Tiny Little Thing (11 page)

W
hen I was about eight years old, my mother, in a rare fit of maternal attention—she must have been between lovers—enrolled me in my first ballet class. Why do you think? To make me graceful.

Actually, it was the three of us, me and Pepper and Vivian, but my sisters dropped out within a month. Or maybe they were kicked out. Anyway. They hated it, and I loved it: the discipline, the method, the way you had to combine strength with grace, science with art. The way you could, for a single soaring instant, set yourself free. You could articulate an emotion without saying a word. You could use your body, you could push and punish your muscle and bone and hone them into something magnificent, something that had purpose. Something that was no longer tiny but colossal. No longer delicate but strong.

I attended my last formal dance rehearsal on the morning of the coffee shop robbery, over two years ago, but I still practice sometimes, in my room, before any sort of significant performance: a wedding, a formal party, a photo call. On the morning I married Franklin Hardcastle, I spent two hours in a ritual of pliés and arabesques, pas de chat and grands jetés, until my nerves were taut and secure, until I knew I could do what I had to do that day, to secure my brilliant future. I still remember the pleasant pull in my hamstrings as I walked down the aisle, that familiar ecstasy of a rope that has been stretched too tight and finally allowed to relax. I really don’t remember the ceremony itself, except for the glint of the candles on Frank’s hair.

Today, at twelve minutes to five o’clock, dolled up in my strapless raspberry satin, gloved to the elbows, wearing my new diamond and sapphire necklace, stockings and makeup in place, matching raspberry satin pocketbook packed with lipstick and tissue and compact and a few sneaky cigarettes, I rest my hand on the back of the chair and arrange my feet in first position.

Frank drifts between bedroom and bathroom, getting himself ready. It’s a high-roller crowd tonight, and he’s dressed the part: black tails, stiff shirt. His white bow tie forms a pair of flattened white triangles under his chin. He stops in the middle of the room. His head is bowed over his forearm. “Can you do these cuff links for me? My fingers won’t behave.”

I rise from a plié and reach for his left wrist. “Nerves?”

“I guess so.”

“Don’t worry. They’ll love you. They always do.” I straighten the cuff and pat his hand. “Everybody loves you, Frank. You just have to show them the real you.”

“Whatever that is,” he mutters.

I lift my head. Frank’s face is turned away, but the expression there is entirely unlike the Frank I’ve always known. The Frank who knows who he is. The scent of cigarettes drifts from his clothes. His breath delivers a pungent fist of Scotch.

“Is something wrong, Frank?” I ask.

He looks at me, and the tension melts into a warm smile. “Nothing’s wrong, darling. Put those pretty shoes on. It’s time to go downstairs.”

Photo call at five. I don’t know if you’ve ever had the pleasure. You pose in front of a line of men (it’s almost always men) in your best dress, you freeze your body and your face into the preferred ideal, into the woman the world expects you to be, and let the flashbulbs pop away like the Fourth of July, capturing this frozen and artificial you for the eager consumption of the general public. It’s a real gas. God forbid you should overlook a wrinkle on your dress or your forehead.

They pose me with Frank first. I’m familiar with the drill by now. I tilt my body at the exact correct angle toward him and disappear my gloved arm into his. Chin down, shoulders back, stomach in. Don’t blink. Never, ever blink. The massive camera lenses point toward us like a cluster of erect phalluses, while the men behind them shout instructions—
To the right! A little more smile! Put your arm around her!
—and the flashbulbs make their ecstatic little explosions against my skin.

Beautiful,
shout the photographers.
Beautiful.

Frank’s father joins us, Hardcastles to the right and left of me, and then Frank by himself, solid and presidential, while I stand to the side with my father-in-law and long for a cigarette. “He looks well,” says Mr. Hardcastle, arms crossed and appraising, and then, “Oh! Hello, Cap. You’re late.”

Caspian’s voice, on the other side of my father-in-law: “You said six o’clock, sir.”

“You didn’t get the message? You’re wanted for the photo call.” Mr. Hardcastle nods toward the flashing bulbs. “Say hello to Tiny.”

“Hello, Tiny.”

“I believe Major Harrison prefers to
take
pictures. Not to
be
taken,” I say.

“Well. I guess my cousin-in-law knows me already.”

“It’s not a question of what Cap
wants,
” says Mr. Hardcastle. “It’s a question of what’s required.”

