Mary and her sisters found it hilarious that anyone would give their daughter the first nameLady. It was pretentious, likenaming children after cities they hadn’t visited (Paris), foods they hadn’t eaten (Mignon), and designers they hadn’t worn (Chanel). Lady de Bourgh had been the guest of the Bennet family many times, because she was the longtime president of the Greenwich Village Historical Society, and a cousin through Lizzie’s marriage to Fitzwilliam Darcy.
“I have no forgiveness left, Mary. I’m calling because you have won one of the playwriting prizes—well, you’re in… second place. Congratulations.”
Mary could hear de Bourgh shuffling papers.
“Yes, second place,” she went on. “A cash prize of five thousand dollars and a staged reading at the Transport Group.”
Hot tears flooded Mary’s eyes.
“Mary, are you there?”
“Yes, yes, I’m here. I’m so grateful. Thank you.”
“That’s nice. Frankly, I was surprised to see your name in the group of winners. The committee is composed of artistic directors of seven off-Broadway theaters. Your play must have rung a bell with them.”
“I can’t believe it,” Mary said softly.
Lady de Bourgh went on, “So I imagine you’re stunned that you won. The Bennet girls are intellectually elusive, in my opinion.”
Mary had no idea whatintellectually elusivemeant, but it didn’t matter. She had won a prize! Her play would get a staged reading, or even better, a production! That was all that mattered.
“Mary, are you there? Damn phone,” de Bourgh muttered.
“I’m here! I’m here. I’m just happy, that’s all.”
“Well, then. Go to the website for further instructions.”
Mary looked at herself in the mirror. The light on the headband gave a ring light effect in the mirror. She leaned in to take a good look at herself. She smiled. Her lips were thin but wellshaped, coated with cherry ChapStick. Her pale skin and brown hair were mousy, but now that she was an award-winning playwright, she saw a certain sparkle that she had never seen before. Mary tilted her head in profile, like Virginia Woolf in her official portrait.There, she thought to herself.I have character at an angle.
Mary knelt down and collected her tools, placing them neatly in the kit, when, suddenly overwhelmed, she leaned against the doorjamb. She began to cry, which soon turned into a big weep. Mary Bennet was unaccustomed to good news, or any surprising turn in her favor. The news of a windfall based upon her work moved her deeply. She didn’t dare think that a run of good luck had begun; instead, she would savor this happy news as a one-off. As a middle sister, she expected her portion and nothing more. What a portion this was! The beam of cold blue light on the headband bobbed as she cried, throwing shards of light on the pink linoleum floor and making circles on the speckled tile. Through her glassy tears, Mary saw a field of pink diamonds that filled her with a sense of her own possibilities, and her future, she hoped, in the American theater. She stood and wiped her tears on her sleeve. She turned on the faucet and peered under the sink to see if the duct-taped pipe held against the water pressure. It had.
MRS. BENNET
Mary carried a tray with tea and a fresh sugar cookie up the stairs to her parents’ bedroom. She shoved the bedroom door open with her elbow and peered inside. Her mother, fully dressed in slacks and a blouse, lay on the bed and studied the television set. Her gray hair was pulled back into a low bun, which Mary had brushed into place that morning. Mrs. Bennet’s brow was creased with worry lines as she listened to Spectrum News NY1, alocal channel that covered stories about the city, from congestion pricing to the weather. Occasionally, the roving reporters would catch a crime as it was unfolding. It was essential viewing for Mrs. Bennet—even the questionable content.
“If we get another storm like Sandy, lower Manhattan will overflow like a bathtub.” Mrs. Bennet’s blue eyes were shiny and wet. “We’ll bob in the filth and muck like plastic toys. You’ll see.” She waved her hand at the television screen. “This idiot is talking about sandbags. What good are they in a tsunami? How many blocks are we from the Hudson River?”
“Five blocks.”
“Too close.”
“There won’t be a tsunami, Ma,” Mary said, placing the tray on the chair by the bed. “And we’re far enough from the river. The house is on an incline. We won’t flood out.”
Mrs. Bennet was not comforted. “You made me tea? My Mary.”
“You asked for it, remember?” Mary smiled.
“I did, didn’t I? I try not to be a bother,” her mother said, not meaning it.
“You’re not.”
“I can’t watch another moment of this.” Mrs. Bennet turned off the television. “Television used to be entertaining. Now? It’s a sump pump of nerve-inducing stories designed to upset people. It’s constant. When will it end?”
“You’re fine.” Mary plumped the pillows behind her mother. “Lean forward.”
Mrs. Bennet leaned.
“Now, lean back.”
