In the King's Arms

by Sonia Taitz

  “Well, I just wanted you to know that I’m very, very hurt by all this. I mean, I thought I’d have some time with you during the vac. I hardly ever see you. We’re brothers, you know: brothers should band together. And instead I find you consumed by whatever it is and no time for me at all.

  “Now get off my stomach. I must tend to my injuries.”

  Julian dismounted, then turned his head. Lily stood in the doorway, wearing a pale blue flannel nightgown. “It’s funny,” she said. “It’s funny how Helena and Archibald don’t get up to see what you two are shouting about. You two could wake the dead.”

  She looked very pretty and rosy.

  “Well, perhaps dear Hell and Arch are making the beast with two backs. That’s a scholarly allusion, Julian. Perhaps Lily will show you the reference some day.”

  “Oh, be quiet,” Lily said.

  Peter lay on the floor, inhaling and exhaling. He dabbed tentatively at his nose. A fight with one’s brother was rather nice, in a way. Old times.

  “Peter, what happened to your face?”

  There was dried blood on his cheek and upper lip.

  “I was fighting for your honor, you inhuman whore!!” said Peter. “Because I know what’s going on under my . . . . “

  “Your bleedin’ nose?” said Julian.

  “Right. Oh, you’re so very witty!”

  Lily felt mildly betrayed at being the center of this slapstick. Of course, Peter would eventually speak up about her and Julian. But she assumed he’d speak up to her. Now, she felt outnumbered by the brothers. Even though they’d fought. Perhaps because they’d fought. There was now a private sibling energy between them.

  “I sort of wish you’d included me in this conversation,” she said.

  “It’s an Aiken family matter,” said Peter, primly. “This sort of thing has been going on for years. We have sorted things out. I’ve decided that he may have you, so long as you give me your firstborn. Done?”

  “Done,” she laughed.

  “I do so love a family matter.” Peter had gotten off the floor and back into bed, drawing up the quilt so that only his head popped out. It looked like a twin- handled jug, with flax sticking out from the top.

  “Can I give you a slap, too?” she said, wistfully. “I’ve always really wanted to.”

  Julian sat on Peter’s bed again. He had taken hold of his brother’s calf, through the spread, and was trying to take a bite out of it.

  “OUCH! Stop it instantly!” shouted Peter.

  “Lily,” said Julian, after he’d tired of his game, “you don’t know how much Peter deserves to be jealous of me and you. If you only knew the victories he’s had! ‘Peter’s so responsible.’ ‘Peter’s such a scholar.’ ‘Peter’s sure to get a double-first.’ ‘Peter’s sure to become a don.’ He was head boy at Harrow as well. Head boy! At Harrow!

  “By the way, Peter, do you know what Dad said when I saw him in Cannes?”

  “Don’t tease me. What?”

  “I told him you were doing a bit of acting, and he was amazingly proud of you. I’ve never seen him so proud. Kept rattling on about his acting days, and OUDS, and how he’d done The Canterbury Tales, and Volpone, and Moliere’s Don Juan, and Shakespeare under the stars in the Worcester College Gardens. Wanted me to tell him if you had talent.”

  “Really?” Peter’s face glowed. “Gosh!”

  “I told him you didn’t, of course. Didn’t seem to believe me. Kept grinning sort of stupidly, the way you are now. Said he might even pop over to Oxford and see you in a play sometime. If you can keep Mummy away long enough!”

  “You’re making the whole thing up! I can tell!”

  “I’m not.”

  “Gosh!”

  “Do you forgive me for being so much more lovable to les demoiselles ?”

  “I’ll think about it,” grumbled Peter.

  Julian began tickling him; then he tickled Julian. They broke down into helpless wheezing brays.

  “Say,” said Lily, “D’you want to go downstairs and get something to eat? I’m ravenous.”

  They were hugging each other, shaking with laughter; “Haaaah!” “Haaaah!”

  “Hey!” she said. “You guys, get a grip!”

  They ignored her for a minute. She was relieved and very happy when their arms opened up to take her into their circle.

  20

  THE KENDALLS had been invited to a New Year’s Eve Ball benefiting the parish. Plans had been fixed long ago, so now it was impossible to have Lily come along with the rest of the grown-ups. She would stay behind and watch Timothy. Lily said she didn’t mind. There was no choice.

