Who Killed Blanche DuBois?

by Carole Elizabeth Buggé

  “Claire!”

  Claire turned and saw Amelia bustling toward her.

  “Oh, Claire, don’t forget to try the bruxelles—I made them with some morels I dried last spring!”

  Amelia leaned over the table, straightening napkins and brushing away crumbs. She lived for these parties, in which she was both the hostess and, in her own modest way, the star. She spooned up some of the steaming mixture from the silver chafing dish.

  “Do you know, Claire, I found these morels in North Carolina this spring when I went down for the Duke reunion. I was so excited—it made the trip worthwhile!”

  Amelia loved to cook, but mushrooms were her passion. She had learned to hunt them while in France and now went out to Westchester, regularly on weekends wearing a large sun hat, a flat wicker basket over her arm. With her floppy straw hat and round little body, Amelia herself resembled a ripening mushroom, its cap already beginning to droop and brown. She had probably always been a little plump, but looked even more so next to Sarah’s angular asceticism and Blanche’s trim girlishness. The three of them together reminded Claire of the fairies in Walt Disney’s Sleeping Beauty—a sort of comic trio. Claire sometimes wondered what Amelia saw in Sarah, but knew they had been roommates at Duke and that Sarah was fiercely devoted to her.

  “How was the reunion?” Claire said.

  “Oh, it was very nice—I’m only sorry that Sarah didn’t go.”

  “Sarah’s not really the college-reunion type.”

  “No,” Amelia said sadly, “I guess she isn’t.”

  Amelia was exactly the reunion type, though—and it was just like her to give a party for Blanche. Amelia and Sarah had been roommates during their last year together at Duke, while Blanche was a freshman at nearby UNC in Chapel Hill. Amelia and Claire met in a poetry course taught by the imperious Grover Smith, a leading expert in the poetry of T. S. Eliot. A tall bullet of a man with a sloping belly, thick white hair and skin as pink as a baby’s, he was one of the campus characters Duke’s English department was famous for. He charged around the campus in full regalia: crisp bow ties, suspenders and white linen boating jackets. Amelia and Claire hit it off in his class, and though Amelia was a music major while Claire was majoring in English, they remained friends. Claire had even stayed with Amelia for a few weeks when she first moved to the city.

  Now Amelia was tugging at Claire’s arm.

  “Here, Claire, open up.”

  Claire opened her mouth to receive the spoonful of hot bruxelles. The flavor exploded in her mouth in stages, each more subtle than the last. She closed her eyes. Amelia was right: here were gastronomical fireworks, stages of ecstasy, and her taste glands trembled with delight.

  “This is how food used to taste before people started breeding out all the flavor,” Amelia said; stirring the steaming mixture.

  Claire envied Amelia her rich life of the senses, her ability to throw herself into life with a childlike fervor. Claire often felt herself pulling away from intensity of experience. Even the strength of the bruxelles put her off a little bit; it was too much, too strong. All her life she had distrusted her senses, resisting the pull of her bodily urges—a legacy of her family’s Calvinism.

  Just then the front door was flung open: Anthony Sciorra was Making His Entrance. Accordion slung across his broad shoulders, his thick black hair shining in the light, he lustily sang the drinking song from La Traviata:

  Libiamo, libiamo ne’lieti calici

  Che la bellezza infiora

  People smiled, some of them uncomfortably, some enjoying the show. Claire looked at Amelia. She had dropped the serving spoon and held her hands out to Anthony, singing in a ripe, quavering mezzo:

  E la fuggevol, fuggevol ora

  S’innebrili a volutta.

  She and Anthony advanced toward each other across the room, singing. Anthony’s fine accordion playing supported their singing, so that even with their imperfect voices the overall effect was pleasing. People stepped aside for them as they advanced, in mock opera seriosa fashion, enjoying this public attention. Amelia’s cheeks were hot and flushed and her eyes glittered, just like the consumptive Violetta.

