This Body (8 page)

“I need to talk to him. Unfortunately, right now,” Robert said.

Quince grinned, as if in anticipation. “The good fellow went thataway.” She pointed out the window toward the front of the
house.

Robert started out of the kitchen but then turned back. “I'll meet you two on the court in forty-five minutes. Quincey, you
and Puck against me and Thiz.”

Tennis? Does he mean tennis
? She used to play some women's doubles when the kids were babies and she had worked only part-time. She hadn't played for
years, unless she could call hitting the ball with Marion last fall when she was getting ready to try out for the freshman
team “playing.” “I don't … I don't …,” she started to protest.

Anne overrode her, “I think I saw some clothes you left in your room that would work. I think you can find everything you
need.”

Everything I need. But I need a lot. More than one room could possibly offer
.

Katharine found the monument that was Thisby's room. It was dark, shuttered up against the summer heat, and Katharine ran
her hand up the inside wall, flipping the switch. The light gave the room a staged look — a teenager's room as envisioned
by a mother. The clutter, the knickknacks, the whatnot, were all put away, neatly and symmetrically, the purple flowered wallpaper
matching the quilt on the white canopied bed and the cushions of the window seat. A place for everything and everything in
its place. Katharine knew the signs.

She stepped hesitantly to the windows, looking back toward the door, afraid that a cadaverous-looking housekeeper would suddenly
appear and hiss, “It's a lovely room, isn't it? The loveliest room you have ever seen. Can't you feel her in here? Can't you?
It's you who ought to be dead, not Thisby. Why don't you end it all and have done with it? Go on. Go on. Don't be afraid.”

Her hand was on the window latch. Through the slats, she had an unobstructed view to the brick patio below her.
Go on. Go on. Don't be afraid
.

She grabbed the shutter knobs and threw the blinds open, letting the sunlight in to dispel the phantoms.

Thisby's room was lined with photographs, mostly her own, mostly unframed — just tacked up. Katharine recognized faces she
had seen in the photo albums in TB's apartment: the girlfriend Maxie, the dog Snout, the boyfriends. There was a photograph
of her parents taken many years ago; the caption read “UCLA Drama Department.
A Midsummer Night's Dream
, Spring 1962.” Robert was crouched over a sleeping Anne. He was holding a sprig of what looked like heather.

On the bookshelves were a few stuffed animals: Gizmo the Gremlin, Chewbacca, E.T., but there were mostly books, and most of
them by Shakespeare.

She reads
?

There was a massive
Shakespeare: The Complete Works
in one volume, a leatherbound set of the tragedies, the comedies, and the histories,
The Quotable Shakespeare, Shakespeare's Insults, Acting Shakespeare
, the Arden edition of
A Midsummer Night's Dream
, the Twayne's
New Critical Introduction to A Midsummer Night's Dream
, the Cambridge edition of
A Midsummer Night's Dream
, and the Arbuthnot children's edition of
A Midsummer Night's Dream
. This one she pulled off the shelf, and it fell open to the Cast of Characters. Handwritten at the side was “To my Thisby
Flute, May our love for this play be imparted to you as well. Love, Dad (the first Puck).”

Oh, God, I get it now. Puck, Thisby, and Quince. We've all been named after Shakespeare characters in
A Midsummer Night's Dream.
No wonder Quince talks like she's in a costume drama
. Katharine pulled out her list of names from her back pocket. Snout the dog had his namesake in the play too.
Poor animal. Even he couldn't escape
.

She found a small carry-on bag and packed the
Complete Works
, which weighed a ton, then included a book called
The Quotable Shakespeare
, which arranged his most memorable lines by topic.
Maybe I can match Quince quote for quote
. She flipped a few pages. “Death once dead, there's no more dying then.” Sonnet 146.
Shakespeare got it wrong, though, didn't he
?

She decided to continue collecting, so she ransacked the desk set and found a diary, the word
MEMOIRS
printed in gold letters on the cover. The little brass catch was locked, but she easily forced it open with a pair of scissors.
She glanced at it quickly and threw it into the bag.

She was just starting through the dresser when there was a pull on the door. A moment later she heard, “Let me in. Let me
in. Or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down.”

