Tiny Little Thing (22 page)

“I know what you’re going to say,” she went on. “You’re right, I guess. I shouldn’t just jump from one man to another. And yes, you’ll be off to the other side of the world in two weeks, and yes, I don’t really know you, and what happens if you don’t come back, and what happens when you do. That’s all true. But you’re
not
taking advantage of me, Caspian. I just want to make that clear. It’s the other way around. I saw you and I wanted you, I think I even loved you, yes, I
do
love you. I’m thoroughly in love with you, you can’t imagine how much. Since I first saw you in the coffee shop, and now more, because you turned out even better than I dreamed. And I want to drive to California with you, like we said, and I want to drive across the country as your lover.
Not
your friend, your lover. I’ve been a good little daughter and a good little sister and a good little student and a good little girlfriend and a very,
very
good little fiancée, and I just want to leave all that behind and be your lover, no, I want you to be
my
lover, be my good little lover, and let the rest of it, everyone’s ideas of what I
should
be, go to hell. I want to jump to the other track before it’s too late. Before I wind up as someone’s good little wife. Someone’s perfect little fucking wife. Smiling for the camera.”

He released the counter and touched her hands, which had crept around his waist.

“This is the switching point, Caspian,” she whispered in his shirt. “This is me, switching tracks.”

“I guess that’s one thing to call it. A new one on me. We could start a new slang.
Let’s go back to my place and switch tracks.
”

“Unless you don’t want to. In which case, I’ll just grab a blanket and sleep on your sofa. But I think you want to.”

Want
to.

“I’m just trying to do the right thing here. What’s best for you. That’s all I’ve been trying to do, since you first showed up on my doorstep in your red fucking dress.”

“Oh, I see. And has it ever occurred to you, Mr. Noble Intentions, that I just
might
be able to decide what’s best for me, all by myself?”

Cap turned, and luckily the light wasn’t on, and she was dressed in shadow, or the sight of her face might just have obliterated him. Her hands linked behind his waist, strong as chain, and she leaned back as far as she could. Looking up at him. Smiling, probably. Jesus.

“I mean, really,” she said. “This is the twentieth century.”

And there it was, a snap in his chest, the audible noise of his best intentions cracking in half and cracking again, a chain reaction of thick cracks causing hairline cracks, causing the whole goddamned works, the whole vast machinery of his human willpower, to crumble downward into his abdominal cavity, where it lay pretty much useless.

He wrapped his hands around the back of her head. “And you’ve decided this is what’s best for you.”

She nodded her head against his fingers.

“This is what’s best for me.”

He leaned down and kissed Tiny Schuyler, right in the middle of her waiting mouth.

T
he car lies in the driveway like a sleek black shark, a Cadillac coupe. The tailfins are neat and sharp, and the top is down to absorb the noontime sun.

Pepper whistles. “Ooh, I hope it’s a guilt present from Frank.”

I think of my sapphires and diamonds, tucked away in the bedroom safe. “I think he’s already given me one.”

“There’s always room for another. A philandering husband is the gift that keeps on giving.”

I wipe my greasy fingers on my handkerchief and tuck it into the pocket of my dungarees. Back in the shed, Caspian is still hard at work, absorbed in the inner workings of the Mercedes-Benz engine. Pepper and I have promised to bring him back a sandwich and a cold Coke from the icebox. “I don’t think so,” I say. “He just gave me a new car a few months ago.” When I told him I was pregnant again.

“Visitors, then?”

I look down at my stained dungarees, my smeared shirt. “I hope not.”

“Let’s go in the back door, just in case.”

But we’re no match for Granny Hardcastle’s five senses, which might be fading individually but still form a powerful sucking vortex when they rotate in synchronous orbit. Whether it’s the sound of the door, or the vibration of the floorboards, or the hot ocean breeze wafting briefly through the air, Granny calls out, as we turn the corner to the staircase: “Tiny, darling! I have someone I’d like you to meet.”

I exchange looks with Pepper. “Do you mind if I freshen up first?” I call back.

“I’m sure what you’re wearing is suitable.”

