Pale Phoenix

by Kathryn Reiss

  "No, wait," he said, catching her elbow. "In here."

  Surprised, she followed him into the living room. The cavernous living room was not often used at the Hootons' in winter because it was too large to be heated properly in cold weather. The big double doors into the front hall were normally kept closed, the draperies pulled across the long windows, and the upholstered furniture covered with old sheets to keep off the dust. In warmer months the room was a gathering place for the whole family, but winter found them back in the old-fashioned kitchen, seated around the old oak table or curled up on the battered couch.

  Miranda raised her brows now as she took in the changes in the living room. Two-thirds of the room remained in shadow, the furniture still covered with sheets. But the far section of the room beckoned warmly. Dan had pulled a table close to the roaring fire in the large brick fireplace and set it with a linen cloth and what Miranda thought she recognized as Mrs. Hooton's best antique china. Long tapered candles in silver holders stood sentry on the table next to a bouquet of dried flowers. Dan had pulled a love seat close to the fireplace and piled pillows and an afghan on the floor. Soft light beckoned Miranda onward across the room till she stood before the fire.

  "This is—nice," she said to Dan, who was looking at her expectantly. "But a little strange. I mean—why in here? Why not in the kitchen—as usual?"

  "I don't want things to be usual," answered Dan. "My parents and Buddy are in Cambridge until tomorrow night. I wanted some time with you. Without parents and little brothers. Or Abby. You know, alone."

  Miranda smiled slowly at him, but felt cut off from the rest of the world here in this big, shadowy room, with the rest of the house stretching endlessly around them. Her own parents and Abby in their kitchen across the street seemed miles away.

  "What's wrong?" asked Dan. "Don't you like a little atmosphere to set the mood?"

  "The mood for what?"

  "For dinner, of course," said Dan. "Do you want some wine?"

  Miranda shook her head, gazing at him steadily. "No thanks."

  "Come on, not even a drop?" He walked over to the table and poured a glass of red wine. "It's called retsina, and it's supposed to go with the meal." Dan swirled the wine in the glass, then held it up to the fire. "Look at that. Isn't it beautiful?"

  "It is, but I'll just have water." Miranda could hear the wind rise outside the heavily curtained windows, could sense the whirl of white as the snow blew up from the drifts.

  "Water's not right on a night like this. I'll warm up some apple cider." Dan left the wine glass on the table and crossed the room to switch on some music. The strains of a Vivaldi concerto filled the room. "The Four Seasons," Dan said. "To bring a little bit of spring into winter."

  "My favorite music," murmured Miranda.

  "I know," said Dan with satisfaction. "Now, dinner is just about ready, so you wait here and I'll heat up the cider and bring everything in."

  "Can't I help?"

  "No, you just hang out here by the fire and stay warm. I'll only be a minute."

  He left the room and Miranda sank onto the pillows in front of the fireplace. She listened to the music and thought how long it had been since she'd played her flute. Mrs. Wainwright was getting impatient.

  Miranda watched the flames and waited for Dan. The candles on the table flickered. In the dim light the mounds of covered furniture were distant hills. The table and love seat, gilded by firelight, formed a shelter. The Vivaldi soothed her. It erased Abby's thumping piano from her head.

  In a few minutes Dan returned with a tray of steaming food. He set it on the table with a flourish. She blinked, turning from the fire as if coming out of a trance, and stood to help him serve the meal.

  He had worked hard, she saw that immediately. One large bowl held fluffy rice, another a green salad with tomatoes and wrinkled olives. Small bowls held crumbled feta cheese and nuts. There was a casserole of layered lamb, eggplant, and mushrooms in a thick sauce of cheese and garlic and basil. The aroma made Miranda's mouth water.

  "This is called moussaka," Dan said, scooping up a slice of the casserole and putting it on her plate. "It's Greek."

  "Well, I'm impressed," she admitted.

  "I was going to try to make something called dolmas," he told her, "which are grape leaves wrapped around a filling—but this seemed a better bet."

  "How did you learn to cook like this? Are you sure your mom isn't hiding out in the kitchen? The last food you cooked me was—" She broke off, and he grinned.

