Floundering in the dark, I gathered candles from the office stash since the orange cord did not power my destination. A candle lit my way past dead people in portraits as I climbed the stairs to the second floor, holding on to the rail to keep from falling. At the top, I sobered, remembering where I was and entertaining second thoughts. By the time I found the door I sought, my second thoughts had receded, replaced by surging desperation of pain. Plunging into disaster felt so much better than lame suffering.
Inside, my candle illuminated the Romeo and Juliet poster taped to the wardrobe door, assuring me I'd found Sixby's room. I placed candles strategically, the floorboards creaking as I relocated myself to another time and place in a different body. It wasn't me doing this. Removing Willis's jacket, I buried my face in the fabric, taking a good hit of his masculine scent before placing the folded jacket on a wicker chair. And then, rather than picture the engaged couple walking home together, I sat on the iron bed, once painted white, and unlaced the ribbons around my ankles, removing my slippers. Instead of imagining their good-night intimacy, I peeled the knee-highs off my legs and swept a dead fly off the covers.
My Jane Austen worked on another list in the candlelight: "The Bad Men in Lily's Life," and there, at the top of the page, I read my father's name. Yes. I'm so glad someone finally had the courage to call a spade a spade. I wanted to see whose name followed. Willis? Surely not Martin. But I'd never seen My Jane Austen so dim and I worried she'd grow too faint to finish the list.
I unfastened Bets's dress and by the time I laid the spotted muslin on top of Willis's jacket, My Jane Austen had completely vanished. For the first time since my arrival at the literary festival, I felt her absence. Not her cup of tea, this. Heedless, I placed my short stays, shift, and pantaloons on top in a neat pile, wondering if My Jane Austen was mad at me for doing this. She'd never faded away like that before. I couldn't help it; I'd drunk too much wine. My fingertips ice cold, I shivered, catching a glimpse of my naked torso, candlelit in the cracked dusky mirror over the chest of drawers; the word sacrifice came to mind, the image of an Aztec maiden preparing for her death.
You see, Willis, I said to myself, I'm not thinking about you at all now, as I pulled down the bedspread and climbed between the sheets, wondering when they had last been changed, reminding myself not to think realistic thoughts. Waiting, I studied the shadowy molding on the ceiling, decoding patterns in the water spots like Madeline in her hospital bed. Footsteps in the hall indicated my wait was over. As I listened for the final approach and watched for the turn of the shiny black knob on the yellow door, the footsteps passed and all sounds stopped. After that, I wondered what had happened but my thoughts drifted, and for a while I forgot where I lay, thinking about my mother and what she would say if she saw me like this.
When the door opened at last, it took a moment to remember what I was doing there.
"Ah, who is this?" Sixby's voice sounded playful.
Silent, my eyes closed; my heart beat. I craved the feel of his body on me, heavy and obliterating. Take me away, I pleaded silently, longing to fold myself into his arms and let him help me deny what was happening. Sixby carefully lifted the covers and found the answer he expected from the evidence on the chair. "The right idea, Lil, but the execution's all wrong. Let's take it from the top."
I opened my eyes and sat up, pulling the covers up to my neck.
"I'll be back in five minutes," he said. "Put all your lovely clothes back on and sit in the window seat. When I come in, you don't say a word. Here's the scene: We're in the drawing room and your husband is visiting a sick tenant in the neighborhood. We have very little time before he returns." He spoke quickly, as if he was directing an experienced actress, but his audible breathing gave him away.
"Can't you be my husband?" I asked.
"That would ruin everything, my dear." Sixby smiled, a hyped look in his eyes.
I let the covers slip, exposing my naked breasts in the candle glow, attempting to break through his fantasy; I didn't care for the story in his head; and didn't particularly want to end up there. But my naked breasts did not break his enchantment and he left, pulling the door shut behind him. Alone again, dressing myself, I marveled he had been working up to this.