Pepper lays a hand on mine, atop the newel-post, and speaks in a low voice. “Want some backup?”

“Go on ahead. I’ll be fine.”

“Call me if you need me,” she says, heading for cover up the staircase, and I smile up after her, because my God, we do have our differences, but isn’t it reassuring to know a Pepper is right there when you need one?

The French doors to the terrace are shut tight, protected by thick striped awnings, and the living room is cool and dark. A man rises from the chair across from Granny, medium in every detail: medium height, medium brown hair, medium round features. I wonder if I’ve met him before. He has a face you couldn’t remember. I hold out my hand. “Good afternoon. Tiny Hardcastle. Forgive my appearance; I’ve been outside.”

“Mrs. Hardcastle.” He smiles a medium smile. “A hot one out there, isn’t it?”

I brush back a tendril of hair from my temple. “Yes, it is. Would you like a cool drink?”

He gestures to the table next to his chair. “Already have one, thanks.”

“Tiny,” says Granny, “this is Dr. Keene. An old friend of the family. He’s one of the best psychiatrists in Boston.”

I look at Granny. I look back at Dr. Keene.

“I beg your pardon?”

Dr. Keene goes on smiling relentlessly. “Your grandmother is too kind.”

“She’s my husband’s grandmother.”

“Yes, I know that. Your father-in-law suggested I stop by.”

I settle myself on the arm of the sofa and arrange my hands together in the crease of my thighs. The fabric is tough and durable beneath my fingers, making me feel just a bit more tough and durable all over. “Did he? I can’t imagine why.”

“He thinks you’re under some strain, my dear.”

“Oh, really? That’s very kind of him, really, but I’m sorry to have put you to any trouble. I don’t require a shrink, at the present time. A
drink
, from time to time—my God, don’t we all—but not a shrink.”

“Tiny, really.” Granny is horrified.

Dr. Keene remains on his feet, studying me. Still the gentle professional smile. “It’s all right, Mrs. Hardcastle. Many patients are resistant to treatment. It’s a sign, in fact, that treatment is needed.”

“Well, that’s convenient,” I say.

“Now, Mrs. Hardcastle.” He means me, not Granny. “There’s nothing to be scared of. I’m here to help you, believe me. Think of me as a friend of the family. That’s what I am, after all.”

I rise from the sofa arm. “I don’t need any help. I didn’t ask for any help.”

“You don’t have to do anything. Just sit down with me for a bit. Maybe we’ll take a drive in my car, get some fresh air.”

“It’s a lovely car,” says Granny.

I glance out the front window to the black Cadillac coupe, lying like a shark in the driveway. The chrome at the tips of the tailfins reflects the high noon.

“That’s all right. I have my own car.”

“Then let’s go talk somewhere. Somewhere you feel comfortable, Mrs. Hardcastle.”

“We’re talking. I’m comfortable.”

“You don’t look comfortable at all, Mrs. Hardcastle. You look anxious and upset. If we talk, I can help you. I can write you a prescription, maybe give you a few days’ rest somewhere.”

“I was resting just fine out here, until you walked in.”

Dr. Keene turns his head to exchange glances with Granny.

“Tiny,” says Granny, “why don’t you take Dr. Keene upstairs to your room? He can examine you, maybe give you some pills.”

“I don’t want any pills.”

“You prescribed me something wonderful, didn’t you, Dr. Keene? When my husband died.”

Dr. Keene takes a step toward me. “Your father-in-law says . . .”

“My father-in-law can go to hell.” I fold my arms across my chest.

He nods at my elbows. “You’re putting yourself in a defensive posture. That’s not necessary, I assure you—”

“I don’t want you near me, Dr. Keene. I certainly don’t want you in my bedroom. In fact, I’d like to ask you to leave.”

“Are you certain of that, Mrs. Hardcastle?”

“Quite certain.”

Another glance at Granny. “I’m afraid I was instructed specifically not to leave without treating you, Mrs. Hardcastle.”

