William Kennedy - The Flaming Corsage

“The monkey was a collapsed doll, sitting on a high perch, and I hated it. I hit it with a handful of pumpkin and it came to life.”

“So the monkey ate the pumpkin. You’d best be careful today, Mrs. D.”

“I shall indeed, Mrs. Squires.”

She relished her food, the taste of bygone breakfasts, when her mother shopped and arranged the daily menu. As she swallowed a forkful of the creamy turkey hash the telephone rang in the hallway. She heard Loretta answer, heard her footsteps coming toward the dining room.

“Martin is on the wire from New York, Missus Daugherty,” Loretta said, and Katrina went quickly to the telephone.

“Martin?” she said into the mouthpiece. “This is your mother who loves you. Where are you?”

“A hotel lobby on Fourteenth Street.”

“Are you coming home?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“You should stop thinking about it and get on the train. Your father’s play opens in four days.”

“I know that, Mother.”

“Are you coming to see it?”

“That’s what I’m thinking about.”

“Martin, my sweet and only child, please stop thinking and make your decision. You no longer hate your father. You told me so yourself.”

“That’s right. I don’t hate him.”

“Then come and be with him for his play. It will be a momentous event.”

“For some people.”

“For more than you suppose. Now you must come, Martin. You can’t hide from the reality of your life. You must confront it and see what it looks like. Your mother insists. Do you hear what she’s saying?”

“I believe I’ll be coming.”

“You surely will?”

“I believe I will.”

“How very, very good that is. Oh how very, very good, Martin. I was afraid you’d fail me. Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

“I’m staying at Father’s apartment in the Village. I’ve just taken over the rental, as he suggested.”

“You’re such a sensible young man. I’m so proud of you, Martin, so proud. Have we finished with our talk?”

“I told you I would call.”

“And so you have. And I told you I would do all in my power to make the rest of your life as harmonious as possible with your father. I do mean that, Martin. I verily do.”

“I believe you do, Mother. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You’ve made me very happy, Martin.”

“I’m glad for that, Mother.”

“Then goodbye, my sweet boy. Goodbye.”

And she placed the receiver on its hook.

She went back to the table, her mind sprinting into the day ahead of her. She sat down to finish her breakfast, but she could not. She took one forkful of hash for old times’ sake, then went to the drawing room, where she had left her bag and her hat.

She stood before the mirror, primping, reimposing a straying hair. Her eye swept the reflected room behind her, the room she had created in her own image, and she saw herself unbuttoning Francis’s shirt, saw his hand cautiously moving down her shoulder to touch her naked breast for the first time, to touch her scar. Do you like my scar, Francis?

She shook the image away, took her new hat with the ostrich plumes off the table and put it on, pale-gray, wide-brimmed hat that matches her shocking dress. She centered the hat on her head, pinned it to the crown of her hair, which was still the color of the gilded mirror. Maginn, behind her, raised a hand to touch that hair he so worshiped.

“You didn’t deserve to have this happen,” he said.

He touched the shoulder of her dress, moved his face so close that she smelled the liquor on his breath.

“I saw it coming. Why would he do this to you?”

He touched her bare neck. In the mirror she saw the faces of persistent desire, and behind them the will to persistent desire.

“It should be enough for any man to make love to a woman like you. Having you in my arms is worth any amount of mayhem and murder.”

She let him turn her around, and as she did she saw the portraits of her parents staring at her. Why do you allow this slumcrawler to touch you, Katrina? Why do you even allow him in the house? Maginn gripped her arms and kissed her. When she could again see his face he was smiling.

“Shall we sit down?”

They sat on the sofa facing the fireplace and he held her hand in his.

“The anger must be consuming you.”

He put one hand on her thigh.

“I was in New York when it happened. I talked to a chambermaid who went in to clean his rooms one day and they didn’t hear her key. They were all in bed, making peculiar love. And Felicity was there. The maid knew her.”

He moved his hand between her thighs, spreading them, and with one finger began slowly pulling up her skirt.

“There are ways to reciprocate,” he said.

She turned away from the mirror and crossed the room to the fireplace. She picked up the black iron poker and walked back to the mirror and smashed it with the poker. Mrs. Squires came running from the dining room.

“Are you all right, Mrs. D?”

“Perfectly fine, Mrs. Squires. I broke the mirror. Will you tell Loretta to sweep up the glass and throw the mirror in the trash. Then move my father’s portrait into its place.”

“I’ll tell her right away.”

“I have to go to the bank and the theater. I’ll be back this afternoon.”

“Very good, Mrs. D.”

“The turkey hash was excellent, Mrs. Squires.”

“Like your mother made, was it?”

“Exactly like Mother made.”

Katrina looped the strap of her bag over her shoulder and left the house, her ostrich plumes bobbing as she walked.

IN THE MACDONALD photographic studio on Broadway and Maiden Lane, the studio favored by eminent Albanians, Katrina confirmed with the secretary her appointment for a portrait sitting. She sat down to wait and the secretary stared at her exposed ankles, one stockinged leg visible up to the shinbone.

“Is something wrong?” Katrina asked the secretary. “You seem to be staring at my dress.”

“Oh, nothing wrong at all, Madam. It’s a lovely dress. I’ve just never seen one like it.”

“Do you like it?”

“I wouldn’t have the courage to wear it.”

“That’s a very silly thing to say. One may wear whatever one chooses to wear.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Pirie MacDonald, the photographer who had established the studio, came out of an inner office in his tailcoat and greeted Katrina who shook his hand without standing up.

“Your secretary finds my dress unusual,” she said.

“Does she?” MacDonald stared at her legs, nodded. “Shall we go into the studio?”

He entered behind her and motioned her to a seat in front of a pastoral backdrop with a sky full of clouds. She shook her head.

“That will not do,” she said. “I do not want to be photographed with clouds.”

“Whatever you say, Madam.”

He moved the backdrop to one side, revealing a black backdrop behind it.

“Nor do I want blackness,” Katrina said.

“White, then?” And he moved the black backdrop aside, revealing the white wall.

“Do you have any yellow?”

“Color doesn’t show in the photograph, Madam.”

“But color is there, whether it shows or not.”

“It’s white or that’s it, I’m afraid.”

“Then let it be white.”

She sat in the chair he placed in front of the empty whiteness while he organized the placement of lights, creating the fall of shadow on her face. “When will the photo be ready?”

“Beginning of the week.”

“You’ll deliver, of course.”

“Of course.” He was under his focusing cloth, adjusting the camera lens. “You’ll want a torso portrait, I assume. From the waist up?”