  "You mean the hamburger mixed with tuna? That was when I was a mere child."

  "Yeah—last August!"

  Their laughter relaxed them and dispelled the formal feeling. They sat down to eat, chatting as comfortably as always. Dan inquired about things at home, how Abby was doing, but Miranda shook her head. "Don't ask. I just want one night of peace when I don't have to look at Abby or hear Abby or talk about Abby! I don't even want to think about Abby."

  Dan held out his hands as if to fend her off. "Okay, okay, the name won't pass my lips again tonight."

  Miranda looked at him slyly over the flickering candles. "What name?"

  They talked about the Prindle House project, about school, about the upcoming dance. "Let's go to the dance with Susannah and the kids from the school newspaper," suggested Miranda. "Unless Susannah goes alone with Dave Dunlop. I know that's what she's hoping."

  Dan frowned. "That egomaniac? I don't know what girls see in him. He's such a jerk. I think she should come with us."

  But Miranda remembered how eagerly Susannah spoke of going out on real dates soon—alone with a boy. She didn't seem content anymore with their group activities. "In any case, the dance will be fun—even if we can't dance very well."

  "Who says we can't dance?"

  "Oh—nobody." Miranda cast Abby's mocking smile resolutely out of her mind.

  After dinner Dan cleared the table, refusing Miranda's offers of help. She settled herself on the love seat, but when Dan returned with a plate of little cakes, he sat on the floor in front of the fire and patted the space next to him.

  She slid to the floor and pushed a pillow against the love seat behind her back. They watched the fire, and Miranda was freshly aware of the empty house all around them. "Well, that was really a great meal," she said to break the silence. "You get an A+."

  "I'll be sure to tell my mom when she gets home." He held out the plate of cakes. "These are baklava."

  "What do you mean, tell your mom?" Miranda bit into one of the sweet pastries concocted of layers of tissue-thin dough, sugar, cinnamon, chopped nuts, and honey. The bite melted in her mouth. "Mmmm," she said. "Are you telling me your mom cooked these after all?"

  "No, I did it all myself. But Mom bought the food and helped me plan the menu."

  "You mean, she knew you were cooking tonight? She knew I was coming over for dinner?"

  Dan glanced at her. "What do you think?"

  Miranda relaxed a little. "Oh, I don't know. I guess I thought this was some big secret. Like maybe we were sneaking around and they weren't supposed to know."

  "Of course they knew you were coming over." He smiled a little self-consciously and added, "Well, I didn't tell them I was going to use the living room, and I didn't tell them—"

  "About the wine."

  "Well, yeah." He hesitated. "But I wanted the meal to be special, Mandy. Really special."

  "It was delicious. I told you, I'm totally impressed."

  "No, I don't just mean the food. I guess I wanted..." His voice trailed off. He kept his eyes on the flames. "I wanted the whole night to be special. You know."

  Miranda was silent.

  "You look really nice tonight, Mandy. I really like that sweater. Is it new?" He reached over and put his arm around her shoulders.

  She rested her head on his shoulder. "Dan, I've worn this sweater just about every day of my life."

  He removed his arm and laughed awkwardly. He made her feel awkward, too. They both list
ened to the wind whistling around the corner of the house. "Nice weather we're having," he said suddenly.

  "Now I know you're a lunatic," she said. "I thought so before, but I wasn't sure. Now it's confirmed."

  Dan scowled at her. "Look, can't you help me out at all? If you won't talk about your clothes or the weather, then we'll have to talk about current events. I can't do this if you won't cooperate."

  "Dan Hooton, I don't know what you're talking about! What's your problem?"

  He sighed and pulled her into his arms. He pressed his lips against her hair. "Oh, damn it, Mandy. I sometimes wish you hadn't moved here just across the street, that we hadn't been friends for so long. It would be easier if I'd met you at school. Then I could ask you out for a date—just us, all alone—and not feel like I was breaking some sacred trust."

  She pulled back a little, enough to see his face but not far enough that he had to let go of her. "I know what you mean," she murmured. "We know each other too well. It's like you're my brother—no, not really, but you know what I mean."