“This is my house,” I say. “You are here at my pleasure. Not my father-in-law, not my husband’s grandmother. I’m a grown woman, and I can make my own decisions.”

“I hope you won’t make this difficult, Tiny,” he says, in an even, lyrical voice that should sound soothing, and instead strikes my ears like a threat. He takes another step toward me, and his stance is that of a predator.

I hold my ground. “I’d like you to leave, Dr. Keene.”

Granny lurches to her feet. “I knew it! Dr. Keene, you’ve got to do something. You see what we’re talking about. She’s not herself, she’s—”

“Please be quiet, Mrs. Hardcastle, and let me handle this. I’ve encountered this kind of resistance many times.”

I’ll just bet you have, I think.

I check the angle to the staircase, to the back door, to the front door. The house feels hollow, empty, as if Mrs. Crane has left, as if the entire complement of Hardcastle family and retainers has melted into the floorboards. The hairs are rising on my neck.
Get away,
my brain screams.

“Again, Dr. Keene.” Somehow my voice remains calm. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Another step forward. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Tiny. I have my orders.”

“Mrs. Crane!” I call out.

“I gave her the afternoon off,” says Granny.

“Dr. Keene—”

A body appears at my elbow, out of nowhere, accompanied by the scent of fresh perfume and an air of crackling purpose.

“Excuse me. What seems to be the problem?”

“Pepper.” I turn to my sister in relief. Backup. “Dr. Keene, this is my sister. Dr. Keene is a
psychiatrist
, Pepper. He was just leaving.”

“No, I—”

Pepper thrusts out her hand and grasps that of Dr. Keene, almost before he can offer it. “Why, Dr. Keene! I’m so sorry to miss you. A friend of my sister’s is a friend of mine.”

“I’m sorry, Miss—?”

“Schuyler. Pepper Schuyler.” She keeps her hand in his. Covers it, in fact, with her other hand, which is long and slender and tipped with scarlet. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think Pepper’s hands are purely decorative. “I’m a special assistant to a certain senator in Washington, the junior senator from the great state of New York. You’ve heard of the senator, surely? He used to be attorney general of the United States. Just imagine that. The nation’s tip-top lawyer, and, boy, does he love a good fight.”

“Of course I’ve heard of the senator.” The good doctor alternates his gaze between the two of us.

“You were just leaving, Dr. Keene?”

He tugs at his hand. Pepper doesn’t let go. I glance down, and there are her scarlet fingernails, curling into the tender underside of his wrist. My God.

“Dr. Keene?” she says. “Or should I call up my boss for a friendly chat?”

“That’s not necessary,” he says. “I can return at a more convenient time.”

I clear my throat. “See that you do. Down, Pepper.”

My sister releases the medium Dr. Keene. He sighs, straightens his cuffs, and turns to Granny, whose face has turned a bright shade of Palm Beach pink. “Mrs. Hardcastle?”

“I apologize, Dr. Keene, for the behavior of my . . . my . . .”

“Think nothing of it, my dear.” He picks up his jacket from the back of the chair and pats each pocket. “In fact, I believe I’ve learned a great deal from the hostility of the patient’s response.”

“What? What have you learned?”

Dr. Keene finds his keys and slings his jacket over his shoulder. “I recommend the most absolute quiet. She should be encouraged to remain in this house. In her room, if possible. I should go so far as to say that she shouldn’t be allowed to leave until I return.”

“Return? I don’t believe I invited you back,” I say.

But Dr. Keene is already heading for the door. He pauses with his hand on the knob and looks back at me, smiling benignly. “Forgive me, Mrs. Hardcastle. As I understand it, I don’t require your invitation.”

•   •   •

P
epper opens up the icebox and takes out the pitcher of iced tea, made fresh that morning by Mrs. Crane and still swimming with lemon slices. She pours it into one of the two tumblers sitting on the scarred wooden counter. “You want something stronger in that?”

“No, thanks.”

She hands me a glass and clinks it with her own. “You’d think they’d renovate.”

“What?”

