Tiny Little Thing

by Beatriz Williams

  “Visitors, then?”

  I look down at my stained dungarees, my smeared shirt. “I hope not.”

  “Let’s go in the back door, just in case.”

  But we’re no match for Granny Hardcastle’s five senses, which might be fading individually but still form a powerful sucking vortex when they rotate in synchronous orbit. Whether it’s the sound of the door, or the vibration of the floorboards, or the hot ocean breeze wafting briefly through the air, Granny calls out, as we turn the corner to the staircase: “Tiny, darling! I have someone I’d like you to meet.”

  I exchange looks with Pepper. “Do you mind if I freshen up first?” I call back.

  “I’m sure what you’re wearing is suitable.”

  Pepper lays a hand on mine, atop the newel-post, and speaks in a low voice. “Want some backup?”

  “Go on ahead. I’ll be fine.”

  “Call me if you need me,” she says, heading for cover up the staircase, and I smile up after her, because my God, we do have our differences, but isn’t it reassuring to know a Pepper is right there when you need one?

  The French doors to the terrace are shut tight, protected by thick striped awnings, and the living room is cool and dark. A man rises from the chair across from Granny, medium in every detail: medium height, medium brown hair, medium round features. I wonder if I’ve met him before. He has a face you couldn’t remember. I hold out my hand. “Good afternoon. Tiny Hardcastle. Forgive my appearance; I’ve been outside.”

  “Mrs. Hardcastle.” He smiles a medium smile. “A hot one out there, isn’t it?”

  I brush back a tendril of hair from my temple. “Yes, it is. Would you like a cool drink?”

  He gestures to the table next to his chair. “Already have one, thanks.”

  “Tiny,” says Granny, “this is Dr. Keene. An old friend of the family. He’s one of the best psychiatrists in Boston.”

  I look at Granny. I look back at Dr. Keene.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Dr. Keene goes on smiling relentlessly. “Your grandmother is too kind.”

  “She’s my husband’s grandmother.”

  “Yes, I know that. Your father-in-law suggested I stop by.”

  I settle myself on the arm of the sofa and arrange my hands together in the crease of my thighs. The fabric is tough and durable beneath my fingers, making me feel just a bit more tough and durable all over. “Did he? I can’t imagine why.”

  “He thinks you’re under some strain, my dear.”

  “Oh, really? That’s very kind of him, really, but I’m sorry to have put you to any trouble. I don’t require a shrink, at the present time. A drink, from time to time—my God, don’t we all—but not a shrink.”

  “Tiny, really.” Granny is horrified.

  Dr. Keene remains on his feet, studying me. Still the gentle professional smile. “It’s all right, Mrs. Hardcastle. Many patients are resistant to treatment. It’s a sign, in fact, that treatment is needed.”

  “Well, that’s convenient,” I say.

  “Now, Mrs. Hardcastle.” He means me, not Granny. “There’s nothing to be scared of. I’m here to help you, believe me. Think of me as a friend of the family. That’s what I am, after all.”

  I rise from the sofa arm. “I don’t need any help. I didn’t ask for any help.”

  “You don’t have to do anything. Just sit down with me for a bit. Maybe we’ll take a drive in my car, get some fresh air.”

  “It’s a lovely car,” says Granny.

  I glance out the front window to the black Cadillac coupe, lying like a shark in the driveway. The chrome at the tips of the tailfins reflects the high noon.

  “That’s all right. I have my own car.”

  “Then let’s go talk somewhere. Somewhere you feel comfortable, Mrs. Hardcastle.”

  “We’re talking. I’m comfortable.”

  “You don’t look comfortable at all, Mrs. Hardcastle. You look anxious and upset. If we talk, I can help you. I can write you a prescription, maybe give you a few days’ rest somewhere.”

  “I was resting just fine out here, until you walked in.”

  Dr. Keene turns his head to exchange glances with Granny.

  “Tiny,” says Granny, “why don’t you take Dr. Keene upstairs to your room? He can examine you, maybe give you some pills.”

