sacrificed any or all of them for her cat.
Or at least at moments she would have.
Soon after Linda’s return there is a small dinner party for some visiting old friends from New York, and at which Mary very much enjoys the sort of theatre gossip that she is used to: “But Maria’s always great.… I hear Edward’s new play is even better.… Poor Colin is really sick.… No, Gilbert’s still okay … they are not getting a divorce … the problem was that she loathed L.A.… I must say, you’re looking wonderful.…” She comes home in a mood of slightly wistful but pleasant nostalgia. She goes upstairs and finds Linda, as usual, curled on the foot of her bed. She pats Linda, who looks up, blinks, purrs briefly, and goes back to sleep. Soon Mary too is sound asleep.
She wakes an hour or so later, and at first she thinks, I should never have had that last glass of wine, I didn’t need it. I know I can’t drink red. But then she hears a scratching, rustling sound on her deck, which may have been what woke her up.
She gets out of bed, slowly puts on slippers and robe, noting as she passes that Linda is not there. She goes downstairs, flicks on lights—and there on her deck, lined up, are four raccoons, one large, three smaller. They keep a certain distance, and perhaps for that reason are not quite as threatening as they were before. They look both formal and expectant; they could be either judges or penitants—impossible to tell. Or, they could be asking for Linda. Demanding Linda?
Mary turns off the lights and goes back upstairs, where she does not find Linda anywhere in her bedroom; she even looks under the bed. She spends an anxious half hour or so in this search for Linda, at this ungodly hour, at the same time telling herself that this is ridiculous. There is no way that Linda could have gotten out; all the doors are locked, her bedroom window is only opened a crack. She also thinks: I cannot go through this again, I really can’t—as she calls out softly, “Linda, darling Linda, where are you?”
She at last finds Linda asleep on the studio couch in her study, a not unlikely place for her to be, though more usual in the daytime. As Mary approaches, Linda wakes and raises her head; she blinks and looks at Mary as though to say, This is the middle of the night; I was sleeping here quietly. What is your problem?
The next night, after feeding Linda, Mary is moved to put out a little food for raccoons, really for whatever creature wants it. She puts a little plate of dried kibble and one of water down in the garden, where she cannot hear if the plates are rattled.
And whether the impulse that moved her is one of simply nurturing or of a more complex propitiation, or some dark exorcism, Mary has no idea.
O ld L ove A ffairs
Mildly upset by a phone call, Lucretia Baine, who is almost old but lively, comes back into her living room and stares for a moment into the large white driftwood-framed mirror there, as though to check that she is still herself. Reassured, she smiles briefly, but continues to look at the mirror. In the soft, kindly lamplight—this is an early evening, in October—she is beautiful, still, even to her own harshly critical (large, green) eyes. But she knows perfectly well how she looks in her cruelly accurate bathroom mirror, first thing in the morning. Now, though, she looks all right, just upset; on the other hand, she may look better than usual. A little more color?
The disturbing call did not involve bad news; it was simply that Lucretia momentarily confused two men: Simon, whom she is crazy about (hopelessly, irreversibly, it seems), with Burt, who in his way is crazy about her. He loves Lucretia permanently, he says. Burt called, and just for an instant she thought he was Simon. Although she would have thought that two men more unlike did not exist, including their voices: Burt’s deep and friendly, Midwestern, and Simon’s very New England, Cambridge, slightly
Or at least at moments she would have.
Soon after Linda’s return there is a small dinner party for some visiting old friends from New York, and at which Mary very much enjoys the sort of theatre gossip that she is used to: “But Maria’s always great.… I hear Edward’s new play is even better.… Poor Colin is really sick.… No, Gilbert’s still okay … they are not getting a divorce … the problem was that she loathed L.A.… I must say, you’re looking wonderful.…” She comes home in a mood of slightly wistful but pleasant nostalgia. She goes upstairs and finds Linda, as usual, curled on the foot of her bed. She pats Linda, who looks up, blinks, purrs briefly, and goes back to sleep. Soon Mary too is sound asleep.
She wakes an hour or so later, and at first she thinks, I should never have had that last glass of wine, I didn’t need it. I know I can’t drink red. But then she hears a scratching, rustling sound on her deck, which may have been what woke her up.
She gets out of bed, slowly puts on slippers and robe, noting as she passes that Linda is not there. She goes downstairs, flicks on lights—and there on her deck, lined up, are four raccoons, one large, three smaller. They keep a certain distance, and perhaps for that reason are not quite as threatening as they were before. They look both formal and expectant; they could be either judges or penitants—impossible to tell. Or, they could be asking for Linda. Demanding Linda?
Mary turns off the lights and goes back upstairs, where she does not find Linda anywhere in her bedroom; she even looks under the bed. She spends an anxious half hour or so in this search for Linda, at this ungodly hour, at the same time telling herself that this is ridiculous. There is no way that Linda could have gotten out; all the doors are locked, her bedroom window is only opened a crack. She also thinks: I cannot go through this again, I really can’t—as she calls out softly, “Linda, darling Linda, where are you?”
She at last finds Linda asleep on the studio couch in her study, a not unlikely place for her to be, though more usual in the daytime. As Mary approaches, Linda wakes and raises her head; she blinks and looks at Mary as though to say, This is the middle of the night; I was sleeping here quietly. What is your problem?
The next night, after feeding Linda, Mary is moved to put out a little food for raccoons, really for whatever creature wants it. She puts a little plate of dried kibble and one of water down in the garden, where she cannot hear if the plates are rattled.
And whether the impulse that moved her is one of simply nurturing or of a more complex propitiation, or some dark exorcism, Mary has no idea.
O ld L ove A ffairs
Mildly upset by a phone call, Lucretia Baine, who is almost old but lively, comes back into her living room and stares for a moment into the large white driftwood-framed mirror there, as though to check that she is still herself. Reassured, she smiles briefly, but continues to look at the mirror. In the soft, kindly lamplight—this is an early evening, in October—she is beautiful, still, even to her own harshly critical (large, green) eyes. But she knows perfectly well how she looks in her cruelly accurate bathroom mirror, first thing in the morning. Now, though, she looks all right, just upset; on the other hand, she may look better than usual. A little more color?
The disturbing call did not involve bad news; it was simply that Lucretia momentarily confused two men: Simon, whom she is crazy about (hopelessly, irreversibly, it seems), with Burt, who in his way is crazy about her. He loves Lucretia permanently, he says. Burt called, and just for an instant she thought he was Simon. Although she would have thought that two men more unlike did not exist, including their voices: Burt’s deep and friendly, Midwestern, and Simon’s very New England, Cambridge, slightly
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