Рита Браун - Rest In Pieces

31

It was her face reflecting back from the mirror, but Harry needed time to get used to it. The new haircut revealed those high cheekbones, full lips, and strong jaw so reminiscent of her mother’s family, the Hepworths. The clear brown Minor eyes looked back at her too. Like everyone else in Crozet, Harry combined the traits of her parents, a genetic testimony to the roulette of human breeding. The luck held in her case. For others, some of them friends, this wasn’t true. Multiple sclerosis haunted generation after generation of one Crozet family; others never escaped the snares of cancer; still others inherited a marked tendency to drink or drugs. The older she got the luckier she felt.

As she focused on the mirror she recalled her mother seated before this very mirror, paint pots out, lipsticks marshaled like stubby soldiers, powder puffs lurking like peach-colored land mines. Much as Grace Hepworth Minor had harassed, wheedled, and bribed her sole child, Harry steadfastly refused the lure of feminine artifice. She was too young then to articulate her steely rejection of the commercialization of womanness. All she knew was that she didn’t want to do it, and no one could make her. As years sped by, this instinctual rejection was examined. Harry realized that she thought she was clean and neat in appearance, healthy, and outgoing. If a man needed that fake stuff, in her opinion he wasn’t much of a man. She was determined to be loved for herself and not because she’d paid out good money to fit the current definition of femininity. Then again, Harry never felt the need to prove that she was feminine. She felt feminine and that was enough for her. It ought to be enough for him. In the case of Fair it turned out to be enough for a while.

In this respect BoomBoom and Harry represented the two poles of female philosophy. Maybe it was why they never could get along. BoomBoom averaged one thousand dollars each month on her upkeep. She was waxed, dyed, massaged. She was awash in nutrients which took into account her special hormonal needs. At least that’s what the bottles said. She dieted constantly. She thought nothing of flying to New York to shop. Then the bills truly rolled in. One pair of crocodile shoes from Gucci was $1,200. Sleek, up-to-date, and careful to cover any flaws, real or imagined, BoomBoom represented a triumph of American cosmetics, fashion, and elective surgery. Her self-centeredness, fed by this culture, blossomed into solipsism of the highest degree. BoomBoom marketed herself as an ornament. In time she became one. Many men chased after that ornament.

When Harry inspected the new Harry, courtesy of the strong-arm tactics of Miranda and Susan, she was relieved to see a lot of the old Harry. Okay, blusher highlighted those cheeks, lipstick warmed her mouth, but nothing too extreme. No nasty eyeshadow covered her lids. The mascara only accentuated her already long black lashes. She looked like herself, only maybe more so. She was trying to make sense of it, trying to like the simple suede skirt and silk shirt that Susan had forced her to buy upon pain of death. Spending is worse than pain, she thought; it lasts longer.

Too late now. The check had been written, the merchandise carried home. No more time to fret over it anyway because Blair was knocking at the front door.

She opened it.

He studied Harry. “You’re the only woman I know who looks as good in jeans as in a skirt. Come on.”

Mrs. Murphy and Tucker stood on the back of the sofa and watched the humans motor down the driveway.

“What do you think?” Tucker asked the cat.

“She looks hot.” Mrs. Murphy batted Tucker. “Aren’t you glad we don’t have to wear clothes? Wouldn’t you look adorable in a little gingham dress?”

“And you’d have to wear four bras.” Tucker nudged Mrs. Murphy in the ribs, nearly knocking her off the sofa.

That appealed to Mrs. Murphy’s demented sense of humor. She rocketed off the back of the sofa, calling for the dog to chase her. She dashed straight for the wall, enticing Tucker to think that she was trapped, and then hit the wall with all fours, banking off it, sailing right over Tucker’s head while the dog skidded into the wall with a hard bump. Mrs. Murphy performed this maneuver with a demonic sense of purpose. Enraged, Tucker’s feet spun so fast under her that she shook like a speeded-up movie. Around and around they ripped and tore until finally, as Tucker charged under an end table and Mrs. Murphy pranced on top of it, the lamp on the table teetered and tottered, only to wobble on its base and smash onto the floor. The crash scared them and they flew into the kitchen. After a few moments of quiet they ventured out.

“Uh-oh,” Tucker said.

“Well, she needed a new lamp anyway. This one had gray hairs.”

“She’ll blame me for it.” Tucker already felt persecuted.

“As soon as we hear the truck, we’ll hide under the bed. That way she can rant and rave and get it out of her system. She’ll be over it by tomorrow morning.”

“Good idea.”

32

“The meringue tarts.” Little Marilyn triumphantly nodded to Tiffany to serve the dessert.

Little Marilyn practiced nouvelle cuisine. Big Marilyn followed suit, which was the first time mother had imitated daughter. Jim Sanburne complained that nouvelle cuisine was a way to feed people less. Bird food, he called it. Fortunately, Big Marilyn and Jim weren’t invited to the small dinner tonight. Cabell Hall was, though. Fitz continually flattered the important banker, his justification being that three years ago Cabell had introduced him to Marilyn. Little Marilyn’s septic personality had been somewhat sweetened by the absence of her maternal unit, so she, too, showered attention on Cabell and Taxi.

“Tell Blair how you were nicknamed Taxi.” Little Marilyn beamed at the older woman.

“Oh, that. He doesn’t want to hear that.” Taxi smiled.

“Yes, I do.” Blair encouraged her as Cabby watched with affection his wife of nearly three decades.

“Cabell is called Cabby. Fine and good but when the children were little I hauled them to school. I picked them up from school. I carried them to the doctor, the dentist, Little League, dance lessons, piano lessons, and tennis lessons. One day I came home dog tired and ready to bite. My husband, just home from his own hard day, wanted to know how I could be so worn out from doing my duties as a housewife. I explained in vivid terms what I’d been doing all day and he said I should start a local taxi service, as I already ran one for my own children. The name stuck. It’s sexier than Florence.”

“Honey, you’d be sexy if your name were Amanda,” Cabby praised her.

“What’s wrong with the name Amanda?” Brenda Sanburne asked.

“Miss Amanda Westover was the feared history teacher at my prep school,” her husband told her. “She taught Cabell, me—she may have even taught Grandfather. Mean .” Stafford Sanburne and Cabell Hall were both Choate graduates.

“Not as mean as my predecessor at the bank.” Cabell winked.

“Artie Schubert.” Little Marilyn tried to recall a face. “Wasn’t it Artie Schubert?”