This Body (36 page)

They had some good times. She snorted a few lines of cocaine, smoked a couple of iced cigarettes, but Katharine found that
she was not really interested in feeling wildly euphoric. She was interested in not feeling at all, and she liked the rush
to be slow and numbing —
and loud
.

He ended up dumping her after a couple of weeks.

They were at Potters. Katharine had arrived earlier and had already downed a couple of margaritas.
Well, margaritas of sorts — I'll have a slush margarita, hold the ice, hold the triple sec, bring the tequila with lime and
salt on the side, and I want you to hold the straw between your knees
.

She was propped up against the bar and clumsily lit a cigarette, watching the ring go up in smoke. She did that too now —
smoke. There had been no cough of surprise when she inhaled that first cigarette, only relief. She had always heard that nicotine
is the most addicting substance known to man, but no one told her how good it could taste.

Fuck you, Surgeon General
.

On into the evening, Katharine noticed that some young woman in tight jeans and three-inch heels, with boobs the size of honeydew
melons, had draped herself against Hooker's back as he was leaning over the pool table. She was biting at his earlobe, and
his elbow kept jabbing her in the tit as he practiced his stroke at the cue ball. They were laughing.

Katharine unsteadily got to her feet and grabbed the girl by her arm and yanked her off.

“Hey,” the girl protested, rubbing her upper arm.

“Why don't you go home?” Hooker said in precise tones to Katharine.

“I don't wanna,” she said, or that's what she thought she said.

Hooker nodded to one of his friends. “Take her home.”

When she woke up, Hooker was there, sitting on her bad. “You're boring me,” he told her, his voice strung tight with control.
“You used to be fun —
even when you were stoned or
drunk. Now you're just drunk.” He stood up and looked down on her with …

Disappointment. He's got the fucking gall to be disappointed in me.

“Don't call me,” he said bluntly.

He turned to leave, but she grabbed his pant leg and tried to think. “You can't leave me. You can't.” She held on tighter.
The panic grew in her. Tears choked her throat. She wanted to say to him,
Everything I love, I lose. I had a husband, kids. I lost them. I don't love you, but I thought I could keep you
. But no further sound came out, and she only tugged harder.

Hooker pulled away, rather gently, and left.

Emily and Hank Denton walked into the Zweimal. They caught sight of Quince, waved to her, and then gestured quickly to someone
who was entering behind them. Katharine was surprised that they had come. After Hooker had dumped her, she went out with True
a couple of times.
Hey, if I had no compunction about fucking TB's brother, why should I worry about my nephew? We aren't even genetically related
. But it had ended badly. True informed her that she wasn't the fun drunk she had been when she was younger and suggested
that she get some professional help. For his troubles, she had told him to fuck off.

Katharine saw Quince smile as she shook hands with the third person in the Denton party. Katharine was almost shocked to see
how pretty she looked. Had Katharine never noticed it, or had something changed, had something happened to Quince?

Yet another person moving on without me
.

Hank stepped forward to give Quince a hug, and Katharine had her first clear view of the stranger. Her mind sent Thisby's
heart leaping into her throat.

It's Ben. Ohmigod, it's Ben
.

She reached out to steady herself, found nothing, and stumbled. The Denton party and Quince turned toward her, and Katharine
thought she might faint or throw up. Emily gave her a tentative smile. Hank's was warmer. Quince's face was like granite,
and both Katharine and Quince watched Ben size up Katharine with interest. Quince's face almost solidified.

Katharine narrowed her sights to focus only on Ben. He looked so handsome, so mature, so tall, so grown-up, so like Philip
when she first met him, with his multicolored hair and hazel eyes. Her baby boy. But where were the torn jeans, the soiled
T-shirt with the hole in the back of the stretched-out neckband where the manufacturer's tag had been cut out — and part of
the shirt with it — because it irritated his skin?

Not there. His slacks were baggy, but they were intact and clean. The shirt was funky fifties, but it had a collar and was
buttoned all the way up. Katharine recognized him, but she realized that she didn't know him.

