Penelope

by Marilyn Kaye

  Now, this was before the time when there were tests that determined a baby’s sex before birth, so all Wilherns were tense just before a birth, though the level of anxiety had diminished somewhat over the years as people believed less and less in the power of witches and witchcraft. Still, the odds were that the Wilherns couldn’t produce only boys forever, and Uncle Leonard in particular was apprehensive.

  Interestingly enough, according to my father, who was a child at the time, Aunt Ella didn’t seem to be worried about the curse at all. She laughed off the legend and made jokes about having a litter of piglets. The more superstitious members of the family feared she was actually inviting the evil eye into her home.

  So everyone was greatly relieved when baby Isabel was born a perfect little girl, and the curse of the witch was dismissed as nonsense. What few knew was the fact that Isabel was never at risk—Auntie Ella had been having an affair with the chauffeur. There wasn’t a drop of Wilhern blood in that pretty child.

  So it was up to the next generation to fulfill the witch’s promise. I was never sure if my mother knew about the curse when she married my father. Maybe by then everyone had forgotten all about it.

  Surprise.

  Chapter Four

  When Uncle Leonard learned of my birth, and my snout, he finally realized that his beloved wife Ella had deceived him all those many years earlier. Inconsolable, he threw himself out a window of their penthouse apartment. My mother always said that was a lucky break—the scandal of his suicide took some of the attention away from the stories and rumors about me.

  There were a lot of pictures of my parents from before I was born. The Wilherns were socially prominent, and Jessica and Franklin Wilhern were a popular couple, invited everywhere to every significant occasion. In practically every photo, my mother wore a glamorous designer dress, with jewels, furs, all the usual stuff. My father looked very debonair, in beautifully tailored suits, sometimes tuxedos. There were pictures of them at balls, at horse races, at opening nights, receptions for visiting royalty, all kinds of elegant events. They’d be holding martini glasses, champagne flutes, long bejeweled cigarette holders. They might be dancing, surrounded by other beautiful people.

  There was only one photo of me in the scrapbook. I was in the arms of a tense-looking Jessica with a mournful-faced Franklin standing just behind her. My baby blanket had been artfully arranged to cover my face.

  My birth had been devastating for both of them, but especially for my mother. She’d been having a natural childbirth, but the minute I emerged and she saw my face, heavy-duty medication was required.

  Needless to say, once my mother recovered from her initial hysteria, the first order of business was to make me normal. My parents explored every possible remedy for my condition. But that old witch was no dummy—she must have foreseen advances in cosmetic surgery and worked her curse accordingly. Surgeons told my parents that the carotid artery ran directly through the snout, uh, nose, and any attempt at modification would result in my death. I often wondered if my mother had been tempted. Interestingly enough, the only other item in the scrapbook that referred to me was my obituary notice from a local newspaper.

  Jessica and Franklin Wilhern announce with deep sorrow the untimely death of their infant daughter, Penelope …

  Of course, there was a perfectly good explanation for this. My mother had been determined to keep my existence a secret, but too many people had been present at the delivery, and we were a prominent family. Rumors of the birth of a pig-girl got around, and tabloid journalists came calling. Between my parents and Jake, they were stopped in their tracks, and eventually most lost interest when rumors of a fish-boy with fins popped up in a nearby county.

  But there was one particularly persistent journalist, a man named Lemon, who worked for the sleaziest of the sleazy rags. Somehow this fellow managed to get himself inside our house, and he actually confronted my mother in the kitchen with me in her arms.

  He must have caught her in a particularly bad mood. Jessica went into a wild frenzy, and she lashed out, striking him in the face with a kitchen utensil. You wouldn’t think a soup ladle could do much damage, but later she learned that he’d lost an eye as a result of the attack. My guess was that this had to be one of the few joyful moments she’d experienced since my birth.

  But now that my existence had been (almost) confirmed—Lemon didn’t get a good shot of me—she knew he’d be back, and more reporters would be coming, too. She could only think of one way to ward them off.

  So my death was faked, an empty coffin was buried, or cremated, I was never sure which.

  My father told me it was pretty awful for him. He wasn’t much of an actor, and although his natural expression was always a little mournful, people thought he seemed less than overcome with grief at the death of his only child. My mother assured everyone it was due to his stiff-upper-lip Wilhern upbringing, and she tried to make up for it by wailing like a banshee.

  So there were no more pictures of me in the scrap-book, and not many of my parents, either. They’d stopped entertaining, since they didn’t dare let any guests into the house for fear they might stumble across me. And they wouldn’t go out, because they couldn’t trust babysitters not to spread rumors. They could have left me in the house with Jake, but they still rarely went out. My mother was always afraid that my father might have a drink or two, slip up, and mention me. Besides, accepting invitations meant that eventually they would have to reciprocate.

  So I grew up imprisoned in a gilded cage, the Wilhern mansion. Hidden from the world, I had no playmates. I wouldn’t say I was deprived—I had all the material things, plus nannies and tutors to provide me with company. Anyone who met me had to sign a gag order, and I often wondered if my parents resorted to bribery or threats to enforce it. Or maybe they simply had every one of these tutors assassinated when they left their jobs.

