of the page, I read my father's name. Yes. I'm so glad someone finally had the courage to call a spade a spade. I wanted to see whose name followed. Willis? Surely not Martin. But I'd never seen My Jane Austen so dim and I worried she'd grow too faint to finish the list.

  I unfastened Bets's dress and by the time I laid the spotted muslin on top of Willis's jacket, My Jane Austen had completely vanished. For the first time since my arrival at the literary festival, I felt her absence. Not her cup of tea, this. Heedless, I placed my short stays, shift, and pantaloons on top in a neat pile, wondering if My Jane Austen was mad at me for doing this. She'd never faded away like that before. I couldn't help it; I'd drunk too much wine. My fingertips ice cold, I shivered, catching a glimpse of my naked torso, candlelit in the cracked dusky mirror over the chest of drawers; the word sacrifice came to mind, the image of an Aztec maiden preparing for her death.

  You see, Willis, I said to myself, I'm not thinking about you at all now, as I pulled down the bedspread and climbed between the sheets, wondering when they had last been changed, reminding myself not to think realistic thoughts. Waiting, I studied the shadowy molding on the ceiling, decoding patterns in the water spots like Madeline in her hospital bed. Footsteps in the hall indicated my wait was over. As I listened for the final approach and watched for the turn of the shiny black knob on the yellow door, the footsteps passed and all sounds stopped. After that, I wondered what had happened but my thoughts drifted, and for a while I forgot where I lay, thinking about my mother and what she would say if she saw me like this.

  When the door opened at last, it took a moment to remember what I was doing there.

  "Ah, who is this?" Sixby's voice sounded playful.

  Silent, my eyes closed; my heart beat. I craved the feel of his body on me, heavy and obliterating. Take me away, I pleaded silently, longing to fold myself into his arms and let him help me deny what was happening. Sixby carefully lifted the covers and found the answer he expected from the evidence on the chair. "The right idea, Lil, but the execution's all wrong. Let's take it from the top."

  I opened my eyes and sat up, pulling the covers up to my neck.

  "I'll be back in five minutes," he said. "Put all your lovely clothes back on and sit in the window seat. When I come in, you don't say a word. Here's the scene: We're in the drawing room and your husband is visiting a sick tenant in the neighborhood. We have very little time before he returns." He spoke quickly, as if he was directing an experienced actress, but his audible breathing gave him away.

  "Can't you be my husband?" I asked.

  "That would ruin everything, my dear." Sixby smiled, a hyped look in his eyes.

  I let the covers slip, exposing my naked breasts in the candle glow, attempting to break through his fantasy; I didn't care for the story in his head; and didn't particularly want to end up there. But my naked breasts did not break his enchantment and he left, pulling the door shut behind him. Alone again, dressing myself, I marveled he had been working up to this.

  * * *

  Sixby didn't look at my face. His hands moved over my dress, his eyes boring into the fabric illuminated by candlelight. Was his fantasy supported solely by the drape of my muslin? Neither of us had removed a single item of apparel from either body, duly noted by the dear departed, watching from sepia portraits suspended from high moldings. Sixby knelt between my knees, the hem of my skirt still touching the floor, his head resting against my fully clothed bosom; I was a body in a dress.

  I watched the table, wardrobe, chairs; the hole where the wall had settled leaving a crack large enough to reach through, where tendrils of vines grew inside like the bedroom in Where the Wild Things Are, one of my childhood books. Sixby's hands bored under my skirt and I felt him touching my actual legs. He did need my flesh after all. But he changed course and his hands returned outside my dress again, gripping my waist. From my position, I could see nothing but darkness out the window.

  I would not have guessed there would be no dialogue in our love improv and the bed would be an unnecessary prop. Sixby bit my breast through the dress. It hurt; the nipple area had less protection than other parts of my body. Then Sixby's arms reached behind me and up my back. His hands grabbed my shoulders from behind and his head burrowed into my bosom. He held me so tight my body left the seat of the chair, but I could think of nothing except the image of Willis and Philippa turning to each other. And then Sixby dropped me abruptly, fumbling with his Regency buttons, releasing himself, burrowing into my skirt. He thrust himself against me, saying, "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

  I began to cry as Sixby rested his head in my lap, his breathing slowing to normal.

  "And what would you like, Lil?" He looked up and noticed my wet cheeks.

  "Is there a menu or something?" I asked.

  Sixby's head rose from my lap. "Are you hungry?" He backed away from me, confused, adjusting his clothing. I had no desire for further debasement with Sixby. I sat up now that his weight had lifted. Hearing noise in the hall, Sixby looked toward the door, wanting to get out, but knowing it wasn't the right thing to want at that moment. I could have made it easy for him since I wanted out as badly as he, but I'd never seen him stuck in an improv situation and I wanted to watch. Was he a vampire, too? Sucking the superficial out of people, never connecting with the soul? I couldn't spend another ten minutes of my life with this person—odd how I'd found him attractive before meeting Willis.

  "Do you want to get something to eat?" he asked, confused by my menu remark.

  "We just had dinner," I said impatiently.

  "Are you sure?" He knew from my tone he could push safely, appear to care.

  "Yes, I'm sure we just had dinner." Fully dressed, there wasn't much for me to do in order to walk out. I stood and put my arms through Willis's jacket. "Good-bye, Sixby."

  He looked up from his seat on the floor. "Good-bye, Lily." And then, "I'm sorry."

  "Oh, nonsense," I said, taking a candle.

  "About your dress."

  "Oh, that." The muslin was now spotted, indeed.

  * * *

  Proceeding directly to the attic, shielding the flame of my candle, despair took hold when I saw the exposed brick of the stairwell and smelled the musty rot. Wood stairs creaking beneath my feet gave comfort and the darkness recalled evenings with Willis, the moon in the window.

  I lay down on the cushions in the window seat, grateful for their familiar greenness, and gazed out the window into the darkness. Then I sat up and stared out the window and listened to the small night sounds. My Jane Austen was not there, either. A draft extinguished my candle while I moved Willis's table and chair back to their regular summer places. I sat looking at them in th
e almost darkness, growing thirsty from the effects of the wine.

  Perhaps it would rain. The idea that I could collect rain-water on the roof led me to try the door, hopeful that no one had bothered to lock it. Pulling on the rope, the stairs responded, unfolding like always. Climbing to the top, I pushed the trap door open, exposing myself to the cool night air, thankful the breeze was not so strong at night.

  The world from the roof looked different in the dark. I sat on the tar and stone mixture and let it cut into my palms. Then I lay down on the stones, curling my legs up to my chest, protecting my head from the stones with my arm. When it began to sprinkle, I covered my face with my other arm. I'd done this before.

  I'd held a yard sale to finance the purchase of my airline ticket before coming here. Late on the afternoon of my sale, I was hauling more junk out to the yard when my friend Lisa parked her Saab behind a pink Mary Kay Buick. Sympathetic Lisa, who'd met me in the office stairwell for details and tears after my termination, had come to get my cat, Boris.

  "You're not selling everything, are you?" Lisa asked without looking me in the eye.

  "Yes, I am." I couldn't afford to pay rent so I decided to sell it all and let the apartment go. I sold all my big furniture to a plump woman in cowboy boots before I even got out of my nightgown. The only things I would keep were the two large suitcases I'd packed, and the chest that held the childhood books my mother collected for me. I planned to store the chest of books in the trunk of my car while I was gone.

  "Do you have any Hummels?" a gnarly man with a smoker's voice interrupted.

  I had a vague memory of brownish figurines in my mother's china cupboard. "No," I said; Sue had surely tossed them.