Katharine set her champagne glass down on a passing tray and walked toward him. She had dreamed about this so often, the reality
of it was surreal. She watched herself approach him from so many angles, she felt dizzy. From one angle she was so controlled,
she looked robotic. This was her own son, for God's sake. Didn't she feel anything? From another it looked as though she was
having trouble breathing. Why did she still care — considering how she had given up on her old life? Another part of her just
felt numb. She had no great expectations. The previous two close encounters with the other members of her family had not produced
any momentous results; her life had not essentially changed.

After scarcely returning the greetings of Emily and Hank, she was in front of him. “Hi, I'm Thisby. You must be Ben.”

“Ahh, the cause célèbre. How's the fifteen minutes been?” He turned to Quince and said, “Fifteen minutes of fame. An Andy
Warhol quote.”

“Gee, thanks for the explanation.” The edge in Quince's voice sliced right through his veneer, and Katharine could see how
thin and how freshly laid it was; he was trying on this aspect of his personality and seeing how it fit, just like the new
clothes.

She saw her own boy then and wanted to gather him in her arms. Pretty soon she was going to be crying. She
was
crying. Why had she drunk so much?

She stopped a waiter, lifted a glass, handed it to Ben, and then took one for herself. She took his arm and leaned into him,
feeling how his body compensated to take her weight. She steered him down a panel of Thisby's photographs. “Here, I'll give
you a personally guided tour.”

Quince kept up with them; Katharine could feel her.

Go away
.

“Marion says hi.” Ben directed this somewhat toward the both of them, but then said to Katharine, “She couldn't come down
this weekend. Some school thing. Homecoming float or something.”

“How is she?” Katharine knew she couldn't hide the wistfulness in her tone, so she didn't try.

“She's doing good. She's having a good year. She made the tennis team, third or fourth doubles.”

“Third,” Quince informed them curtly.

Some loud woman tried to waylay them, some relative by Quince's salutation, and Katharine deftly sidestepped her and allowed
Quince to run interference.

They pulled away from the sound of the gushing relative. “So, Ben, I've heard a lot about you.” Katharine dropped her voice
to imply intimacy.

“I've heard a lot about you too.”

“All good, I'm sure.”

He looked boyishly uncomfortable, and she laughed. God, she felt good. Wasn't life good? “It's okay. Sometimes it's fun to
be wicked.”

His reaction almost sobered her. He looked pained, and sad, and oh-so-guilty.

Katharine suddenly had a wild urge to pull down his pants to see whether he had gotten the tattoo he threatened Diana with.
She didn't do it, but then they talked about tattoos. They talked about a lot of things, wandering up and down the aisles
as if no one else were there. They talked about life and college and career.

And death
.

They talked a lot about death.

And his buttoned-down look.

They're related, you know
.

That buttoned-down look was for her. His dead mother. He thinks he caused her death. He thinks he was responsible. If only
he hadn't been fucking up. If only he had been more responsible. Had seen things from her point of view. Had seen what it
was doing to her. The stress on her heart. Then she would have lived. And he wouldn't have to carry around this guilt.

So he's trying to clean up his act. Stay on the straight and narrow. A good son. He is what he thinks his mother would have
wanted him to be. He's trying to be responsible, cleanliving, hardworking, and self-sacrificing. What mother could be unhappy
about that?

Me. I am
.

“So now I'm taking a couple of night classes to make up for the classes I fucked up when I was younger,” Ben continued, refusing
a third glass of champagne. “I'll graduate okay, but I'll have to go to community college before I can go to a four-year.
I'm working at a bank part-time, and hopefully next summer they'll give me full-time hours.” He stopped and stared at a photograph,
but Katharine could tell that he wasn't really seeing it. “I've got this chance to go to Wyoming next summer with a friend
of mine to work on his dad's ranch, but”— he turned to her —“I guess it's really just a stupid idea. I don't know, though.”
They walked on. “I know I'd be doing grunt work for a while, but I've always loved horses, and maybe I could learn something.
I've always wanted to be a cowboy.” He paused again. “But I guess it's just a stupid idea.”