  Poor Amelia. She adored Anthony with all the selfless passion of an operatic heroine, but she didn’t really exist for him. Nobody really existed for him except Blanche, Blanche of the bleached and processed hair, Blanche the well groomed, so carefully put together, every ounce of fat trimmed from her lean bones as though she were an expensive cut of veal. Amelia was so full of life, and Blanche had life so under control.

  Blanche knew about Anthony’s devotion, of course; sometimes she encouraged it by flirting with him and sometimes she ignored him. This made him pursue her with a frantic, jealous ardor. Anthony was a handsome man with beautiful black eyes and flawless olive skin, but he was only a research chemist, an occupation not nearly glamorous enough for Blanche, who probably saw herself in an English country house, surrounded by servants. Now she was leaning against the wall, enjoying this spectacle, a superior smile on her peach-frosted lips.

  I hope to God I never smile like that at a man who loves me, Claire thought.

  Anthony and Amelia concluded their duet on bravely pursued if not quite captured high notes, and everyone applauded enthusiastically. Anthony smiled and bowed, and Amelia’s round cheeks were moist with happiness. Was it possible Anthony was unaware of Amelia’s loyal, unwavering passion? From his lapel he took a white carnation. Claire held her breath, thinking he was about to give it to Amelia, but his eyes searched the room. Seeing Blanche, alone now in the corner, cool and fresh as a spring lily, he pushed his way over to her and presented the flower with a little bow.

  “Un di felice, eterera,” he said ardently, looking into her eyes.

  “Why, thank you, sir, I am honored,” she replied. Claire could swear she was actually batting her eyelids, heavy with mascara, her Southern accent exaggerated, thick as molasses.

  Claire looked over at Amelia. She looked deflated and sad, her eyes searching for a place to focus. Several of the guests, aware of the situation, looked away quickly, pretending not to see her discomfort. Claire felt her own cheeks flush for Amelia’s sake. Inwardly she cursed Anthony’s blithe thoughtlessness. Did he have no idea what Amelia felt, how she suffered for him? Claire had suffered once like that for a man, and had vowed never again to. She kept Robert at arm’s length on purpose, to maintain control, and it felt better that way.

  Anthony was now making his way through the guests. Anthony was a toucher. He advanced slowly toward the bar, shaking hands, laughing, slapping people on the back. Claire looked over at Blanche, still leaning against the wall, a little smile on her face. She hadn’t spoken to Blanche yet and knew she had to or it would look odd. Blanche wasn’t one for making overtures, so Claire would have to make the first move. Claire started pushing through the inevitable cluster of people around the food table. Before Claire could reach her, though, she saw Sarah DuBois step abruptly in front of her sister, a scowl on her thin face.

  “What on earth is the matter with you?” she said in a loud, angry whisper. “Why do you lead on that poor, misguided man?”

  Blanche rolled her eyes like a teenager about to receive a boring, familiar lecture. She played with her swizzle stick.

  “You know damn well Amelia loves him and you don’t have any interest in him beyond seeing how far you can lead him by the nose, so why don’t you just let him off the hook?” Sarah hissed.

  Blanche regarded her sister languidly.

  “This is none of your business, Sarabelle,” she said sweetly, “so why don’t you just go off and find a nice quiet mountaintop to meditate on?”

  Sarah leaned in closer to Blanche’s face, her eyes spitting sparks.

  “Listen to me, you overdone cupcake. You leave off flirting with men you don’t care a hoot about, or I swear—”

  But she was interrupted by the arrival of Anthony, all smiles, holding two drinks. He handed one to Blanche and smiled cheerf
ully at Sarah, who gave a last sharp glance at Blanche and walked away. Claire wondered if Anthony was really as dense as he sometimes seemed, or if his obliviousness was a screen, a sort of camouflage.

  Claire wandered around the room for a while, then finished her drink and went over to pay her respects to the guest of honor. Sarah had disappeared, having skulked off somewhere. Claire suspected that some of Sarah’s anger at her sister was jealousy over Blanche’s success as a writer. Claire herself still couldn’t understand how such an essentially hollow person as Blanche could be such a good writer—within the limits of the genre, perhaps, but a good writer nonetheless.