  The family now readied itself. Archibald was rubbing a thin gel into his sparse grey hair to make it go flat above his ears. Then he combed it with a fine-toothed comb. Then he wiped the excess gel off the comb with a handkerchief, crumpled the handkerchief, and buried it in his baggy pocket. He wore a heavy black suit, a white shirt, and a frisky bowtie of Highland plaid. His shoes were spiffily buffed, and sported fresh laces.

  Helena’s stockings would not ride smoothly up her leg. Her nails had been freshly manicured and lacquered; she held her fingers stiffly so as not to ruin the polish, but could not thus manipulate the wrinkles from her nylon.

  “Archibald, help me, dear.”

  He was slapping “Eau Sauvage” on his jowls, a present from her. “Smack, smack,” went his face, like a naughty boy’s bottom. He mischievously pretended not to hear her, so cheery and vain did he feel.

  “Baldy!” she shouted, annoyed. (He hated any nickname, this one in particular.) “Now I’ve snagged it!”

  Julian knocked on the door. “J-just a minute!” panted his mother, as she ran about searching for her dressing gown. A moment later, he stepped in, awash in Lily’s rose essence. Archibald wrinkled his fleshy nose but said jovially: “Roses in winter, eh? Heh heh!”

  “But why haven’t you dressed yet?” said Helena anxiously, pulling her dressing gown closer together.

  “Archibald, you wouldn’t mind lending me a pair of cufflinks, would you?”

  This request charmed the man. He looked at Julian and saw, perhaps for the first time, his own Timothy grown to be a man. Humble and strapping was Julian, sheepish and ripe. Archibald blushed with pleasure at the sight of this handsome stepson of his.

  He pulled open a drawer with great ceremony and extracted a small velvet box. Inside the box were two identical pairs of golden cufflinks, each engraved with a Gothic “K.”

  “One pair is mine,” said Archibald, his voice rich and portentous. “The other is to be Timothy’s, when he’s a man. You may wear it tonight, if you like.”

  Julian dropped his eyes and gazed into the soft dark box. Helena watched with pride.

  “Which pair shall I take, then?” he quietly asked.

  “Either one,” said his stepfather. “They are as like as twins.”

  Julian plucked up one pair and closed his fingers around it. “Thank you,” he said. “It’s lovely. Peter will be green.” This flattered Archibald.

  “Well, hurry up,” said Helena, as her son left the room. “Heavens, look at the time.”

  Helena’s head got lost inside her billowing blue chiffon as she slipped it on. A clever quiver popped it out, and another slithered her slender arms through the long sleeves. The pale gown floated elegantly about her body now. She saw that she was still young; peering into the looking-glass, she was not disappointed. Helena sprayed herself thoughtfully with scent, stroking her earlobes, neck, her knees, and the valley between her breasts. Then she wiggled her hips at her husband, laughing at his surprise.

  “Let me kiss you, Archie,” she prettily said.

  He lowered his cheek to her mouth genially; she planted a kiss on it, laughing.

  “Oops, I’ve left a mark,” she said happily.

  It was a beautiful red bow on his clean-shaven jowl. Catching a glimpse of his reflection, he joined in her mirth, chuckling as he wiped his cheek with the heel o
f his hand.

  “We’re silly tonight, aren’t we, dear?” he said.

  “I so love a New Year,” said Helena, looking up at his face, still a bit marked.

  Later, as her feet obeyed the rhythm of her husband’s in a dance, Helena thought worriedly of that girl, Lily, prowling around her home, her bedroom, opening her jars and vials, trying on her clothes, sniffing about where she had no right to be. She did not share these thoughts with Archibald. Apart from the fact that Julian (unencumbered at last by her company) seemed to be thriving on the village maidenhood, she bitterly regretted having left the audacious girl to her own devices. That one needs watching, she thought. That one needs minding. I’ll bet she’s twisting on my sheets this very moment, dreaming of my boy.