  My earliest memories were of my mother saying, “Don’t worry, darling, this is not you. You are not your nose. This is not your real face, it’s the face of your great-great-great-grandfather. You are somebody else inside. And someday, you’ll see the real Penelope.” Whenever she encountered little Penelope gazing in wonderment at her reflection, she went into her little speech. It became a mantra: “Your face is not your face.” I would hear the story of the curse again, which I already knew by heart, and then she would remind me for the zillionth time that the creature I saw in the reflection wasn’t the real me.

  This was the way I lived. As a young child, I was a princess, dressed up beautifully every morning and treated by Jake with the kind of respect no child deserves to get. I would have my lessons with the tutor, and when lessons were finished, I played in my room. My parents spared no expense in providing me with a play-worthy room—there were sandboxes and wading pools, dolls and toys, a swing that hung from the ceiling. I would sit on it and sail across the room, from one end to the other, and pretend to be flying. Then there was dinner, and bath and bedtime.

  I was allowed out in public once a year, on Halloween. Every year I would dress up differently, as a fairy, a cowgirl, a ballerina, the usual Halloween costumes (though never a witch, for obvious reasons). The main requirement for the costume was a mask that would completely cover my face. Jake would take me trick-or-treating, but I was never allowed to join in the groups of children going from house to house together. Any action that could lead to a friendship was strictly forbidden. Needless to say, Halloween became and remained my all-time favorite holiday.

  Was I lonely? I suppose so, though maybe I didn’t realize it at the time. After all, I didn’t know any other way of life existed.

  At bedtime, my mother would recite her “your face is not your face” mantra. She usually followed this up by singing “Some Day My Prince Will Come,” from the Disney version of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Then my father would read me special versions of traditional fairy tales that he had rewritten just for me. My favorite was Handsome and the Beastie.

&nb
sp; “Once upon a time, there was a man who had three sons. The youngest was very good-looking, so he was called Handsome. One day, the man was going on a business trip, and he asked his three sons what they would like him to bring back for them. The first son asked for a yacht. The second son asked for a Ferrari. But the third son, Handsome, said that all he wanted was one perfect red rose.

  “On his business trip, the man purchased the yacht and the Ferrari and had them sent back to the two sons. But he looked in every florist shop, and he couldn’t find a perfect red rose anywhere.

  “Then, on the last day of his trip, he passed a great castle. There, in the garden, he saw beautiful red roses. He searched for the most perfect one, found it, and picked it for his youngest son.

  “Suddenly, from out of the castle, came a horrible lady beast. She grabbed the man. ‘You will die for stealing my rose!’

  “The man pleaded, ‘Oh, please, Madam Beastie, spare my life. The rose is a gift for my son.’

  “‘Then you may leave, but you must send your youngest son to me in your place. And he will have to marry me. If you do not do this, I will come after you.’

  “The man was horrified, but he made the promise to Madam Beastie. When he arrived home, he told his sons of his adventure. He didn’t want his youngest son to leave, but Handsome was afraid that Beastie would come for his father, so he left to go to the castle.

  “When Handsome saw Beastie for the first time, he was frightened. But to Handsome’s surprise, Beastie behaved very nicely to him. She didn’t make him marry her right away. She gave him nice things to eat, they had interesting conversations, and Handsome enjoyed being with her, even though she was very ugly and he didn’t really like looking at her.

  “Beastie allowed him to go away and visit his father, but when he returned, he found that Beastie was sick from missing him. He realized that he was in love with her, and he said he wanted to marry her. And suddenly there was music and fireworks and to his great surprise, he saw that Beastie had become a beautiful princess! She’d been living under the curse of an evil witch, and not until someone of her own kind loved her could the curse be lifted.

  “So Handsome married the Princess, and they lived happily ever after.”

  I also heard my father’s version of The Frog Prince—The Pig Princess—a lot. My parents did everything possible to give me some kind of self-esteem. Pork chops or bacon were never served in the Wilhern household. And no one was allowed to play “this little piggy” on my toes.

  There was a knock on my door.

  “Miss Penelope, your four o’clock is here.”

  Chapter Five

  Mother and Wanda were waiting for me in the dining room. Jessica seemed calmer—clearly, she’d decided to change her approach.

  “Penelope, darling,” she crooned. “I’m very sorry I spoke so harshly to you earlier. But I’m only doing this for you, for your future, for your happiness. Penelope! Are you listening to me?”

  I wasn’t, but I answered, “Yes, Mother.”

  “Penelope, you must play your part in this. Tell me something—are you happy right now?”

  At least I could answer this question honestly. “No, Mother.”

  “All right, then. Now, are you ready? This is an important meeting. Edward Vanderman is the most promising candidate we’ve ever had.”

  For once I didn’t have to listen to Wanda recite my suitor’s credentials. This was Edward’s third visit, and I knew everything about him. There was no question about it—he met all the requirements to break the curse. The Vandermans were prominent, wealthy, and most important, blue-blooded. They could trace their ancestry back to, I don’t know, the Stone Age or something, and I sometimes wondered if Edward wasn’t maybe a throwback to that time when brains were appreciably smaller.