At least she quotes something besides Shakespeare
.

Katharine unlocked the door, and Quince fell into the room. She glanced around, saw the bag, and peeked into it. “O you thief.
You canker blossom.” She paused. “The stuff to hock is in the living room.”

“I'm heading there next.”

Quince flopped onto the bed. She was wearing long shorts, a ragged T-shirt, and expensive-looking tennis shoes. “You're not
ready for the great match.”

“I got sidetracked.”

“So I see.” Quince looked around the room at the pictures on the wall. She got up and studied one closely. “I miss Snout,”
and she turned sideways so Katharine could see that she had been looking at a picture of the shaggy dog Katharine had seen
in Thisby's photo book.

“I never told you this, but after Snout bit you and Dad sent him away, I was furious at both of you. You probably don't believe
that I remember it, but I do.”

Katharine nodded noncommittally and said nothing. This seemed to irritate Quince.

“I do remember. I loved Snout. He was my best friend. He'd come into my room when I'd get home from the hospital and sit by
my bed. I remember. When I was around seven or eight, I rode my bike up Coldwater and tried to find him. I spent the whole
weekend. I called and whistled, but I never found him. And you don't even live here anymore, and they still won't let me have
a dog.”

Katharine didn't know what else to do but keep nodding her head in a circular motion, neither definitely up and down nor side
to side.

Quince turned away and after a bit sat down on the end of the bed again. “So, when can I come live with you?”

Oh, God
. “Quince, I've been pretty sick.”
That old excuse again
?

Quince immediately looked hurt and pissed off. “So, what's that got to do with it?”

A voice rose up the staircase. “Come on, girls. Let's go.”

Quince slowly rose and tugged at the ends of her shorts. “Let the games begin.”

“Tell him I'll be down … anon.” Katharine sounded ridiculous to herself, but Quince didn't hesitate in response.

“Anon.”

It was the only Shakespeare Katharine knew. She remembered it from Franco Zeffirelli's film
Romeo and Juliet
— Juliet harking to her maid, “Anon, nurse,” while kissing Romeo one more time. She obviously was going to need to know more
than that to survive in this family.

Katharine followed the sound of someone hitting a tennis ball against a backboard. Beyond a pool and a sea of grass was only
—
only
? — one court. Puck was volleying sharply against the forest green plywood backboard. He looked very good.

Maybe this isn't such a terrific idea
.

Quince was pulling a racket from a cabinet that was hooked onto the outside of the fence; she then bounded onto the court
to Puck's side. Watching Quince bounce about caused tears to pool behind Katharine's lower eyelids. How like Marion Quince
revealed herself to be. Half child, half young woman. And able to somersault from one extreme to the other.

Robert Bennet took the other side and immediately started hitting the ball to Puck and Quince. Katharine was encouraged; Quince
was not very good, and hopefully, Thisby wouldn't be expected to be much better. She opened the cabinet, and there were three
rackets to choose from. She furtively tried the grips of all three — they all felt wrong — and took the last one in default.
She walked onto the court and at the side bench carefully retied the tennis shoes she had found in Thisby's closet. Quince
continued to be silly.

“Concentrate, Quincey,” her father said rather irritably.

I see that he can get away with calling Quince “Quincey.” What is it about fathers that they can do what mothers can't?

Quince hit a ball into the net and raced to pick it up. “My legs can keep no pace with my desires.”

Her father responded seriously, “Question your desires, know of your youth, examine well your blood.”

Quince stuck her tongue out at him, which he did not or chose not to see.

Puck was silent.

Katharine's apprehension grew.
I can't keep this up. I'll be unmasked
. She waited a moment longer and then forced herself to stand, hitching up the overlarge shorts. She moved into the forehand
court, and Thisby's father almost reluctantly moved over to the backhand side. A ball rolled to Katharine's feet. She picked
it up, bounced it, and sent it rather feebly over the net, though well within the court. Quince did not hit it back. Did not
even try. She and Puck were staring at her. Katharine jerked her head and saw Thisby's father staring too.