“Of course.” Caspian takes off his hat and smooths an unnecessary hand over his short hair. “Whatever you need, Uncle Franklin.”

Well, at this angle I can’t see much, and I’m not going to step out of line to get a better look at him, not if you offered me a priceless diamond-and-sapphire necklace. I can’t afford to lose my composure when the cameras are nearby. Still, there’s no avoiding the awareness at my periphery, the Caspian-shaped imprint on my senses. He’s wearing his dress uniform again. A few inches of his head rise above Mr. Hardcastle’s silvering hair. Some bit of gold braid on his hat keeps catching the explosions of light, and then casting its reflection on the sides of his large fingers. The constant soft pop of the bulbs can’t disguise the tone of his voice, which is low and genial.

I want to say, Where have you been for the past few weeks? Why did you disappear like that?

I want to say, The photograph. I know it wasn’t you. It can’t have been you, blackmail’s not your style, but in that case, how did the photo end up in a manila envelope, addressed to me? Who did you show it to? Who did you give it to? Why would you share such an unbearably intimate moment with someone else? Why would you not guard it against all other eyes, for my sake? Why would you betray me? When I trusted you.

“I hope we haven’t inconvenienced you,” I say. “I’m sure you have a thousand things you’d rather be doing.”

“Family first,” says Caspian.

Mr. Hardcastle holds up one hand. “All right. You’re on.”

“Hat or no hat?”

Mr. Hardcastle considers. “No hat.”

Caspian turns to me, hands me his hat, and walks toward the dais without a single hint of a limp. The hat is still warm from his head, even through the silk fibers of my gloves, and I hold it against my stomach and finger the gold braid.

By five thirty, the photographers are finished, and Frank’s campaign staffers step in to brief me. The donors are the usual mix of businessmen and wives, the prominent and the ambitious and the curious, the old guard and the rising middle, linked by money and a weakness for glamour and an evangelical faith in Frank. I know many of them already. A piece of cake. The reporter from the
Boston Globe
, now. Had I met him before?

“No,” I say. “Is he new on the society page?”

“He’s not on the society page,” says the staffer, a pretty girl named Josephine with startling auburn hair and streaks of dark mascara on her daring loop-the-loop lashes. She rims her upper eyelids with swooping lines of kohl for that catlike effect that’s all the rage. “He’s on the political beat.”

“Really? But this is a soft piece, isn’t it? The candidate and his wife at home.”

The other staffer, a young man in his very early twenties, shrugs his shoulders. “Wants to do his background, I guess. The business is changing. People want to know about the candidate’s life. Character, style, personality. People want mystique. The Camelot effect.” He checks his watch, taps it, and looks back up into my silence.

I say: “Well, I don’t suppose it makes much difference, as long as he knows the rules. Is he bringing his wife?”

“He’s not married.” This from Josephine, who is smiling at me. Smugly, I think.

“Are you familiar with Frank’s positions, Mrs. Hardcastle?” asks the young man. What’s his name? I’m supposed to be better at this. Stephen. That’s it, Stephen.

“Of course I am, Stephen,” I say. “You might be surprised to know that my husband and I discuss politics frequently.”

“It’s Scott,” he says, “Scott Maynard, and I’m sure you do. But just in case, I’ve prepared a brief for you. Very simple, one page, lays out the key points of the platform in clear language.”

“Thank goodness.” I take the paper from him, fold it into tiny squares, and tuck it into my pocketbook. “We wouldn’t want my poor little brain to be overwhelmed, would we?”

“We just want to make sure you’re up to date,” says Josephine. “Frank’s been on the road a lot, after all. You’ve hardly seen each other. In fact, that’s a question that might come up. The strain of campaigning on a marriage. You know the rumors about Jack Kennedy.”

Did I know the rumors.

“Well, I’m sure my poor little brain will find a way to answer that one, too, if you give me enough time to think about it.” I rise from the chair. My shoes are new and a little stiff, not quite molded to my feet. I feel like a mouse on stilts. “After all, Frank and I have been intimate for many years. We have such a solid foundation together.”

Scott and Josephine rise in unison. Josephine’s wearing an elegant dress, a short silver halter overdraped by a tent of shimmery translucent chiffon, and a pair of expensive diamond stud earrings, at least a carat each. Though the heels of her silver shoes are a fashionably modest inch and a half, she’s nearly as tall as Scott. “Perfect,” she says. “That’s exactly how we want you to answer.”

