This Body (16 page)

“It's really my sister who I'm asking for. She's fifteen. A hard worker, very focused.”

They did not look so pleased then, and Katharine could see Ms. Marcos framing some well-we-thank-you-for-your-kind-offer rebuff.
Katharine knew this was where Quince should be, so she recklessly added, “She can work two or three days a week, and she'd
be staying with me, just down the street. She could walk here.”

What the hell are you doing
?

The office manager eyed the other kennels that needed to be cleaned and agreed to hire Quince on a trial basis.

As they were walking back to the front room, Katharine felt compelled to add, “There's one more thing you ought to know.”
The other two tensed. “Quince looks a little different. I mean” — Katharine self-consciously put a hand through her hair —
“she has colored hair and a lot of earrings.”

They visibly relaxed. “Oh, that's okay,” Pepa said, waving it off. “The animals don't care as long as she's good. And like
Conrad here, I don't hire just ordinary people.”

“I think you'll really like it,” Katharine added lamely for the third time the next morning. Quince wasn't saying much as
they walked to the clinic, and Katharine couldn't tell what that meant.

She didn't have to worry long. As soon as Quince saw the puppies with their blunt little faces, butterball bodies, and mewling
voices, her tough demeanor melted. Pepa and Conrad watched Quince closely as she carefully made her acquaintance with the
mother. Only when the mother was comfortable and settled did Quince approach the puppies. Knowing looks were exchanged between
Conrad and Pepa, and Katharine felt like shouting, “Bingo. We've got ourselves a winner.”

Pepa explained to Quince the mutual trial basis, and she had to agree to be punctual, reliable, and hardworking.

One of the last Girl Scouts
.

“And I understand you'll be staying with your sister on the days you work here,” Pepa remarked as they were setting up the
first two weeks of her schedule, beginning Thursday.

Quince looked at Katharine, puzzled but hopeful. Katharine hadn't quite gotten around to mentioning that part to Quince.

If you ever were
.

“Yes, that's right,” Katharine conceded.

Come on, it won't be that bad. She's a nice kid
.

“Cool,” Quince said, and Katharine felt the downside tug of responsibility.

That afternoon, after she had dropped off Quince at home, Katharine drove down to Melrose Avenue, where, according to the
phone book, there was a profusion of art galleries.

The Ziegfeld-Zelig Gallerie, its logo two large intertwined Zs, was just off the main street. Its inside paid homage to its
humble beginnings as some sort of sweatshop, with tube railings on the spiral staircase, exposed steel buttresses, and skylights
with their metal-encased panes propped skyward.

The photographs along the first exhibit panel were all contemporary and were split evenly between color and black-and-white.
Most of them were either abstracts or landscapes, but there were a few documentaries.

She was halfway down the second panel when a gentleman approached her. He was in his mid-forties, dressed in pleated black
pants and a white shirt. His hair was pulled back in a long and luxuriant ponytail, one diamond stud in his left ear. He had
beautiful teeth and nice eyes, but Katharine figured later it was his manners that had made her pitch Thisby's exhibit. He
had taken her purse, her bag of Farmers Market bread and set them aside as if he were a butler. He brought her some good coffee,
and it tasted like Philip's. She missed being waited on.

She had not brought any of Thisby's work, nor had she planned to ask about exhibiting. She was going to appear only as a potential
contributing artist, but she found herself spilling her plan to him almost before they finished touring the gallery.

“So you'd like to have an exhibit of your own work, and you're willing to pay for it. Or at least,” Max von Mayerling corrected
himself as he noticed Katharine beginning to interrupt, “your father is willing to pay for it. Publicity included.”

“I know it sounds like my father is just paying for a hobby. Poor little rich girl. But the photos are good and local and
provocative. There's a surreal feel to them that's hard to explain” —
damn straight
— “but I think you'll be impressed.” She could see that he was interested, so she gave him Thisby's best smile.

“Okay, okay.” He smiled back. “I give up. Bring by some of your work.”

Katharine could tell he was humoring her — flirting with her, but humoring her.
Why didn't I bring any of Thisby's work? Stupid. But maybe I can convince him. Thisby would have been able to convince him,
I'm sure. I could try it, but nicely
.

“What's your name?” he asked.

“Thisby. Thisby Bennet. I really would like —” She stopped; something seemed to shift in him, but Katharine couldn't tell
what it was. There was certainly some sort of recognition, but she didn't know what kind. It made her nervous, and she could
feel a prickle of cold sweat between her shoulder blades. The smell of her strange self filled her nostrils.

“You're Robert's daughter? I know your father.” Katharine relaxed. “He may remember us more from our studio on Sunset Boulevard.”
He considered her again. “Did he suggest our gallery?”

“He doesn't even know I'm thinking about exhibiting.”

Max nodded slowly. “I think we can work something out. Can you come back tomorrow morning with your portfolio? Say, around
ten?”

“Sure,” she said hesitantly.
There's that portfolio again. Where would Thisby have put it
?

Katharine left feeling excited but a little guilty. Thisby's father's name had certainly turned the tide, but after thinking
about it awhile, Katharine didn't care. She didn't care if it was his name and his money that got this exhibit going. She
didn't even care how good Thisby was, whether she had been a talented amateur or something truly special.
It just doesn't matter
.

She was back the next day with Thisby's portfolio. She had found the large, zippered case propped up behind a filing cabinet
in the darkroom. Inside were twenty mounted photographs of varying sizes separated by large sheets of thick waxy tissue paper.
Thisby had signed the mats, and Katharine recognized the photos as the results of Thisby's tramps around the city.

