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
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
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