  When Claire approached her, Blanche gave a wry little smile.

  “It seems we had a little mise-en-scène,” she said. Blanche had acted in college and was always misusing theatrical terms.

  “I must apologize for my sister’s behavior—she has a crusader impulse which often vents itself on me.”

  Claire smiled absently. She knew Blanche was making a play for her sympathy, but she sided with Sarah on this one.

  “You know,” Blanche continued, “that little contretemps was not about Amelia at all—Sarah’s still mad at me for stealing her beau back in school.”

  Claire vaguely remembered a story about a medical student at Duke who had pursued Sarah for a semester, only to be lured off by the flashier charms of her sister.

  Just then Anthony reappeared, having scurried off to greet one of his fans. He beamed at Claire.

  “Mi’ amore,” he said in an extravagant accent. He kissed Claire’s hand. “Blanche doesn’t appreciate me; why don’t you run off with me?” he continued cheerfully.

  “Claire already has a boyfriend,” said Blanche. “At least, that’s the rumor, but no one’s actually seen him. Perhaps he doesn’t exist—maybe Claire’s using him as an excuse not to socialize more.” She looked at Anthony with a conspiratorial smile, knowing that he would follow any lead she set like an obedient dog.

  “Well, maybe she does have some proof of his existence—a picture, perhaps?” he suggested, looking to Blanche for approval.

  Blanche bobbed up and down like a puppet, as though she were suspended by a string on top of her head.

  “Oh, yes, Claire—let’s see a picture of him, please?”

  Claire fidgeted uncomfortably. She was embarrassed to admit that she did have a picture of Robert in her wallet, taken in front of the Croton Reservoir; he was squinting into the overcast glare, not exactly frowning, but not smiling either.

  “Oh, look, she’s shy,” said Anthony.

  “Please, Claire, let’s see,” begged Blanche in an eager, childlike voice. At times like this Claire could see how she managed to charm people—men, women. Claire pulled the picture out of her battered red wallet and handed it to Blanche. Just then she felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Marshall Bassett.

  Marshall was Blanche and Sarah’s cousin. Like them, he was extremely thin. He had dark oily hair and was fond of wearing black; he always reminded Claire of Snidely Whiplash. He was gay, but loved to flirt with women, and his hand did not move from Claire’s shoulder. His palms were always unpleasantly damp, and Claire could feel the moisture through her thin silk shirt.

  “Is it show-and-tell time?” Marshall said. He was an oral surgeon, working out of an office in his sprawling house in New Jersey, but his real passion was the Civil War. He owned no fewer than three rifles and two uniforms from the period—one Union and one Confederate. Marshall was always hunting down Civil War treasures, traveling all over the country to find them.

  “Claire was just showing us the picture of her boyfriend,” said Anthony.

  “Oh, and is he a handsome sward?” said Marshall.

  “Yes, very handsome—here, judge for yourself.” Anthony took the picture from Blanche and handed it to Marshall, who looked at it and then smiled at Blanche.

  “What do you think, Miss DuBois?” he said. “You’re something of an expert on men. Is he handsome?”

  Blanche did not respond. In fact, she looked distracted, as though she had suddenly remembered some very important errand.

  “Uh, will you all excuse me for a moment? I—just remembered something.” Avoiding their questioning looks, she turned quickly and went into one of the bedrooms, closing the door after her.

  “Well,” said Marshall after she had gone, “I’m used to having an effect on women, but it’s usually not that dramatic.”

  Anthony looked worried.

  “I better find out what’s the matter,” he said, looking after her. “It’s not good when she broods about things. It gets her upset.”

  ”Maybe you should leave her alone for a few minutes,” Claire suggested gently. “She looked like she wanted to be alone.”

  “Well, maybe after a little while . . .” Anthony said vaguely, and then he wandered off into the party, which was in full swing. No one else seemed to have noticed Blanche leave; they were all having a wonderful time without the guest of honor.

  Marshall turned to Claire.

  “Alone at last!” he said.