  “I don’t want any pills.”

  “You prescribed me something wonderful, didn’t you, Dr. Keene? When my husband died.”

  Dr. Keene takes a step toward me. “Your father-in-law says . . .”

  “My father-in-law can go to hell.” I fold my arms across my chest.

  He nods at my elbows. “You’re putting yourself in a defensive posture. That’s not necessary, I assure you—”

  “I don’t want you near me, Dr. Keene. I certainly don’t want you in my bedroom. In fact, I’d like to ask you to leave.”

  “Are you certain of that, Mrs. Hardcastle?”

  “Quite certain.”

  Another glance at Granny. “I’m afraid I was instructed specifically not to leave without treating you, Mrs. Hardcastle.”

  “This is my house,” I say. “You are here at my pleasure. Not my father-in-law, not my husband’s grandmother. I’m a grown woman, and I can make my own decisions.”

  “I hope you won’t make this difficult, Tiny,” he says, in an even, lyrical voice that should sound soothing, and instead strikes my ears like a threat. He takes another step toward me, and his stance is that of a predator.

  I hold my ground. “I’d like you to leave, Dr. Keene.”

  Granny lurches to her feet. “I knew it! Dr. Keene, you’ve got to do something. You see what we’re talking about. She’s not herself, she’s—”

  “Please be quiet, Mrs. Hardcastle, and let me handle this. I’ve encountered this kind of resistance many times.”

  I’ll just bet you have, I think.

  I check the angle to the staircase, to the back door, to the front door. The house feels hollow, empty, as if Mrs. Crane has left, as if the entire complement of Hardcastle family and retainers has melted into the floorboards. The hairs are rising on my neck. Get away, my brain screams.

  “Again, Dr. Keene.” Somehow my voice remains calm. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Another step forward. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Tiny. I have my orders.”

  “Mrs. Crane!” I call out.

  “I gave her the afternoon off,” says Granny.

  “Dr. Keene—”

  A body appears at my elbow, out of nowhere, accompanied by the scent of fresh perfume and an air of crackling purpose.

  “Excuse me. What seems to be the problem?”

  “Pepper.” I turn to my sister in relief. Backup. “Dr. Keene, this is my sister. Dr. Keene is a psychiatrist, Pepper. He was just leaving.”

  “No, I—”

  Pepper thrusts out her hand and grasps that of Dr. Keene, almost before he can offer it. “Why, Dr. Keene! I’m so sorry to miss you. A friend of my sister’s is a friend of mine.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss—?”

  “Schuyler. Pepper Schuyler.” She keeps her hand in his. Covers it, in fact, with her other hand, which is long and slender and tipped with scarlet. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think Pepper’s hands are purely decorative. “I’m a special assistant to a certain senator in Washington, the junior senator from the great state of New York. You’ve heard of the senator, surely? He used to be attorney general of the United States. Just imagine that. The nation’s tip-top lawyer, and, boy, does he love a good fight.”

  “Of course I’ve heard of the senator.” The good doctor alternates his gaze between the two of us.

  “You were just leaving, Dr. Keene?”

  He tugs at his hand. Pepper doesn’t let go. I glanc
e down, and there are her scarlet fingernails, curling into the tender underside of his wrist. My God.

  “Dr. Keene?” she says. “Or should I call up my boss for a friendly chat?”

  “That’s not necessary,” he says. “I can return at a more convenient time.”

  I clear my throat. “See that you do. Down, Pepper.”

  My sister releases the medium Dr. Keene. He sighs, straightens his cuffs, and turns to Granny, whose face has turned a bright shade of Palm Beach pink. “Mrs. Hardcastle?”

  “I apologize, Dr. Keene, for the behavior of my . . . my . . .”

  “Think nothing of it, my dear.” He picks up his jacket from the back of the chair and pats each pocket. “In fact, I believe I’ve learned a great deal from the hostility of the patient’s response.”

  “What? What have you learned?”