Sixby didn't look at my face. His hands moved over my dress, his eyes boring into the fabric illuminated by candlelight. Was his fantasy supported solely by the drape of my muslin? Neither of us had removed a single item of apparel from either body, duly noted by the dear departed, watching from sepia portraits suspended from high moldings. Sixby knelt between my knees, the hem of my skirt still touching the floor, his head resting against my fully clothed bosom; I was a body in a dress.
I watched the table, wardrobe, chairs; the hole where the wall had settled leaving a crack large enough to reach through, where tendrils of vines grew inside like the bedroom in Where the Wild Things Are, one of my childhood books. Sixby's hands bored under my skirt and I felt him touching my actual legs. He did need my flesh after all. But he changed course and his hands returned outside my dress again, gripping my waist. From my position, I could see nothing but darkness out the window.
I would not have guessed there would be no dialogue in our love improv and the bed would be an unnecessary prop. Sixby bit my breast through the dress. It hurt; the nipple area had less protection than other parts of my body. Then Sixby's arms reached behind me and up my back. His hands grabbed my shoulders from behind and his head burrowed into my bosom. He held me so tight my body left the seat of the chair, but I could think of nothing except the image of Willis and Philippa turning to each other. And then Sixby dropped me abruptly, fumbling with his Regency buttons, releasing himself, burrowing into my skirt. He thrust himself against me, saying, "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
I began to cry as Sixby rested his head in my lap, his breathing slowing to normal.
"And what would you like, Lil?" He looked up and noticed my wet cheeks.
"Is there a menu or something?" I asked.
Sixby's head rose from my lap. "Are you hungry?" He backed away from me, confused, adjusting his clothing. I had no desire for further debasement with Sixby. I sat up now that his weight had lifted. Hearing noise in the hall, Sixby looked toward the door, wanting to get out, but knowing it wasn't the right thing to want at that moment. I could have made it easy for him since I wanted out as badly as he, but I'd never seen him stuck in an improv situation and I wanted to watch. Was he a vampire, too? Sucking the superficial out of people, never connecting with the soul? I couldn't spend another ten minutes of my life with this person—odd how I'd found him attractive before meeting Willis.
"Do you want to get something to eat?" he asked, confused by my menu remark.
"We just had dinner," I said impatiently.
"Are you sure?" He knew from my tone he could push safely, appear to care.
"Yes, I'm sure we just had dinner." Fully dressed, there wasn't much for me to do in order to walk out. I stood and put my arms through Willis's jacket. "Good-bye, Sixby."
He looked up from his seat on the floor. "Good-bye, Lily." And then, "I'm sorry."
"Oh, nonsense," I said, taking a candle.
"About your dress."
"Oh, that." The muslin was now spotted, indeed.
Proceeding directly to the attic, shielding the flame of my candle, despair took hold when I saw the exposed brick of the stairwell and smelled the musty rot. Wood stairs creaking beneath my feet gave comfort and the darkness recalled evenings with Willis, the moon in the window.
I lay down on the cushions in the window seat, grateful for their familiar greenness, and gazed out the window into the darkness. Then I sat up and stared out the window and listened to the small night sounds. My Jane Austen was not there, either. A draft extinguished my candle while I moved Willis's table and chair back to their regular summer places. I sat looking at them in the almost darkness, growing thirsty from the effects of the wine.
Perhaps it would rain. The idea that I could collect rain-water on the roof led me to try the door, hopeful that no one had bothered to lock it. Pulling on the rope, the stairs responded, unfolding like always. Climbing to the top, I pushed the trap door open, exposing myself to the cool night air, thankful the breeze was not so strong at night.
The world from the roof looked different in the dark. I sat on the tar and stone mixture and let it cut into my palms. Then I lay down on the stones, curling my legs up to my chest, protecting my head from the stones with my arm. When it began to sprinkle, I covered my face with my other arm. I'd done this before.
I'd held a yard sale to finance the purchase of my airline ticket before coming here. Late on the afternoon of my sale, I was hauling more junk out to the yard when my friend Lisa parked her Saab behind a pink Mary Kay Buick. Sympathetic Lisa, who'd met me in the office stairwell for details and tears after my termination, had come to get my cat, Boris.
