“I am already there,” Mrs. Bennet said. “I’m knee-deep in old age with the bad knees to prove it, and I’m not ashamed of it.”
“You shouldn’t be. It’s a natural part of life, for things to fall apart,” William explained.
“William, please. Everything you say is sounding odd under the circumstances.” Charlotte shook her head. “Can’t you see our cousins are worried?”
“We’re family!” William said.
“Yes, we are.” Lizzie forced a smile.
Mary looked at William and wondered what his definition of family could possibly be. Was it to be of help to relatives? Or was it to sit like a spider until someone was ill and swoop in for the financial kill? The floor in the old house beneath Mary’s feet suddenly felt soft, like wet sand. Was the foundation of everything she had worked so hard to maintain washing away? Were she and her parents going under with the outgoing tide? Where would they go? How would they live? Maybe she could call Charlotte later andreason with her to get to her husband. Maybe it was time to bring Lizzie in and have her deal with William Collins. She had had her altercations with him before, and Mary believed William was afraid of Lizzie. Surely her father had more rights than a renter!
“The ladies understand the situation. Their father has lifetime rights to the house, and upon his death, I take over the deed.”
“Unless we pay off the debt.” Mary folded her arms over her chest.
William Collins looked around the foyer and into the parlor. “That’s always an option.”
“Good to know,” Lizzie said in a tone that meant she wasn’t fooling around.
“We’re due at our next appointment,” Charlotte said.
“I cleared the afternoon.” William looked at Charlotte, who glared at him. “We’ll be off then. Next time, cocktails? Tea?”
“Sure. Sure,” Mary agreed. William invited himself to the Bennets’, which Mary thought was rude.
“We’ll be happy to have you over once my husband is home,” Mrs. Bennet assured him.
Mary opened the door and let her cousins out. She noticed that Charlotte turned to Lizzie and made a telephone receiver motion, hand to her ear, before closing the door behind her. There was a secret language between Lizzie and Charlotte, but whatever the case, it made Mary feel better to know that she wasn’t alone in the fight to remain at 10 Jane Street.
“What was that all about?” Lydia wanted to know.
“He wants to sell the house out from under us,” Mrs. Bennet said.
“I’d like to see him try.” Lizzie squeezed Mary’s hand.
“It’s too late,” Mary said. “He’s like a vulture waiting for the worst to happen.”
“Don’t think about it,” Kitty said.
But that was all Mary thought about.
MR. TARANTELLO
Mary sat alone on a folding chair under the ghost light in the HB Studios rehearsal space. She studied the marks made with tape on the floor and wondered if Tony Lo Bianco or Ellen Burstyn had ever stood at them to deliver a performance. Probably. There was more history in this small gray building tucked between the regal brownstones on either side than there was at the Whitney or the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Sometimes Mary felt the past play through the space, like a cold wind blowing through old bricks, which made her shiver. She envisioned the past, back when Marilyn Monroe and Paul Newman took classes on this very stage. It probably had not been painted since they were young, and now they were both gone to actor heaven. She thought about Herbert Berghof, who founded the school, and how it had grown. Mary had no idea who paid the rent on the space, and how, after most of Greenwich Village had been upgraded and its buildings renovated, this compact, magical theatrical space survived. She knew only that she was happy it had.
A tall man around Mary’s age stood in the door, backlit by the foyer lights. His appearance surprised her, which made her heart beat fast. As he moved into the studio, she remembered him. He was around her age and had a mop of black hair and the rugged build of a workingman. But he wouldn’t be a workingman because they don’t generally visit HB Studios. The men of HB Studios who took classes with her were pale, thin, and dyspeptic.
Mary remembered that he had sat in on a couple of classes, but she hadn’t introduced herself because she had to rush hometo make dinner for her parents. But today, she was free. Her sisters were staying over for one more night, and they promised to take care of dinner for their mother. Their father was still in the hospital, and that gave Mary peace of mind. She had a recurring nightmare in the days since her father fell. It was a strange dream where she was in the kitchen, heard the terrible thud, and raced up the stairs to find a hole in the floor, her mother shouting, and her father gone. It was the case of the disappearing father, which could not be solved in a dream.
“I know you.” Mary smiled.
“How?”
“Didn’t you sit in on my playwriting class?”
“It’s your class?”