  Dr. Keene finds his keys and slings his jacket over his shoulder. “I recommend the most absolute quiet. She should be encouraged to remain in this house. In her room, if possible. I should go so far as to say that she shouldn’t be allowed to leave until I return.”

  “Return? I don’t believe I invited you back,” I say.

  But Dr. Keene is already heading for the door. He pauses with his hand on the knob and looks back at me, smiling benignly. “Forgive me, Mrs. Hardcastle. As I understand it, I don’t require your invitation.”

  • • •

  Pepper opens up the icebox and takes out the pitcher of iced tea, made fresh that morning by Mrs. Crane and still swimming with lemon slices. She pours it into one of the two tumblers sitting on the scarred wooden counter. “You want something stronger in that?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She hands me a glass and clinks it with her own. “You’d think they’d renovate.”

  “What?”

  She gestures her head to encompass the wooden counters, the free-standing cabinets, the enamel Hotpoint electric range resting on its curling Victorian legs. “Probably a hit at the St. Louis World’s Fair or something. Not even the Schuylers would put up with a kitchen this old.”

  “It confers prestige, I suppose, if you can’t find it anywhere else.”

  “Prestige schmestige. Let’s go outside.”

  It’s Wednesday, low tide, and the sand bakes under the sun. The beach is wide and hard. Three of the wives are huddled in their folding chairs, under an umbrella, while a few kids splash in the surf nearby. I angle away from them, toward the jetty, where the boats bob untended at their moorings, waiting for the men to return, or the teenagers to stir themselves.

  “You need to get out of here,” says Pepper. “You just need to leave.”

  “I can’t just leave.”

  “Why not? You’re like fucking Hamlet. Pull the plug. Get the hell out. I’ll help. I’ll pack your bags for you.”

  I keep walking, down the length of the jetty. The sun burns my skin; the condensation from the lemonade trickles over my knuckles.

  “So you’re just going to stand there and take it?” says Pepper. “Let them lobotomize you? Pat you on the head and give you a bottle full of happy pills?”

  I reach the end of the jetty, set down the lemonade, and pull off my sandals.

  “Jesus,” says Pepper. “You’re not going to jump, are you?”

  “It’s not that simple, Pepper.”

  “I hope the hell not.”

  “The thing is, it’s not so bad, is it? Playing along. I’ll bet ninety-nine percent of women would trade places with me in a heartbeat. Ninety-nine percent of women surveyed would just love to be Frank Hardcastle’s wife. If he wants to screw around with a pretty girl or two, why, they’d just turn their heads away. Look at all this.” I wave my sandals at the beautiful hard beach, the gray shingles of the Big House, the windows twinkling in the sun. “It’s mine. The good life.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Frank’s a good man, Pepper. He could even be a great man. He just has a weakness, that’s all. He loves me, he really does. He’s called me every day, he sends flowers. He’s worried sick.”

  “Then why doesn’t he come out here himself, instead of sending the family doctor to lobotomize you?”

  “That wasn’t Frank. That was his father.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “A hell of a difference.” I turn to face her. I imagine I can feel Granny Hardcastle’s gaze through one of the windows, staring at us, watching my every tic. “Frank’s father went through this. His wife left him, and that’s why he never ran for office himself. He couldn’t stand it if the same thing happened to Frank. The end of everything.”

  “Then little Frank Junior should have kept his naughty pants zipped.”

  “You don’t understand. If I left Frank, if I divorced Frank, they’d find a way to ruin me. This Dr. Keene today. He’s the shot over the bow. The warning shot.”

  “Screw them. Screw their warning shots. Live in infamy. Infamy’s a hell of a lot more fun than this, believe me.”

  I shake my head. “That’s what I used to think. It looks good, until you’re there. And then you realize what they’re saying about you, you realize how many people you’ve disappointed, how selfish you’ve been. How you’ve failed everyone.”

  “I don’t give a damn about that.”

