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.”
“You gott deathwish or something, Lady Ophelia?” Puck dunked Quince, and she came up sputtering. “I'm finished, you little
squirt,” he said. “I've got some things to do.” He executed a jacknife under the water and swam to the other side of the pool.
Quince stroked to the other end, reciting as she went, “She chanted snatches of old tunes till that her garments, heavy with
their drink, pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay to muddy death.”
Katharine watched them enviously; she really had loved to swim. But she somehow knew that Puck and Quince were right — although
this body was thin, it was dead weight in water.
It would sink like a navy
. Katharine could remember, though, when she was young, cold mornings at the pool, steam hovering over the water like fog,
the soft slap of flip turns and muffled voices, the lane lines bobbing against the wake. Swimming was the only time she ever
felt light.
Fuck 'em
— and she turned around.
With sudden clarity, she realized that swear words were appearing like teleprompted lines in her mind. She used to swear before
she had kids — not a lot, but enough to decide to stop swearing, to even think in swear words, when Ben was born. She always
hated to hear children swear, and she felt she should be a good role model. In the last couple of years, she had heard Ben
swear like a longshoreman, and she had even heard Marion use expletives, but Katharine had practiced abstinence so long, she
hadn't regained her fluency. Now it seemed so easy to swear.
Too easy
.
She moved to a lounge chair on the other side of Anne Bennet and lay down.
“So tell me,” Thisby's mother said lightly. “Who's the current beau?”
Katharine always asked questions. Philip had cautioned her never to ask questions she was unprepared to hear the answers to,
and she tried to be circumspect, but she often felt in desperate need to ask questions. Even when it felt as though she couldn't
stop herself and, therefore, should stop herself, she asked, “Where are you going? Where have you been? Who are you going
with? Is your homework done? How are you paying for that? What happened to the last five dollars I gave you? Who's driving?
Do I know her? When will you be home?”
Katharine could tell that Anne Bennet really didn't want to know but couldn't help herself either.
I remember that perverse desire to know the worst
. “No one,” and Katharine hoped to God that this was true. She didn't know exactly what would happen if or when the current
beau — maybe it was the guy who had left all those messages — showed up, but she knew he wouldn't be current for long. Not
that she had had any experience at dumping guys. She was dumped once, right before she met her husband.
Ex-husband, I guess I have to say. I am an unmarried woman. We were never legally divorced, but I guess death is the ultimate
form of divorce
.
“Thisby. Are you all right?”
Katharine focused back and saw that Anne was leaning across the space between them. “Sure. I'm fine.” Anne sat back in her
chair.
If only that were true. If only Anne could truly believe it
.
? 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.”
“You gott deathwish or something, Lady Ophelia?” Puck dunked Quince, and she came up sputtering. “I'm finished, you little
squirt,” he said. “I've got some things to do.” He executed a jacknife under the water and swam to the other side of the pool.
Quince stroked to the other end, reciting as she went, “She chanted snatches of old tunes till that her garments, heavy with
their drink, pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay to muddy death.”
Katharine watched them enviously; she really had loved to swim. But she somehow knew that Puck and Quince were right — although
this body was thin, it was dead weight in water.
It would sink like a navy
. Katharine could remember, though, when she was young, cold mornings at the pool, steam hovering over the water like fog,
the soft slap of flip turns and muffled voices, the lane lines bobbing against the wake. Swimming was the only time she ever
felt light.
Fuck 'em
— and she turned around.
With sudden clarity, she realized that swear words were appearing like teleprompted lines in her mind. She used to swear before
she had kids — not a lot, but enough to decide to stop swearing, to even think in swear words, when Ben was born. She always
hated to hear children swear, and she felt she should be a good role model. In the last couple of years, she had heard Ben
swear like a longshoreman, and she had even heard Marion use expletives, but Katharine had practiced abstinence so long, she
hadn't regained her fluency. Now it seemed so easy to swear.
Too easy
.
She moved to a lounge chair on the other side of Anne Bennet and lay down.
“So tell me,” Thisby's mother said lightly. “Who's the current beau?”
Katharine always asked questions. Philip had cautioned her never to ask questions she was unprepared to hear the answers to,
and she tried to be circumspect, but she often felt in desperate need to ask questions. Even when it felt as though she couldn't
stop herself and, therefore, should stop herself, she asked, “Where are you going? Where have you been? Who are you going
with? Is your homework done? How are you paying for that? What happened to the last five dollars I gave you? Who's driving?
Do I know her? When will you be home?”
Katharine could tell that Anne Bennet really didn't want to know but couldn't help herself either.
I remember that perverse desire to know the worst
. “No one,” and Katharine hoped to God that this was true. She didn't know exactly what would happen if or when the current
beau — maybe it was the guy who had left all those messages — showed up, but she knew he wouldn't be current for long. Not
that she had had any experience at dumping guys. She was dumped once, right before she met her husband.
Ex-husband, I guess I have to say. I am an unmarried woman. We were never legally divorced, but I guess death is the ultimate
form of divorce
.
“Thisby. Are you all right?”
Katharine focused back and saw that Anne was leaning across the space between them. “Sure. I'm fine.” Anne sat back in her
chair.
If only that were true. If only Anne could truly believe it
.
Similar Books