…
I've been spending a lot of time at Venice Beach. Me and my friends. What a scene. One night we grabbed the flyers some asshole
born-again was passing out, the one who drags a cart behind him with the dummy in it. Weird shit. We preached to the tourists.
When we got some money we let the old chink man rattle his bones for us. He told me I was a bright hot spark but would be
extinguished soon. Fuck yes. Party hardy and leave a good looking corpse
…

…
the little black kids thought I was some reporter come to put their picture on the front page of the Times. They got in the
way of my shoot but then
…

…
the suits were out in force today. What empty architecture they wear
…

Max looked silently through the entire run, sometimes scrutinizing them with a magnifying glass. “You print these yourself?”

“Yes,” Katharine lied.

“Hmmm …” He shuffled a couple of them. “Some of these are good as is, but one or two I'd like cropped differently. This one,
for instance.” He held up a photograph of a squat structure made out of concrete blocks — a beach bathroom. There was a sandwich
board on the ground in front of the entrance,
PLEASE USE OTHER BATHROOM
. It was foggy, or maybe it was late. The sky was gray and so was the sand and the building and the man who stood at the side
with his back to the camera. There was a faint sheen to the wall in front of him, waist high, that dribbled down to the base
of the building. “If we crop abit more on this side, the pisser is even more diminished. Could be very effective. How many
have you pulled for the exhibit?”

“Oh, around one hundred and fifty.”

He laughed. “Archival-quality printed and matted? Like these?”

“Oh, no. Not like those.”
Like those
? How was she going to print them properly?
I doubt the local photo store is appropriate
. “Just ones my sister and I liked.”

“Okay. Well, bring them down, and we'll have a look.” He glanced up at her and grinned, humoring her. “One hundred and fifty
is a bit much. I mean, that's a lifetime's work, and you're not even dead yet.”

Katharine dropped her eyes. “But they're okay? You'll show them?”

“Absolutely. They're wonderful.”

“I think so too,” Katharine said wistfully as she looked at them.

They grow on you. Maybe I didn't like them at first but
…

She started. “I mean …”

“I know. I understand. Sometimes we wonder how we did it. It's like we were a different person. I think of it as a form of
divine inspiration, so when we're back in our own bodies, it's not from egotism that we compliment ourselves. We're complimenting
the inspiration that flowed through us for a time.”

She nodded as if she understood, and said nothing.

“So you've got twenty here, and another hundred and fifty to look through. How 'bout Friday?”

Katharine thought two days ahead. “Friday's okay.”

“Wonderful. Say, four o'clock. My assistant will be here by then.”

It had been an eventful week so far.
I bear a charmed life. Sort of
.

The goals she had set, the feats she had to accomplish, the promises she had made, the wheels she had set in motion, were
being realized. In order to be able to go home — when she was ready to go home — these things had to be completed. She had
found Quince a job, and she would have Thisby's exhibit.

It was almost scary how simple it seemed to be.

Act 2, Scene 6

Some of us are cursed with memories like flypaper.

— R
OBERT
S
TEPHENS
,
The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes
(1970)

Quince was over at eight o'clock the next morning. Katharine wasn't ready. She had thought she would walk Quince to the veterinary
clinic as if it were her first day of school, but Quince barely leaned in, dropped her overnight stuff by the front door,
waved good-bye, and said she'd be back around five.

Katharine felt hurt by this dismissal.

For God's sake, don't be like your mother
.

She had a flashback to her mother on the sidewalk in front of their house, watching Katharine walk the length of the street
to the corner. There Katharine would meet a classmate, and they would walk the rest of the way to school together. She remembered
the feel of her mother's eyes on her back. Katharine would have to physically stop herself from turning around. It always
felt as if her mother were right behind her; she could practically feel her mother's breath on the edge of an ear. Katharine
would walk straight ahead, without one unnecessary movement. Her arms hung straight at her sides, her hands keeping the lunchbox
and book bag from swinging, her head level. It wasn't that her mother ever said anything about her demeanor; she never did.
But Katharine didn't want her to see, didn't want her to mark any part of her. When she reached the corner and had to turn
around, she wished that once — just once — her mother would have already gone back into the house. But no, now it was Katharine's
turn. She had to watch and make sure her mother got to the front door and into the house safely, her mother's last little
wave another tug on the knot.

Katharine walked nervously into Mulwray's office later that morning. He had called the night before and said he had some information
for her; she had fretted and fidgeted ever since, as if she were truly awaiting the ghost dentist with his bite blocks and
drill bits.

This time there was a young woman dressed like a European model behind the sliding glass window. The desk in front of her
was clean.

Katharine gave her name to the receptionist, who picked up the phone and said into the receiver, “Miss Bennet is here to see
you.”

A voice bellowed from the back office, “Kelly, just send her back.”

Kelly stood up and leaned toward the window and Katharine. “My name's really Sabrina, but Mr. Mulwray says he calls all his
temps Kelly. Isn't that cute?”

“Darling.”

Sabrina let her in and escorted her back to the office. “Miss Bennet, Mr. Mulwray,” she announced at the doorway and turned
away.

Mulwray waved her in. Katharine could see all the furniture, and the files were in neat manageable stacks on the low bookcase.
He got up and closed the door behind Katharine and motioned her to one of the two chairs in front of the desk. He sat down
again and looked at the top file tab on a stack of folders at his right elbow.

“So” — he centered the file squarely in front of him —“preliminary information was rather easy to find, as you intimated.”
He lifted up the top single sheet of paper. “On Tuesday, June twenty-first of last year, at two twenty-two
A.M
., Katharine Rachel Ashley suffered sudden cardiac death.”