Deaths of Jocasta (5 page)

“Ants?” Joanne inquired, watching my contortions.

“Tree branch in pants,” I answered. “Shit,” I muttered under my breath, my shorts entwined with the magnolia.

Joanne was leaning on a branch, a smile playing about her lips. “I had no idea that I would be so well entertained,” she said, openly smiling now.

Enough was enough. I stopped fumbling. It was probably just a few expendable fringes that were caught. I planted both feet and pushed up again, intending to tear myself free. Instead, I was greeted with an ominous ripping sound.

“Shit, piss, and corruption,” I muttered. P.C. had a lot to answer for. I don’t like making a fool of myself, nobody does, but having Joanne witness it made my misadventures excruciating.

“Hold still,” Joanne said, still smiling, enjoying her role as onlooker and now rescuer.

She reached around behind me, attempting to find the offending bark. I felt her hand graze the top of my thigh.

“You do know where to get caught, don’t you,” she commented.

“Thanks, Joanne, you don’t know how much I appreciate your being here,” I answered.

“Pardon me,” she said, as she slid her other hand between my legs.

“Cat-rescuer rescued by intrepid police sergeant,” I made up possible headlines to distract myself. I was aware of the light brush of her hands against my thigh.

“There. Got it,” she said.

I glanced back at her. Her glasses had slipped down, revealing her eyes. We looked at each other. What passed, in that brief second, was an acknowledgment that we were playing at the edges of desire, unsure of which way to fall. If it had been a warm summer night instead of a bright, open day, perhaps she wouldn’t have moved away from me, pushing her glasses back up. And I wouldn’t have turned from her, straightened, and climbed away.

I wrapped P.C. around my shoulders. She chain-sawed in my ear as I started to clamber to the ground. Joanne was already there when I dropped the last few feet, P.C. barely acknowledging the landing. I unwound her tail from one ear, then lifted her off my shoulders and deposited her on the ground. Enough of this cat.

Joanne stood, not saying anything, but she never engaged in polite chatter. I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t think of any of my usual smart remarks. I turned to the tree, lifted my leg and braced a foot against it to brush off the bark and dirt that had lodged in the unruly fringes of my shorts.

Joanne put a hand on my raised thigh, firmly this time.

I saw what looked like Alex and Danny across the lawn. Joanne pushed up the fringe of my shorts, her hand higher on my thigh, then she stopped.

“It’s a bad scar, isn’t it?” she asked, tracing the outlines of the broken flesh with her fingers.

“Bad enough to up my score on the Butch-o-meter a few notches,” I replied.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, with a somberness and intensity that hit me harder than her desire had. “It should have been me.”

“Naw, you’ve already got one. Don’t horde gunshot wounds, Joanne, baby,” I answered lightly, backing away from her seriousness.

Alex, Danny, and Elly were crossing the lawn toward us. They were probably close enough to see Joanne’s hand on my thigh. Joanne glanced in their direction, deliberately leaving her hand where it was, too gallant to tarnish her apology by jerking it away.

Danny cleared her throat very loudly, thinking perhaps we hadn’t seen them.

“Are we interrupting something?” Alex called out jauntily. She probably knew Joanne well enough to know we couldn’t be doing what it looked like we were doing. Not to her face.

“Comparing bullet holes,” I explained to calm any prurient minds.

“Let me take a look,” Danny said as she came closer. “The only time I saw it, it was all bloody.”

I pulled up my pants leg, fully exposing the scar. Only then did Joanne drop her hand.

“Gather ’round all ye clowns,” I barkered. “Five cents a gander.”

“I’m not sure what to make of this, but I now know two women with gunshot scars,” Alex said. She put an arm around Joanne and rubbed the spot below her shoulder where her scar was.

“Probably means you hang around with the wrong type of women,” I replied as I rolled my shorts back down.

“In your case,” Danny couldn’t resist adding.

“Can you show us around?” Elly asked me, changing the subject.

My stomach grumbled. It wanted to show some breakfast around.

“Sure. If we can start at the kitchen,” was my reply.

“Haven’t you eaten yet?” Danny inquired. She was a morning person and usually up and breakfasted by eight even on weekends.

“No, I’ve been busy rescuing cats.”

“Then we’ll catch you later. I want to be outside on a day like today,” she said, making the decision for the group.

We waved good-bye. They headed for some of the trails in the woods, each couple arm in arm. I, with my grumbling stomach in hand, went kitchen-ward.

True to her word, Rachel had saved the beignet. I poured myself a large cup of coffee. It was too hot for the now warm day, but I needed the caffeine. Today would be a long day. I couldn’t expect to get to bed before three or four in the morning. Somewhere from the far side of the house, I heard the sound of a harpsichord—Emma, from the proficiency of it.

I washed the sugar off my hands and, taking my cup of coffee, went in search of the music. I quietly let myself into the music room.

It was Emma, playing what sounded like Bach, though I couldn’t name the piece. I sat down in a far corner, not wanting to disturb her.

She finished the toccata, then, without looking in my direction, said, “I’ve done it better, don’t you think?”

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” I said, sorry to have been so noticeable in my entrance.

“No comment on the music?”

“Perhaps you’ve done it better, but not by much,” I answered.

“An admirably diplomatic answer. How do your friends like it out here so far?” she asked, turning to face me.

“So far, they seem quite content. They’re out wandering in the woods right now.”

“Good,” she replied. “You know, this is the first time you’ve added any names to the guest list.”

“I guess.” It was. “Is it a problem?”

“No, of course not. I’m glad. You’ve always seemed so…contained. Aloof even.”

“Oh,” I answered. “Perhaps.”

Then a silence until she asked, “Do you have a lover?”

“No.” I took a nervous sip of my coffee. “No, I don’t. Not at the moment.”

“Recently?”