She gestures her head to encompass the wooden counters, the free-standing cabinets, the enamel Hotpoint electric range resting on its curling Victorian legs. “Probably a hit at the St. Louis World’s Fair or something. Not even the Schuylers would put up with a kitchen this old.”

“It confers prestige, I suppose, if you can’t find it anywhere else.”

“Prestige schmestige. Let’s go outside.”

It’s Wednesday, low tide, and the sand bakes under the sun. The beach is wide and hard. Three of the wives are huddled in their folding chairs, under an umbrella, while a few kids splash in the surf nearby. I angle away from them, toward the jetty, where the boats bob untended at their moorings, waiting for the men to return, or the teenagers to stir themselves.

“You need to get out of here,” says Pepper. “You just need to leave.”

“I can’t just leave.”

“Why not? You’re like fucking Hamlet. Pull the plug. Get the hell out. I’ll help. I’ll pack your bags for you.”

I keep walking, down the length of the jetty. The sun burns my skin; the condensation from the lemonade trickles over my knuckles.

“So you’re just going to stand there and take it?” says Pepper. “Let them lobotomize you? Pat you on the head and give you a bottle full of happy pills?”

I reach the end of the jetty, set down the lemonade, and pull off my sandals.

“Jesus,” says Pepper. “You’re not going to jump, are you?”

“It’s not that simple, Pepper.”

“I hope the hell not.”

“The thing is, it’s not so bad, is it? Playing along. I’ll bet ninety-nine percent of women would trade places with me in a heartbeat. Ninety-nine percent of women surveyed would just love to be Frank Hardcastle’s wife. If he wants to screw around with a pretty girl or two, why, they’d just turn their heads away. Look at all this.” I wave my sandals at the beautiful hard beach, the gray shingles of the Big House, the windows twinkling in the sun. “It’s mine. The good life.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Frank’s a good man, Pepper. He could even be a great man. He just has a weakness, that’s all. He loves me, he really does. He’s called me every day, he sends flowers. He’s worried sick.”

“Then why doesn’t he come out here himself, instead of sending the family doctor to lobotomize you?”

“That wasn’t Frank. That was his father.”

“What’s the difference?”

“A hell of a difference.” I turn to face her. I imagine I can feel Granny Hardcastle’s gaze through one of the windows, staring at us, watching my every tic. “Frank’s father went through this. His wife left him, and that’s why he never ran for office himself. He couldn’t stand it if the same thing happened to Frank. The end of everything.”

“Then little Frank Junior should have kept his naughty pants zipped.”

“You don’t understand. If I left Frank, if I divorced Frank, they’d find a way to ruin me. This Dr. Keene today. He’s the shot over the bow. The warning shot.”

“Screw them. Screw their warning shots. Live in infamy. Infamy’s a hell of a lot more fun than this, believe me.”

I shake my head. “That’s what I used to think. It looks good, until you’re there. And then you realize what they’re saying about you, you realize how many people you’ve disappointed, how selfish you’ve been. How you’ve failed everyone.”

“I don’t give a damn about that.”

“Well, you’re Pepper. And I’m Tiny. And I care. I just
care
. I can’t help it.” By now, there are tears trickling down from the corners of my eyes, and I don’t try to stop them. “I can’t help it, Pepper. I just don’t have it in me. I tried once, and I don’t have the strength to disappoint them. Not in the end, I don’t.”

“Who’s them?”

“
Them?
It’s
everyone
, Pepper. It’s you and Vivian and Mums and Daddy. Frank and Granny and Constance and
everyone
, people I haven’t even met, people who walk down the street and read newspapers and see pictures of me and think, oh, she’s not that pretty, look at her nose, she’s too skinny, she’s not skinny enough, she’s too tall, she’s too short, she’s stuck up, she’s stupid, she’s in it for the money, I hear he cheats on her, I hear she cheats on him, I hear she sneaks out for a smoke, I hear she’s a Goody Two-Shoes who never took a puff in her life. Everything. Everyone. You don’t know what it’s like. You don’t know what
shame
is like. I’ve tried not to care, Pepper. I’ve tried so hard. But I can’t help it.”