  She watched Julian whirl across the dance floor, a garland of daisies (Nicola) in his arms. Nicola was throwing her head back, blond hair flying, face hectic with pleasure. Just dream, Lily, thought Helena, excitedly cruel. While here’s the very flesh and blood you dream of, dancing away from you, at a party, under my watchful eyes.

  21

  TIMOTHY, in his yellow flannel pajamas, lounged in the sitting room by the fire, with Whisk plumply perched at his feet. Archibald had set the radio station to BBC3 before leaving; this was their favorite. Classic after graceful classic, punctuated by the basso profundo of the learned moderator. Timothy, lolling sensuously on his back and lost in melodies, waggled his toes. He pulled at his thumb with his lips and caressed it with his tongue; the music cascaded over him. His eyes were open but he did not look at the ceiling at which they were aimed. Nor did he seem to take notice of Lily’s footsteps overhead.

  Lily paced between her own room and the master bedroom. She was tired of brooding on her bed about the party at which she had not been welcome. The pillager’s thrill that the house now provided diminished her sense of deprivation; now it was all hers. It took her a short while to work up the courage, but in the end, she lay on the Kendall bed, rollicking in the heady warmth of someone else’s parents. She felt uncannily at home there, as though she had been conceived and born on that bed; the mattress sprang from time to time under her weight as though nudging her in friendly recognition.

  She ran to Helena’s armoire, buried her head in the diaphanous pastels that sighed out perfume, and prayed to be adopted by safe, lovely people. What a sensation a mother’s touch was: the frocks felt like cool hands on her brow.

  Helena had been a beauty, a heartbreaking beauty. Lily found a photograph of her in a drawer: long fair hair, blown by a breeze, a strand licking the shadowy space between her lips. The hem of her filmy dress seemed to be dancing in the wind. She was waving and smiling, wistfully hoping for joy. Her smile was the smile of the ocean-faring, posing shakily as engines rumble below. Helena was actually standing on grass, her slender feet encased in Grecian sandals. A handsome man with a black mustache held her fast around the waist, grinning rakishly at the camera. The waist tilted into the arm that grabbed it; there was a charge there. He bore a devilish resemblance to Julian; he had the same presumptuous expression, the same chin erotically cleft and hoist aloft, the same pale eyes. Behind them stood the boys, Peter and Julian, one a fair and gap-toothed little boy, the other a plump toddler of about Timothy’s age. Julian leaned heavily on his father’s muscular leg, his arm gripped about the shin. He was looking up at his father adoringly.

  Timothy glared at her.

  “Stop it,” he said.

  Lily turned. Timothy stood in the doorway, his face clouded, his blond hair glowing in the hallway light. Lily froze, hand on the picture frame.

  “Why did you come upstairs?” she said, attempting to scold him.

  He remained as omniscient and silent as ever. He would speak when he felt like speaking. His eyes did not seem to waver or even to blink. She had trouble meeting his glance.

  “You eating and drinking too much! Greedy! Greedy! In our garden! Farmer McGregor come and eat you! Now you stealing Mummy’s things!”

  Timothy stared upward into Lily’s nervous eyes. He pointed straight to the door. His mouth opened wide, the mouth of a dictator at an amphitheater.

  “OUT!” he shouted.

  From the sitting room rose strains of melody, infiltrating the void left by Timothy’s silence. The music grew louder, clearer; she recognized it. Ein’ Feste Burg Ist Unser Gott. A Mighty Fortress Is Our God. Ours, as opposed to yours.

  “OUT!” he shouted again, his arm outstretched, pointing. The strong BBC chorale made Lily crazy. She felt dizzy.

  “No. You get out! You get out!!” Her own voice, wild, screaming.

  Timothy did not budge.

  “I tell my Daddy,” he said.

  She was terrified. Tell him that she’d been snooping, or that she’d told his little boy to get out? His face told her that she was guilty of every crime, on the earth, and into eternity.

  “Go ahead!”

  She shoved him toward the door, not thinking, not looking at him, as though to look at him would spell her annihilation. His pajama-padded feet had no traction whatever on the floor and he skated madly. He fell at the doorway, unhurt.

  “Oh my God, I’m sorry,” said Lily, stepping over to pick Timmy up.

  “No touch me,” he said, standing up by himself. Then he pushed her back into his parent’s bedroom. “Now stay there until my Daddy get home and he punish you.”