  He certainly hadn’t retained any of the aggressive mannerisms of his ancestors. I couldn’t quite imagine Edward with a club in his hand, dragging his chosen mate by her hair to his cave. He wouldn’t have the guts. Not that I would ever want to be dragged around like that, by Edward or any man, but I remembered once seeing a movie where a very sexy caveman did just that.

  Through the window I could see my visitor slumped in his chair. Edward—and he was the kind of person who would always be called Edward, not Ed or Eddie or any other nickname that implied familiarity, warmth, and affection—Edward was sad.

  Okay, maybe I was being a little unkind. Physically, he wasn’t horrific (and speaking as one who was, I felt qualified to make that judgment). In fact, most people would say he was a nice-looking man. He was well groomed and well dressed, and his features were normal and they were all in the right places.

  It was personality that kept Edward back. I was certain that when he was a child, he was picked on by the other kids, maybe beaten up, and I wouldn’t say he deserved it, but I could imagine what propelled the other little kids to gang up on him. He was a walking victim. In his opinion, nothing ever went well for him, bad things were always happening to him, and it was never his own fault.

  I remembered his first visit to me. He’d started off by telling me that normally he would never respond to a matchmaking service, that he didn’t have any problems finding girls, and that the only reason he’d succumbed to Wanda’s invitation was that his parents thought highly of the Wilherns and had insisted he meet the Wilherns’ mysterious, cursed daughter.

  I responded by telling him that he’d fulfilled his obligation to his parents and mine, that clearly he could find his own mate, and that he could terminate this visit and leave right now with no hard feelings.

  He fell apart completely. Suddenly he was pouring out his guts, telling me that all those girls who chased him were interested in him only because of his family’s wealth and social standing, his looks, and the fact that his father owned some huge industry that Edward would ultimately inherit. He said no one knew the real Edward, that he was a prisoner of his own image, and that he’d never felt really close to anyone in his life. I was actually touched by his confession and asked him questions about himself.

  “What do you like to do when you’re alone, Edward?”

  He replied, “I’m always alone, Penelope, even when I’m in a crowd.”

  “What kind of movies do you like, Edward?”

  “Movies are difficult for me. Sad movies make me think about my own life. Happy movies make me even sadder because I compare them to my own life, which makes me feel even worse.”

  No matter what subject I brought up, he’d turn it around so it would be about him. I’d ask his opinion of national health insurance and he’d tell me about some imagined medical ailment of his own. I was losing patience.

  On the other hand, he could lift the curse if he married me. As I made myself comfortable on my loveseat, my mother said, “Maybe he’s not the man of your dreams, Penelope, but he’ll do.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” Wanda pointed out.

  Jessica glared at her, but I understood what Wanda was saying. The underlying meaning was, “Don’t blow this one, Penelope. He may be your best chance.”

  They were both right. I needed a man to save me, to release me from my curse, to give me a life. It was too much to hope that I might actually be attracted to him. I turned on the microphone.

  “Hello, Edward.”

  I wouldn’t say his face lit up at the sound of my voice, but at least there was a glimmer of expression.

  “Penelope! How are you?”

  How was I? How about depressed, angry, fed up with my life and the injustice of it all… but that wasn’t what Edward wanted to hear.

  “Fine, Edward. How are you?”

  Edward obviously felt no obligation to provide the expected polite response most people made. He replied the way he always did.

  “Oh, you know. Not up to par.”

  Edward’s family belonged to a golf club, so he frequently used this term to describe the fact that he wasn’t in the best spirits. I’d begun to wonder if maybe I should
advise him to consider depression as his own personal par.

  But I didn’t. I responded in my usual sympathetic and endearing way. “I’m sorry to hear that, Edward. What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know where to begin.”

  I stifled a groan—these microphones picked up everything. “Are you having problems at work? Is your father giving you a hard time again?”

  “What else is new?” Edward said glumly. “He ignores me, he never listens to my advice. Oh, Penelope, he treats me like dirt! Yesterday he bawled me out because I didn’t finish some stupid report. But what could I do? It was already five o’clock, and I had to leave.”

  “Why did you have to leave?” I asked.

  “Because it was five o’clock! I’d already put in my eight hours.”

  “Of course. You don’t want to turn into some kind of workaholic.”

  “And remember I told you last time about that scruffy little jerk he hired? The foreigner with the accent? Well, he promoted the jerk! Over me!”

  I tried to sound sympathetic. “Oh, dear. Did he say why?”

  “Oh, there was some nonsense about productivity. He acts like the only reason he lets me work there is because I’m his son.”

  Probably a good call, I thought. “How’s life at home, Edward?”

  “Oh, I’m treated terribly there, too. My mother is constantly nagging me to clean my room. As if we didn’t have servants! And yesterday she scolded me because I came home from work for a little nap in the afternoon. She said my father doesn’t let other employees have naps. Well, so what? What’s the point of being a Vanderman if you can’t have some privileges? But she always takes my father’s side. They’re both always picking on me.”

  His whining was beginning to grate on my nerves, but I stayed calm. “I’m sure they just want what’s best for you, Edward.”