A cowboy? I never knew this about Ben
. A quote skittered across Katharine's brain like a spider. “It is a wise father who knows his own child.”
Maybe Will got it wrong. Maybe there aren't really any wise parents out there
.

He finished talking, and she, unexpectedly — even to herself — lit into him. He might have thought she was nuts. She did kind
of go off. But how could she not? She'd seen too much. She knew too much. She'd felt too much.

“Your mother did not die for your sins.” She could feel him stiffen under her hand, but she squeezed back and leaned farther
into him. “She does not want your penance. You do not need absolution. Don't you know a life spent for someone else is just
an imitation of life?” She felt impassioned.
Because I believe it
.

Ben did not respond, and Katharine could feel a space growing between them. She did not know how to make him see, if he would
not look.

I'm trying my personal best here. Why go through all this if you can't tell someone, help someone go through it too? Are we
always doomed to go through it alone? What good does it do to be a parent if you can't help your children with the tough problems
in life? What good are you? Oh, it's easy when they're young. The advice is easy. Don't play in the street. Don't talk to
strangers. Don't run with sharp objects in your hand
.

They barely made a pretense of looking at the photographs, each of them inside their own thoughts.

Later on, it's all different. Don't you even dare think about drinking. But if for some unforeseeable reason you do, then
please feel free to call home. We'll be happy to jump in the car in our pajamas and come get you. No questions asked. No recriminations
.

And sex? Well, it should be enjoyed, but it can kill you. Wear a condom, insert a diaphragm, and wash up thoroughly afterward
.

Question authority … but not mine
…

God, she was doing it again. Giving advice. Was any of it any good? She had told Ben to follow his heart. Did she really mean
that, or was that just Thisby talking?
Thisby, who followed nothing but her own heart and wants and needs and desires and demands? Who had no regard for anyone else.
Who didn't sacrifice. Who didn't put others before her. Who didn't allow others to take advantage of her and then resent them
and send them spiraling away from her
.

She wanted to grab her head and twist it off, unscrew it like a bottle cap. She really was going crazy. All the simple truths
she thought she had captured in her life were splitting off and rearranging themselves. All the thoughts she thought were
only hers didn't seem to be following along the paths she thought they should take.

Who was she these days?

I am Katharine. I am a mother. I am a wife. I am Thisby. I am independent. I am alone. I am nobody
.

I'm afraid I am not who I think I am
.

They came around to the front of the gallery, where Emily and Hank were waiting for them. Katharine felt tired beyond time.
She couldn't see anymore. She couldn't think anymore.

Ben gently shifted her weight away from him, and immediately her body felt as if it were going to break through the floor.
“Thanks for the guided tour and the talk. Maybe I can call you the next time I come down. I'll be sure to send you a postcard
from Wyoming. Maybe I will go.” He gestured with his shoulder toward Quince, who was also waiting. “I gotta go. I promised
my sister I'd take her little friend out for coffee. You know.” He dug into his pocket for his keys, reassuring his aunt and
uncle that he knew the way back to Long Beach and that he wouldn't be late, eyeing Katharine to see if that made any difference
to her. The silence fattened between them. “Well, nice to meet you, Thisby. I hope to see you again.” He went over to Quince
and they left, Quince's grim little face lightening a bit as they walked out the door.

Hank chuckled. “There's good news waiting for Ben when he goes back up north. We got a call from his father tonight, but Philip
wants to tell Ben in person. Diana, you know, Marion's stepmother, is pregnant. She's having a baby.”

Katharine could feel the memory of the speculum being jammed into her vagina and the wrench of the screw to widen the opening.

“You'll feel pain now,” the doctor says, his voice reaming right through her body.

Her abdomen seizes up, and she screams.

“It's finished,” the doctor says.

She jerks her feet out of the stirrups, gets off the table, and stands up. She stands up, and she stands up in what she knows
is her own aborted fetus. The nurse is too slow to pull away the plastic sheet that the doctor scooped it out on. She doesn't
wince. She doesn't shudder. She doesn't do anything but walk on, ectoplasm stuck to the soles of her feet.