  Claire was amused in spite of herself. Marshall was fun because he did not ask to be taken seriously; in fact, he seemed to invite dismissal. This made Claire relax in his presence—everything was a game with Marshall, and he was a relief after all the earnest people in her life. She turned to him and smiled.

  “Take me to the Casbah,” she said.

  Chapter 3

  Claire spent most of Saturday reading manuscripts, and then, feeling restless, went for a long walk in Riverside Park. A bitter wind was blowing in off the Hudson, and except for a couple of heavily bundled joggers, she had the park mostly to herself. She walked down to the boat basin and watched the boats, swaying in the swelling waves, their rigging pullies clanking plaintively against empty masts. A few of the house boats had lights on inside, the lamps shining yellow in the gathering grey sky. A couple of cyclists rode by on mountain bikes, heads bent against the northerly wind. Even the seagulls who strutted on the boardwalk looked cold, their grey and white feathers ruffled by the gathering gale. Claire looked up the river, at the rising cliffs of the Palisades—the Indian’s called them “rocks that look like trees”—at the Hudson which swelled and twisted as it moved north into the Highlands. Land of dreams, land of eternal mystery and delight. Those cliffs, with their majestic spread of water below, could move Claire like few other sights: every time she saw them she felt pulled into the landscape as though she were a part of it and always had been. She thought of Robert, alone in his house in Hudson, and had a sudden urge to talk to him. She pulled her coat around her neck and headed back toward her apartment, her eyes watering from the stiffness of the wind. When she called Robert’s number his machine picked up and she hung up without leaving a message. Claire didn’t want to appear clingy, even though she was sure she valued her time alone as much as Robert did his. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked around the room, trying to decide whether she should read another manuscript or give up for the day. Just then she heard her fat white cat, Ralph, under the bed, batting something around on the floor. She bent down to see what he was up to, and saw that his toy was the tape from her answering machine. He had somehow managed to pry it out of the machine and sent it clattering across the hardwood floor, ricocheting against the floorboards. She realized at that moment she had forgotten to feed him this morning; this was his revenge. Whenever she neglected him, he let her know by very pointedly attacking some object she used: one night he sent the entire contents on top of her dresser crashing to the floor and another night he tipped her bedside glass of water over onto her face as she slept.

  Claire picked up the tape and put it back in the machine while Ralph sat calmly licking himself.

  “All right, come on,” she said, and he followed her into the kitchen, his eyes wide with innocence.

  She opened a can of Liver ’n Onions and spooned half of it into his dish. As soon as he heard the sound of the can opener
, he wound around her legs, purring sweetly. Then Claire remembered she hadn’t picked up her mail yet and went downstairs to the mailbox. Besides an offer from TWA to go to Europe at the lowest possible fare, there was a plain white business envelope addressed to her in a disorderly scrawl. Before she opened it, she knew it was another letter from Meredith Lawrence. Claire opened it in the elevator, and when she was back in the apartment she settled in her favorite spot, the red leather armchair by the window, to read it.

  Dear Ms. Rawlings,

  I am delighted to be in receipt of your missive and feel certain that in you I have finally found a long-awaited soul mate. You can imagine what this means to my young impressionable mind, as my father is a dull, pale creature of habit who could not possibly interest a child of my gifts. He is a physician, and is hopelessly trapped in left-brain cognitive reasoning.

  But on to more cheerful matters: our burgeoning relationship! The warmth and understanding evidenced in your letter to me quite took my breath away, and so I make bold here to quote Goethe (but not Robin Williams, God forbid), who said (among other things) “Seize the day! Whatever you can do, or think you can, begin it!” (Of course, the phrase is more charming in the original German, but even in translation I think the gist is there.)

  And so, my dear Ms. Rawlings, I am going to Seize the Day. I shall be arriving at Penn Station Sunday on the 9:45 A.M. train from Hartford. I am sorry to get you up so early, but I want to slip out of the house before my parents awaken.

  What an adventure! What a grand time we shall have together! Thank you, my dear, dear Ms. Rawlings, for giving me this opportunity—I promise you won’t regret it!