  “Hate you,” he added, turning and going back down the staircase.

  He took the stairs two feet at a time. Lily heard the final thump of his feet on the lower landing. She noticed the music downstairs again, an endless flotilla of waves and stops, of mouths and fingers. She stood in the bedroom, shaking with tears.

  Within minutes, it seemed, Julian was grabbing her. She thought she was dreaming; he towered over her. He kissed her, laughing and kissing at the same time. It felt impossible.

  “How did you get here—what are you doing here?” she finally managed to say.

  His body was freezing. He told her he’d walked. The ball was half a mile away. He had ice in his hair. There he was—it seemed so suddenly—white shirt, burning face, tumbling black hair, drooping lashes. Drunk.

  “I missed you so,” he sobbed out. “Oh, Lily.”

  “Is the party already over?”

  Then she looked at her watch. It was only about 10 o’clock.

  “Obviously not . . . . Obviously, I love you.”

  A shade of pain emanated from his mouth; his lips turned down on the word “you,” like a baby tasting something new, foreign. And a baby’s surprise that the sweet world bore so pungent a core. His eyes peered openly at her, wonderingly. She felt an overwhelming tenderness for him. His ornate bow tie, stiff shirtfront, the sharp crease in his trousers: these dressed his abandoned self, his love-tossed image.

  “Oh, Lily, Lily, if you should hurt me now, I’d die, you know.”

  They noticed their reflection in his mother’s mirror. They stared at the reflection for a long time.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said, a trifle sadly.

  They kissed again, and something passed between them, a painful intelligence each accepted of the other. Helena’s armoire was still hanging open, and Lily went to close it. The fragrant pastel frocks swung like censers as she buried her face in them impulsively. She crushed them to her body, inhaling the sweet sweat.

  Julian was just behind her, circling her waist. He pulled her away from the dresses; the armoire stayed agape.

  “What do you want in there, Lily?” he asked softly. “What do you want that I can’t give you?”

  The tenderness in his voice amazed her. She looked at him. “What do you need, Lily?”

  “Take me into your heart,” she said. “Take me all the way in and let me stay there.”

  She let him take her over to the bed. The quilted satin coverlet was cold against her thighs. Julian’s hands were up her skirt. He gripped her hips. Lily twisted luxuriously, finding each hard finger with her rolling flesh. />
  “Should I?” he said.

  They hadn’t yet; they hadn’t dared to, in this house.

  She opened her eyes. “But what if?”

  “I don’t care what they think anymore,” he answered.

  She felt him ease her skirt up, slide her legs open, and rest his heavy head between. His hair tickled the soft innermost parts of her thighs. She could feel his breath, acute, between. Close. He was staring into her blind center. Lily must have said something.

  “Hmmm?” said Julian. His voice was thrilling.

  She was thinking of Timothy coming in on this, seeing the two of them like this on his parent’s bed.

  “Timothy.” said Lily, slowly.

  “Timothy,” said Julian, “is all right. I just saw him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He didn’t see me. He was strutting about, down there, waving his fists madly, puffing his lips out, a regular dictator. He runs this house, you know. Got Archie wrapped around his finger.”

  Julian got up and tiptoed over to the doorway. He opened the door and leaned out, listening.”

  “Hear that?” he said. “Music. He’s conducting his chorus. His troops.”

  Julian listened for another moment.

  “No. Wait. Now he’s talking to old Archibald. ‘Daddy!’ ‘Daddy!’” he imitated the boy’s high voice. “Thinks he can call his Dad at any hour, day or not, and he’ll come running.”

  “Won’t he come upstairs?” said Lily. “He did before.”

  “He’ll get sleepy soon. We’ll find him on the couch when we’re finished.”

  Julian was back, moving his hands and his mouth over her.

  “He said he hated me, Julian,” she said. Julian moved in a steady, domineering way that excited her.

  “And they taught him to hate me.” As she spoke her eyes filled with strange, unbidden tears. What she was feeling, in his touch, was as strong as hate. As great. An antidote. Hate was washing away, conquered.

  “I’m going to show you what love is,” he said.

  “Can you?” she wondered.

  “Oh, I will try.”