  "Susannah's not the only one who wouldn't mind splitting from the pack," he said. "It's just harder for me with you." He released her and tugged a thin booklet out of his back pocket. "Here, look at this. Everything a guy could want to know. You can see how desperate I am for advice."

  She took the booklet and read the title aloud, laughing. "Every High School Boy's Guide to Social Occasions. Oh, Dan!"

  "It's from the museum—copyright 1951. Tells you how to make conversation on a date. Talk about the girl's clothes. Talk about the weather. Talk about current events." Then he grinned ruefully. "But it doesn't tell you what to do if the girl won't follow the script."

  Miranda was giggling uncontrollably now; she couldn't help it. "Nice after-shave you're wearing! Nice weather we're having! What do you think about the situation in the Middle East?"

  Dan grabbed her again, and they rolled back onto the floor, gasping with laughter, crazy with the sheer stupidity of social games. Finally they quieted, looked at each other, then away at the flickering fire, then back again.

  Though it felt strange being so close, to hold Dan next to her this way, Miranda knew she could very easily—and very happily—get used to this new stage of their friendship. She did not have any friend she loved so well as Dan. Even Susannah, with whom she shared many interests, did not come close to being the special companion she had in Dan. Companion, and now maybe something more.

  They kissed then, a long kiss that left Miranda near tears. Dan was silent a long moment after they sat apart again. Then he put more wood on the fire and poked it into flame. Miranda listened to the wind outside and thought now it sounded friendly—like the whisper of a treasured friend.

  "How about a back rub?" she asked him suddenly.

  He turned with a pleased smile. "Sure thing. Lie down."

  "No," she told him. "You lie down this time."

  His eyes lit up and he lay down obediently in front of the fire. She sat on him and pounded his shoulders.

  "How about we ditch the newspaper staff?" asked Dan after a moment. "And try to get Susannah to the dance with Dave Dunlop after all? Then you and I can go together. Just us."

  "You mean on a real date?" She kneaded his muscles smoothly.

  "You got it." He turned over and sat up so he could see her face.

  She put her hands on his shoulders. "Well ... only if you buy me flowers." She batted her eyelashes.

  He wrapped his arms around her in a happy bear hug. "Hey, what's this?" he asked, feeling the hardness of the phoenix in her skirt pocket.

  She pulled it out to show him. "I love it. I always carry it with me these days."

  "For luck?" he asked.

  She nestled against him. "Well, it seems to be working."

  Later Miranda headed home and stopped in the living room to rave to her parents about Dan's culinary expertise. She felt sleepy and did not linger long. As she climbed the stairs, her mother called, "Why not stop and say good night to Abby?"

  They certainly didn't give up easily. But there was a crack of light shining under Abby's bedroom door. Miranda hesitated, wanting nothing more than to go straight to her own room and burrow in bed under the quilt and play back the wonderful evening she had just spent with Dan.

  There was no answer when she knocked, and Miranda turned away, relieved. But just as she started down the hall to her room, Abby's sullen voice said, "You can come in now."

  Miranda opened the door. Abby lay on the pull-out couch, her math book open on the pillows. Yet Miranda felt sure Abby had not been studying. The air seemed charged with some emotion. Sadness?

  "Hi," Miranda said. "I'm home."

  "Evidently."

  "Well, I just wanted to say hello."

  "Hello." Abby carefully adjusted the quilt on her bed.

  "Dan turned out to be a fantastic cook after all."

  "That's good." Abby sat looking away from Miranda, out the dark window. The panes were frosted with ice patterns.

  Miranda shrugged and moved to leave. "Well. Good night."

  Abby stretched out her legs. "See you in the morning." She looked pointedly at the door, but now Miranda could not leave. She stared at the bed. Abby's math book still sat propped importantly against the pillows, but the quilt at the foot had been dislodged when Abby stretched.

  Several dozen photographs—maybe more—lay uncovered by the rumpled quilt. Abby bent over them swiftly, her long, pale hair brushing them as she tugged the quilt back into place. Two bright red patches flooded her cheeks.

