Words & Dreams (Book 1 of Smithers Family Saga)

Chapter 32

Dollie looked before her mirror, naked, paranoid that her body might have fallen into a grotesque state in a matter of days. It wasn't so, however, as she puffed her stomach out, and then pulled it in. Smiling, then a sense of guilt, shyness, at her own vanity, and she turned her head, and only looked back when she'd finished smiling. She had four dresses set out on the bed, and even a- that was when she decided to wear the blazer, blouse, skirt. Really, the type of thing her sister would wear: she felt she had to lower it- the sex appeal, or at least the amount of bare body. As if to retcon Danny's first advances, as if this were the first time, undressing, to make him feel the buttons, one by one- as if to recondition him; that it wouldn't always be so easy; or... no. It was that it must appear in different forms. These thoughts were conscious, as if the decision to dress similar to her sister imbued her with the very type of thoughts her sister would have. But this was not the case. Dollie had deliberated for years on this problem; how not to make a man bored. She didn't have proper faith in her personality, however pleasant it was, and she didn't believe in putting off the inevitable for too long, if she wanted it. Better to have it, and then work from there, though this, she realized, could lead to heartbreak.

New York City! she whispered, shaking her head, as if a city could infect one with new desires. In reality, what had made her sleep with Danny the first time was a matter of that miserable mother and daughter. Wanting to reclaim a downer of a day into a great experience.

She dressed and looked in the mirror, even choosing to wear a pair of low heels.

I should have got my haircut, she thought. In a new style. But that could backfire. There's a subtle reinvention, and then there's delusion. We both want to sleep with each other. Don't be stupid, Dollie. It'll be fine.

"Damn it, why did I- ah, but it was pleasant, wasn't it?" she said, letting her words lower to a whisper, and letting herself see her smile now that she was clothed. "A dumb thing can be a good thing," she said, and thought of Romeo and Juliet rampaging against the walls of the house, but then felt guilty that she'd thought of her babies as dumb.

On the third floor, in a second den, which had been configured into a film room. Violet sat in the lap of Eugene, as they watched the VHS of a French film. Her eyes went to and away from it. She'd seen it before: 400 Blows, by Francois Truffaut. It was one of her husband's favorite films. He didn't need the subtitles, but she did. He was just as lackadaisical; as he knew all the story beats, he'd turn to kiss Violet, and then smile as she kissed him, opening the top of his shirt and stroking his chest.

The door opened.

Eugene jolted, and Violet laughed.

Erica was there.

"Sorry, are you two-?"

"We wouldn't-" Eugene said. "Just getting cozy," he said, as if to turn the conversation away from any erotic potential that may or may not have happened.

"Yvette's coming over," Erica said.

"Oh?" Eugene said.

"She'd like to know what you both think of some of her paintings. It would be a boon to her."

"'The Professor and the Riffraff'" Violet said. "Is that the name of one of the paintings?"

I like that bitch, though, Violet thought. She liked amusing people. And amusing people tended to like her:

"Why's she really coming?" Eugene said.

"She wants to see the janitor," Erica said.

"Danny," Eugene said. "The man has a name."

"Oh, shut up," Erica said. "You're as much a proletariat as a pincushion."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know," Erica said. "The phrase just popped into my head."

"A pincushion is-"

"Don't make this a metaphor, Gene. Not all bullshit has to be analyzed."

"You should talk," Eugene said.

Violet could see the- was it a rivalry? It was too strange. There was never any malice in them. A fight was like a playfight with the two of them, as if a light sparring should be natural between them, as intellectual equals.

When they were young, Violet was told, Erica used to tell him he was a Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes' lazy older brother, who never aimed to reach his potential, but coasted on ability, while she was the man in the deerstalker. Though not true, one could understand the difference, on the surface. Erica was ambition, ambition, ambition. Her life a series of tasks she kept extending, making new goals, never resting, really, until the book of dog poems. While Eugene could see a goal close by and turn away from it, or after accomplishing it, rest for awhile, even if the next thing he should do with his life was obvious. Erica had grown to respect this, as Sherlock admired Mycroft, after, for many years resenting it, seeing in him some indolent wisdom that she might partake in when she was eighty.

"Minute precision is not naval gazing," Erica said. "But I digress- it will be a fun night, at least."

"What do you think?" Eugene asked Violet.

"Well I have my husband here, and can add to that a cool French lady who's my friend- I think it sounds like fun. Though I don't want to bother- well, let Dollie be. No need to... I don't know."

"Ask Dollie," Eugene said. "No, I will; to bring him in for a few moments. Then we can see him. And to be honest, I just want- as I always do- to make sure he's a decent guy."

"You never do that for me," Erica said.

"If it were necessary, you'd ignore me anyway," Eugene said.

"Fair point," Erica said. "Dollie is frag- let us say, delicate."

"She's perfectly fine," Violet said. "She can think and act for herself."

Both Erica and Eugene looked away, as if from a great truth that they refused to acknowledge, for fear of hurting their own feelings, or a tremendous folly, which they refused to acknowledge, for fear of hurting Violet's feelings. They didn't believe in Dollie.

"Poor man's going to be gawked at," Eugene said. "Let's just not make it too obvious. And tell- keep- your friend on a leash," he said to Erica. "Yvette's- I don't know. She can ruin things at least as well as she can paint."

"I think she'd be flattered to hear you say that," Erica said.

"Really?" Violet said.

"Yes," Erica said. "She gets into the same sort of naval gazing as this man, here," she said, and smiled, nodding at her brother.

"She's entertaining, though," Violet said.

"And I'm not?" Eugene said.

"I mean..." and Violet thought, continued: "She performs. I think that's it. You don't, not really. You're too you to- do you know what I mean?"

"No," Eugene said.

"I do," Erica said. "Some people are performers others are not. Performers aren't less themselves for performing. I used to think the opposite. But- then I became a better writer."

"Ah, there you go, making it about yourself," Eugene said. "As if to one-up my lovely wife for her insight."

"Shut up, Gene," Erica said, and Violet tilted her head up to the ceiling and guffawed.