  “Well, you’re Pepper. And I’m Tiny. And I care. I just care. I can’t help it.” By now, there are tears trickling down from the corners of my eyes, and I don’t try to stop them. “I can’t help it, Pepper. I just don’t have it in me. I tried once, and I don’t have the strength to disappoint them. Not in the end, I don’t.”

  “Who’s them?”

  “Them? It’s everyone, Pepper. It’s you and Vivian and Mums and Daddy. Frank and Granny and Constance and everyone, people I haven’t even met, people who walk down the street and read newspapers and see pictures of me and think, oh, she’s not that pretty, look at her nose, she’s too skinny, she’s not skinny enough, she’s too tall, she’s too short, she’s stuck up, she’s stupid, she’s in it for the money, I hear he cheats on her, I hear she cheats on him, I hear she sneaks out for a smoke, I hear she’s a Goody Two-Shoes who never took a puff in her life. Everything. Everyone. You don’t know what it’s like. You don’t know what shame is like. I’ve tried not to care, Pepper. I’ve tried so hard. But I can’t help it.”

  Pepper takes my sobbing face against her collarbone. “Oh, Jesus. You poor thing.”

  “I can’t do it again, Pepper. I can’t go through that again.”

  “Go through what again?”

  I lift my head from her wet skin. “I have to show you something.”

  • • •

  Holy cats.” Pepper angles the photograph to the light from the window. “Nice tits. I mean really lovely. I didn’t know you had a bosom that lovely. You should show them off a little more.”

  “Pepper!”

  She lifts her gaze from my reclined black-and-white image and looks me straight between the eyeballs. “Who took these?”

  “Caspian.”

  “Caspian? Caspian Harrison? Major Caspian?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Holy cats. Caspian. Did you sleep with him afterward?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “So you did. Well, screw me. I’m . . . wow. The good major.” Pepper closes her mouth and turns back to the photograph. “And when did all this happen?”

  “Two years ago.”

  “Two years ago? But that’s—two years ago—that’s when you got married, wasn’t it?”

  “Just before the wedding, to be exact. Two or three weeks before, something like that.”

  Pepper lets out a whistle, long and low, making her cheekbones pop out above her pursed lips. “Tiny, Tiny. To think you wore white. Cold feet, was it?”

  “Something like that.”


  “Have you done it since? Since he got back?”

  I snatch the photograph away. “Of course not!”

  “So why are you showing me this now?”

  I reach for the manila envelope and shove the photograph back inside. My nakedness disappears from sight. “Because remember when I had you sell that bracelet, a few weeks ago?”

  “Sure I do. I— Wait a minute.” She snatches back the envelope. “You’re being blackmailed, Tiny? Caspian Harrison is blackmailing you?”

  “Of course it’s not Caspian. Give that back!”

  But she’s already opening the flap, already sliding out the contents. The photograph, the note. “Jesus. Oh my God. This is like a movie. One of those gangster movies—”

  “This is not a movie. This is real life, my life, and if this ever gets out, it won’t matter whether I leave Frank or not, he’ll be ruined, and it will be my fault, to say nothing of my life being ruined—”

  “Why will your life be ruined? Frank’s career will be over, sure, but that’s no more than he deserves, the cheating bastard.”

  “Oh, Pepper. Think. Think about it. Think about this photograph being splashed across the newspapers for every man Harry to look at.”

  She fans herself slowly with the contents of the envelope. Her face is a little flushed beneath the olive tan. “Could you open a window or something?”

  I walk to the window overlooking the beach and lift the bottom sash. A rush of hot wind catches me in the stomach. “It’s warmer outside, actually.”

  “At least it’s fresh.”

  I lie down on the bed, back to front, and prop my feet up on the wall above the headboard. My stomach growls, wondering where lunch has got to. I fold my arms across my rib cage to muffle the sound. The shock of Dr. Keene is receding at last, taking the rest of my emotions with it. The brain left behind is unnaturally sharp, unusually cold. Ready for action.

  “If it’s not Caspian, then who is it?”

  “I don’t know. Someone who found the photographs.”