  "What are those?"

  "Get out of here, Mandy."

  "Why? Let me see them. What are you hiding?" Miranda strode to the bed and pulled at the quilt.

  "Get out!" hissed Abby, and Miranda knew she did not want Helen and Philip to hear their struggle. "You have no right!"

  But Miranda was determined. The two girls engaged in a brief tug-of-war with the quilt, but Miranda, the stronger of the two, easily won.

  She threw the quilt onto the floor and stared down at the pictures. Abby sat motionless on the bed, head bowed, face tight with anger, hostility, and something else. Fear?

  In most of the photos a girl posed alone. In some she was part of a family or school group. Some photos were very old and brittle. Some were brown-and-white on thick cardboard, while others were shiny snapshots on thin paper. Still others seemed quite modern, in crisp black-and-white or in color. The most recent photo was one Miranda recognized: Abby's school picture.

  As Abby swooped down to gather them up, Miranda shot out her hand and held the other girl back. She bent lower and examined the scattered photographs, then stared up at Abby in open astonishment. "Abby," she whispered. "All these"—she gestured to the pictures on the bed—"all these are the same girl. All these are pictures of you!"

  The silence between the two girls lengthened. Miranda released her hold on Abby, but the other girl did not move. Miranda peered down at the assortment of photographs, then up at Abby again. Abby sat cross-legged on the bed, the long curtain of hair hiding her face. Her hair hung limp, swinging gently with the motion of her body as she breathed. It seemed to Miranda that the swaying hair was the only movement in the whole house, possibly in all of Garnet. Everything was oddly still. Even the snow had stopped.

  "Abby?"

  Abby lifted her head. Her eyes met Miranda's. The eyes, usually so dim and opaque, were now sharp and glistening with tears. Miranda flinched as if Abby had struck her, and felt relief as the light died out and Abby's eyes grew dry and empty again.

  "Miranda Browne, you must be a lunatic." Abby's voice was low and calm. "Just listen to yourself. You barge in here, pry into my private things—and then say the most bizarre things. Look at these pictures!" She touched one of them. "Look how old some of these are. Look at the clothes—they're obviously before 1900. And look here." She picked out a few of the light brown-and-white pictures. "See this girl standing with the man in uniform? That's a uniform from
World War I. And these here are from the twenties. And these are from the sixties—just look at the miniskirts. What do you mean, these girl? are me? You don't make any sense."

  "They all have your face," muttered Miranda as Abby swept the photos into a big pile and shuffled them together as if she were playing cards. "You could dress me up in all different clothes and hairstyles, too, and I'd look a little different. But my face would be the same."

  Abby's voice held a note of quiet superiority. "What are you saying? Why in the world would I dress up in different costumes and have a lot of photos taken? You can see for yourself that these photos really are old. Look at this one—it's so brittle it's starting to crumble."

  Abby's words fell like hammer blows until Miranda's head was pounding just the way it did when the piano music filled the house. Abby's quiet voice pressed on relentlessly. "Look again. The girls do look like me. I can see that, too. But family resemblances are amazing, aren't they? The Chandler women have always been small and blond, it seems. Isn't that fascinating? I guess it's something to do with genes or DNA or something."

  "Or something," murmured Miranda. She went to the door. The photos could not be of Abby, she told herself. Of course not.

  But they are! Somehow they really are. A leaping terror inside pressed to be released, and Miranda felt that if she stayed and listened any more to Abby's cool explanations, her fragile control would disappear. The feeling of holding panic at bay was one she had so far experienced only when she was walking alone in the dark somewhere and suddenly imagined she was being followed. Then she had to walk home quickly, but not too quickly; if she gave in to the panic she would be lost. Now, here in this room with Abby, Miranda's skin was beginning to creep with that same sense of danger.

  "Sorry," Miranda said softly, backing into the hall slowly as if trying not to startle some unpredictable wild creature. "I should have realized. Family resemblances are weird. In fact, everyone always says I'm the exact replica of my grandmother." She turned away from the door. "Good night."