Jesus Fucking Christ. What have I done wrong now? I just hit the goddamned ball over the net. What, Thisby never hit a ball
over the net before?
Her anger crosscut to panic. She searched frantically for clues to their surprise. She felt her brain begin to clot; soon
all would be lost. Seconds seemed like hours — their questioning looks, time immemorial. Katharine looked at Thisby's father
standing with his racket at his side … his left side. Katharine looked down at Thisby's arm, her right hand holding the racket
and dangling at her right side. Katharine felt the proverbial lightbulb click on above her head.
Oh, my God, Thisby was left-handed
.

She started to fabricate some godawful story when Robert Bennet said, “Great Scott, Thisby, this is amazing. I never knew
you could do anything right-handed. You never showed any signs of being ambidextrous before.”

“It just happened,” she said lamely.

“I wonder if there is any medical precedent for this.” He stopped to consider. “I'll have to ask Bev the next time I see him.”
He frowned sorrowfully, but it was feigned. “We were the only lefties in the family. Now I'm the only one left.” He smiled
again. “Pun intended.”

So much for strangeness. I suppose the truth that some body snatcher has invaded your dead daughter would be a lot harder
to swallow than Thisby's waking up one morning having switched the dominant side of her brain
.

“Ready?” Robert Bennet asked, and when the others nodded, he spun his racket. “Thiz, I'll serve,” which was just fine with
Katharine.

The match was a disaster. Quince refused to be serious. Her father refused to lighten up. Puck was silent, mostly playing
the ball at his father. Katharine was too shook up to concentrate on the game. She was also exhausted. To move became agony,
and she could feel slick sweat packing her face like a beauty aid.

She and Puck were facing each other across the net. He glanced at her, then stared. He held up his hand to stop Quince from
serving. “Thiz, are you all right?”

The sound of genuine concern surprised her into the truth. “No,” she croaked and lowered her racket. His solicitude seemed
to tilt the court, and she slid off the edge.

They got her to one of the chairs by the pool, and Puck knelt in front of her.

“Her body's a passable carcass,” Katharine heard Quince say.

Puck draped a wet towel over the back of her neck.

“Thisby never could take the heat,” Robert Bennet declared.

Katharine saw Puck's jaw twitch.

Robert really doesn't want to get it, does he
? This irritated her. She wanted to slap him out of his preferred blindness.
Your daughter needed help, needed some control exerted over her, and you didn't do it. Did you
? “I think it's more the years of abuse,” she said louder than she had intended.

Puck shot her a look of surprise. Thisby's father ignored the remark and looked behind him.

Anne Bennet was coming around the hedge in a swimwrap, carrying a towel. She took in the scene and hurried over. “What happened?
Is she all right?”

“I'm fine,” Katharine answered. “I just overdid it. I'll be all right in a second.” She gently pushed Puck's hands away. “Thanks.
I'm okay now,” she told him.

He moved back. The other members of the family hovered around her until Anne waved them away and pulled up a chair beside
Katharine. Soon Quince was dunking Puck in the deep end, and Robert Bennet had stretched out with eyes closed in a lounge
chair.

“They like each other,” Katharine said wistfully to Thisby's mother, indicating Puck and his sister. A montage of images of
Ben and Marion flicked on and off in her brain.

“Puck can always get Quince worked up. You two used to be like that,” Anne Bennet added.

Us two? Thisby and Puck
? That was hard to imagine. Katharine could feel only animosity from Puck. It was a tangible dislike that slapped her in the
face whenever she came near. Then she remembered the photographs in Thisby's earlier albums and the ones on the wall in the
upper hallway. There had been a time when they had been friends, buddies, pals, cohorts. Something happened. Sibling rivalry,
certainly. Maybe it was Quince, but Katharine figured Thisby was the instigator. She was the one who pulled away. Maybe Katharine
could patch things up.

She got up and stood at the edge of the pool. “Can I join you?” she called.

“Gee, Thiz,” Puck said, looking up at her and letting Quince out of a headlock, “my lifeguard badge expired last year. I wouldn't
count on me saving you. How 'bout you, Quince?”

“Me? Hercules couldn't save her. She sinks like a navy.”