"You're not selling everything, are you?" Lisa asked without looking me in the eye.
"Yes, I am." I couldn't afford to pay rent so I decided to sell it all and let the apartment go. I sold all my big furniture to a plump woman in cowboy boots before I even got out of my nightgown. The only things I would keep were the two large suitcases I'd packed, and the chest that held the childhood books my mother collected for me. I planned to store the chest of books in the trunk of my car while I was gone.
"Do you have any Hummels?" a gnarly man with a smoker's voice interrupted.
I had a vague memory of brownish figurines in my mother's china cupboard. "No," I said; Sue had surely tossed them.
Lisa exhaled noisily. "I'm going to say something and I'm counting on you not to fall apart," she said, as her eyes finally met mine.
We glanced to the street as a truck pulled up behind her car.
"Wait a minute." I held up a hand. "That truck is here for my furniture. I have to deal with this first." I pulled up one of the landlord's rusty metal lawn chairs for Lisa. "Would you mind being cashier while I show them what to take?" I handed her the money box as the movers lumbered up to my porch, dirty from whatever work they had done all day. I positioned another rusty chair to keep the screen door open and the driver looked at me sheepishly as if I were the high school social studies teacher he had disappointed.
"Wife says to get the stuff she bought," he said.
"Down the hallway." I took them back to the bedroom and pointed to the bed and the dresser.
"That go?" The other guy pointed to a lamp table in the corner.
"No," I said, and then reconsidered the business of hauling it out myself. "Yes, take it. Get it all out of here." I spoke too quickly, my restless mind struggling to predict what Lisa had to say. I couldn't imagine what she thought would make me fall apart at this point. What was left? I waved a hand and showed them the sofa and the table they were supposed to take. But instead of watching the men, I went to the porch where Lisa made change for my lava lamp.
"So what is it?" I asked; arms folded across my chest, cars slowing as they drove by. Most of my good stuff was sold.
Lisa said, "I think you should reconsider this move."
The men grunted under the weight of the sleeper sofa, passing behind me.
"Now?" I gestured to the people in my yard.
Lisa sat back. "You can still change your mind."
"Why would I want to?" I moved out of the way as the men went in for more furniture.
Lisa spoke. "You've had so many setbacks recently. I just don't think this is a good time to make a big change."
Someone stamped a cigarette on my front walk; a fat woman held one of my shirts up for size. I couldn't wait to get out of this place. As much as I filled my days with personal connections and my evenings with volunteer activities and social events, I was as lonely as the gray-haired widows at the early church service.
"You should consider seeing someone," Lisa said carefully, "as in a mental health professional."
Those were the words she had come to say; we were having an intervention. I shielded my eyes from the sun's glare and watched the men close the back of the truck. One of them waved. "We got it," he called, waving as he pulled away.
"You need time," Lisa said.
I often recited a litany over girl lunches and happy hours: It takes the average single woman two years to get engaged, one to get married, and three to have kids. A woman who has just broken up with her boyfriend is looking at anywhere from four to ten years before she can live happily ever after. Without exceptional beauty or wealth, it would take me ten years. I had no time. "I'm going to England," I said.
At midnight that night, every overhead light in my apartment blazed. I leaned against the bathroom wall and slid down to the floor. I would have fallen asleep on the floor had my phone not rung in my bedroom. "Hello?" I looked at my watch. Lisa enunciated as if a kidnapper held a gun to her head or she spoke to someone whose native language was not English. "Boris escaped when I opened my front door to get my mail. He has been missing ever since. Do you want me to come over?" she asked.
"No," I said. What good would that do?" Boris had made a break with his past. Good-bye Boris, I thought. I hope you find what you're looking for, too.
"I'm going to put up signs in the morning," Lisa said. "I'm so sorry."