•   •   •

T
he
Globe
reporter arrives late, just after the salad is removed and the filet arrives under silver domes. He begs our pardon. He’s younger than I expect, fresh of face and sleek of hair, and the hand he holds out to me appears to have been manicured.

“A pleasure, Mr. Lytle. Don’t give it another thought.” I look up at his rather handsome face, his sharp hazel eyes, and think, This is a man I can do business with.

“A newsroom is a dangerous place to be when you’ve got a pressing engagement,” he says. “I hope I haven’t missed the speech.”

“No, we’re running late. You know how these things are.”

He nods at my neck. “Red, white, and blue. The patriotic touch.”

I glance down at my priceless new necklace, at the diamonds and sapphires hovering above the raspberry satin. “Isn’t it, though. Do you like it?”

He flips up his tails and takes the seat next to me. “I do indeed.”

I signal to the nearby waiter for wine—an excellent Bordeaux has just replaced the white Burgundy—while Mr. Lytle arranges himself. Frank’s still deep in conversation with his neighbor, the frosted wife of an extremely wealthy financier, who smiles and nods in rapture as he speaks to her. I glance across the table at Caspian, who has just turned away from some distant contemplation to catch my gaze.

“Have you met my husband’s cousin, Major Harrison?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure. Major Harrison? Congratulations. I saw the ceremony on TV. An honor to meet you.”

“Caspian,” I say, “this is Mr. John Lytle, a political editor at the
Globe
. He’s doing a background feature on Frank.”

Caspian catches my drift. He smiles, all toothsome and welcoming. Even Caspian knows what’s required at a moment like this. “Mr. Lytle. Welcome. You’ve come to the right place. I can tell you all his buried secrets, for the right price.”

Lytle laughs. “Music to my ears.”

By the time Frank steps up to the podium, we’re all pleasantly drunk and ready to laugh at his jokes, good and bad. In Frank’s case, of course, they’re all good. The dessert has been set, the cigarettes have come out, the lights are dim and alluring. Frank looks terribly handsome, up there with the microphone. Handsome and energetic. He speaks about taxes, about the importance of prosperity, about the necessity of ensuring a just society in which opportunity is the birthright of each and every citizen. He slides smoothly into the subject of Vietnam, the link between our national security and the threats to personal and economic freedom around the globe, and then he introduces Caspian.

As soon as Frank uttered the word
Vietnam
, Caspian took his cue. He laid his napkin in neat folds alongside his plate, took a last sip of wine, and rose to his feet. He stands now near the podium, at the perfect respectful distance, hands folded modestly behind his back. Attentive to Frank.

“. . . my cousin, of whom I believe you’ve all heard, or should have heard, Major Caspian Harrison of the Special Forces. Caspian?”

My God, I think, as Caspian strides to the podium, as he shakes Frank’s hand and turns to the audience. He looks seven feet tall, even though he isn’t. He looks like a warrior king, like he could snap the metal arm of the microphone in half and toss both ends like javelins into the crowd. He doesn’t belong here, he doesn’t belong in the same universe as these people. How had I forgotten that about him? Forgotten the magnitude of him, when seen from a distance.

Frank is an inch or two shorter. Caspian tilts his neck downward to meet the microphone. “Good evening. I’m honored to be here tonight, honored to have the opportunity to speak to all of you about my cousin Franklin Hardcastle, one of the best men I’ve ever met.”

The edges of my vision grow a little blurry, and Caspian’s image swims in the middle. I reach for my wine. At my side, Lytle crushes out his cigarette in the ashtray and leans into my ear. “Holy cow. He almost looks as if
he
should be the candidate.”

I pick up my raspberry satin pocketbook from the edge of my plate. “Excuse me.”

Outside, the air is still hot and stale, and the sun hasn’t quite set. I stand on the balcony, staring at the pinks and purples rimming the nearby rooftops, the square penthouse of the hotel itself, while I suck on my cigarette. The faint drone of Caspian’s voice drifts through the open door. I can’t quite pick out the words. There is applause, and more heroic low-pitched Caspian eloquence, and a final rolling thunder of clapping hands, scraping chairs, approval. Then Frank’s voice, briefly, and just as the cigarette burns out between my gloved fingers, the opening notes of the orchestra, to start the dancing. I drop the stub just in time and crush it under the square heel of my shoe.