“Uh…no, not really,” I equivocated.

“Not really?”

“No…not really.”

Then another silence.

“I’ve known you since you were…what? Seventeen? True, we don’t see each other that often anymore. These weekends, Christmas, maybe my birthday. Special occasions. Every time I wonder if you’ll be with someone, but you always come alone.”

“I don’t want distractions at your birthday,” I cut in.

“Why?”

“You spoiled me. I have yet to meet a woman who’s as good a cook as Rachel.”

“I see you’re not in a serious mood this morning. But one more impertinent question and you can go back to your coffee. Have you ever been in love?”

I looked into my coffee cup, but no answers were there. “Yes,” I finally said.

Emma waited a moment more while I groped for some words to clarify. Yes, I’ve been in love. I am in love, but I’ve neither seen nor spoken to her in several months. Is that really love? All these thoughts jumbled through my head. I was too caught in a limbo of indecision—no, Cordelia’s decision, all out of my power—to know what to reveal.

Emma turned back to face her harpsichord, letting my answer satisfy for the moment. “What would you like to hear next?” she inquired.

“Some more Bach would be nice.”

She looked through some of her sheet music.

“‘Capriccio in B-flat Major,’” Emma announced. Then she turned to me for a moment. “You don’t know anyone who can waltz, do you? No, of course not, your generation hardly knows what a waltz is anymore.” Emma was talking so as not to dismiss me too quickly with music. “Herbert can, but I am somewhat reluctant to begin this gala evening as part of a male/female couple. It doesn’t quite set the right tone. Oh, yes, the capriccio.” She arranged herself and started to play.

I thought about volunteering myself. I could waltz. No, not really, I decided. A few years ago, my cousin Torbin had taught me. He was playing Ginger Rogers and needed someone to be his Fred Astaire. We had won first place, so I couldn’t have been that bad, but I had done little waltzing in the meantime.

Several of Emma’s friends joined us. When she finished the last piece, I thanked her for the concert. Then I left, avoiding the bustling kitchen. It was lunchtime, but I wasn’t hungry yet. I wandered around the lawn, checking the pond for any long, thin denizens, but found only a lone frog. I left him there. A few women were swimming; the pond would be crowded when people finished eating. The sun was warm and direct. I walked into the shade of the woods, the trees muffling the increasing noise from the swimming pond. I ambled through the forest, at times cutting between trails when I got tired of the paths.

Emma was right. In some ways I was an outsider, an observer, now wandering solitary in the woods rather than joining the gay laughter in the water.

I followed the stream that ran out from the pond down a gently sloping hill. There was a trail farther away, but I liked the trickle of the brook guiding me. The trees were decked in their rich spring green, the brown pine needles silent underfoot.

After the cloying suburbs where Aunt Greta and Uncle Claude lived, these bright, boundless woods had been a joy to hike in. When I had moved in with Emma, the limits of my life had changed dramatically, from a yard one couldn’t even run in, to a forest with no end in sight.

I spent the afternoon in the woods, occasionally coming close enough to see the house. Sometimes I stood absolutely still, waiting for a chance animal to come by. I caught sight of an opossum family, and, late in the afternoon, a doe. After I saw her, I turned back to the house.

The sun had dipped into warm rich amber summer tones, the transition time from afternoon to evening.

It was time for me to make myself presentable for the evening. If that was possible. In the upstairs hallway I ran into Emma. She was coming out of her room, dressed for the party. She looked, as she usually did, both striking and erudite, in a black silk outfit, her only jewelry a set of exquisite pearls.

“You look magnificent,” I said. “But you always do.”

She gave me a slight bow. “As do you,” she replied.

“Me?” I looked down at my well-worn sneakers. “I’m not even dressed yet.”

“You’ll look even better when you are. You’ve always had a…sort of animal glow to you. You know that, don’t you?”

“Me?” I repeated.

“Yes, you. I had to chase off the women with sticks that first summer you were here. Not always successfully. After that, I gave up.” She turned to go.

“Uh…Emma?” I called her back.

“Yes, dear?”

Now or never, Micky. “I can waltz.”

“You can? But can you lead?” she asked.

“My cousin Torbin, the drag star, taught me. Since he was in high heels, I had to wear the tux.”

Emma took a few steps back in my direction, looking me over. Then she started humming “The Blue Danube.” I bowed. She curtsied. Then I stepped to her, taking her left hand in mine and putting my other arm around her waist. She rested her hand lightly on my shoulder. For a panicked second my mind went blank. Then I remembered the steps, starting slowly, at first not in tempo with her singing, then I caught up. We must have made an incongruous pair, me in torn shorts and sweaty T-shirt, unsteady and awkward, Emma, cool and elegant in her flowing black silk, never missing a step.

For a moment we had it, a flow and sway, then I stumbled, couldn’t recover, and broke away with an embarrassed laugh.

“I’ll practice. I promise,” I said.

“You’ll be fine,” Emma replied with a smile. A brave smile, I thought.

I went into my room to change. And to practice. What have I gotten myself into, I wondered.

My outfit for the evening was simple and functional. Black tuxedo pants, with my gray cowboy boots for footwear. They were the dressiest shoes I had. My top was a white dress shirt, left open at the throat. And dangling silver earrings for the androgynous look.

I had gone over and over my half-remembered waltz lessons. I twirled a couple of times with my cowboy boots on to get used to the feeling.

I was interrupted mid-spin by a loud knocking on my door.

“Micky, dear, open up, it’s me,” a voice called out. “You’d better not be decent, because I’ll never forgive you if you revert to decency.”

“Just the person I wanted…”

But I opened the door and was cut off by the onslaught of Torbin entering with several wig boxes, a makeup kit, and a number of garment bags. Andy was following him at a safe distance, a bemused smile on his face.