"He's a cat," I said, rearranging the future without my precious Boris who had lounged on me through endless novels over the past years. If he were here he would be walking across this barren room to sit on my lap. Barren room.
An alarm went off; my room should not be empty.
I dropped the phone on the floor and ran. "Oh my God. Oh my God." I could barely catch my breath. I ran through my apartment from back to front, searching in case they had moved it somewhere, knowing in my heart it was gone. Just like Martin. Just like the job and the cat. I opened the screen door and ran into the street where their truck had been parked. "No," I cried. "No, no, no, no."
I collapsed on the curb, the heel of my hand landing on a shard of glass, a cockroach scurrying for cover. "Oh my God," I cried, in bursts of grief, rocking back and forth, my hair tangling in my face. I had no way to track them down. They had paid in cash. The blood from my hand got in my hair and on my clothes and I could feel it mingling with the tears and getting in my eyes.
They had taken the little chest and the books it held. The stories my mother had read to me were lost in some rural resale shop. I had not paid attention and now her voice was gone. I tried to remember the sound of Miss Clavel exclaiming, "Something is not right," and the old woman whispering, "Hush" as I'd snuggled into my mother's side, tracing the roses on the floral chintz love seat, wondering how there could be so much purple and blue in the pink petals. When she read, my mother's voice mixed the lush sofa roses with the soft reading light and the romance of storybook heroines. So when I opened the books she saved for me, I could hear not only her voice but everything she told me, using the words of the stories like a special code between us. All for me. Even though she was dead, I'd cherished this last connection to her. The collection of books offered me comfort and hope. Now the books were gone. How could I have let this happen? I sat folded in the grass by the curb and cried; I couldn't hear her anymore. I stared at the stars and a bug crawled onto my arm. Did I remember the feel of the soft inside of her arm as she turned a page of Goodnight Moon or was I creating memories?
I stood and walked to the front edge of the roof. Lifting my arms to my sides as if preparing to dive, the chilly air blew my skirt, my unquiet spirit gnawing from the inside. What if I just go away? Three stories below lay the great stone steps. Jumping would bring immediate and certain death. No more loneliness; no more pain, no more aching spirit.
Thick dark curtains separated me from the life I had known, curtains to guard the privacy of my self-destruction and reinforce my feeling that nothing waited for my return. Nothing lay behind me but darkness and nothing before me but the void.
Two spooky eyes looked at me as the picture crawled down my screen, the familiar nose and the smile for her father. What started the affair? My father nurturing a vague complaint that something was missing. Sue playing along; willing to be a secret. Karen said Dad cheated because he could get away with it. Did Willis think he could get away with it?
The three of us had made a sharp triangle at the follies; me on the stage, Willis below, and Philippa next to him, as oblivious as my mother. I was the secret of the triangle, willing to take any covert part Willis allowed me to play in his life. Willing to play the part of Sue in the story of my own life.
My toes hung over the edge, a black breeze blew my skirt. Karen says we all have problems. Take it in stride and keep fighting, she says. Not the end of the world. Look at your wonderful life. I looked at myself, perched on the edge of a roof at a failing literary festival, in the middle of the night, in England. Fanny Price beckoned to me from the trap door, no indulgent pity in her voice or manner. "Come along," she said. My Jane Austen wasn't there, wouldn't bother, obviously. No patience for nonsense.
Two faint stars struggled in the sky, and something fiercer, a satellite, blinked; perhaps it could see me. I remembered the feeling, lying with Willis, when the cosmos came together and everything belonged to something. Maybe normal people always felt that way. I don't want to be Sue. I don't want to be my mother. My mother no longer makes sense. I bent down to pick up a broken piece of concrete, once part of the balustrade. You should have dropped the code, Mom. You should have talked to me while we sat there all those months reading and dying. Hiding behind books instead of working past your shame to tell me. You should have tried harder. I threw the concrete as hard as I could and watched it smash into bits on the steps three stories below. I don't want to be like you. "I want to be normal," I cried from the rooftop. "I just want to be normal."