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“In this version of his life,” Kiran says, “was Octavian always going to be depressed? Does it matter what any of us do?”
“I’m not following,” says Phoebe. “Of course it matters.”
“I don’t want to talk about Charlotte anymore,” says Jane.
“I’m not talking about Charlotte,” says Kiran. “I’m talking about Octavian. Do your ears hurt?”
Jane’s head feels like a balloon. “But Octavian haunts this room because he’s depressed about Charlotte,” she says stubbornly, “right? It’s all about Charlotte.”
Lucy St. George, still carrying The House of Mirth, has crossed to the other side of the room and is gently stroking the burnished wood of the bookcases. Jane finds herself synchronously rubbing the railing of the mezzanine banister. It’s an odd compulsion. Snatching her hand away, she says, “Yes, my ears hurt. I have work to do. I’m going back to my rooms.”
“What work do you do?” Lucy asks.
“I make umbrellas.”
“Really?” Lucy says. “Do you repair them? I’ve got one that doesn’t open right.”
“Bring it to me,” Jane says impatiently, heading for the spiral staircase, “east wing, third floor, at the end. Come right in. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks,” Lucy says, then cries out and yanks her hand away from the bookcases.
“What’s wrong?” asks Phoebe.
“Nothing,” says Lucy, inspecting her palm. “Just a splinter, or some kind of—electrical short, or something.”
“How could a bookcase have an electrical short?” asks Phoebe.
All the hairs of Jane’s body are standing on end. Get out, she’s telling herself as she moves down the stairs; Get out. Jasper presses his nose to the glass of the terrace door, anxiously whining. Jane lets him in, then crosses the room with him as quickly as possible. She’s rude. As she passes through the doorway into the Venetian courtyard, she doesn’t say good-bye to the others.
“Jasper,” Jane says, stopping in the courtyard to take a breath of the sunlit air. “It was weird in there.”
Jasper leans his head against the back of her ankles and pushes, whining softly.
“You didn’t like it either?” she says. “Let’s go.”
She’s almost to her rooms before she realizes she’s still holding tight to Winnie-the-Pooh.
* * *
Back in her rooms, the light is bright and warm and Jane thinks maybe work will help clear her mind.
Last time she worked, it was on the self-defense umbrella in brown and gold. She still likes this idea. In fact, she has the nebulous sense of something she’d like to defend herself against, some feeling in the air that’s trying to fuzz her brain. Silly, she chides herself. I probably just need some coffee. I’ll get some, right after I lie on the floor so I can think about my umbrella. She uses Winnie-the-Pooh as a pillow. The morning sun pours in; the shag rug is soft; Jasper tucks himself lengthwise beside her.
When Lucy St. George pushes through the doorway with a navy umbrella, Jane has just dozed off.
“Wow,” Lucy says, surveying the roomful of colorful umbrellas.
“Mrph,” Jane says, sitting up, trying to focus. She’s lost in a peculiar dream she can’t grasp; she’s already forgetting it. Jasper is snorting beside her. “Sorry. Patch of sun.”
“I’m embarrassed to show you my umbrella now that I’ve seen yours,” Lucy says. “It’s positively dull.”
Jane has forgotten all about repairing Lucy’s umbrella.
“Ow,” Lucy says, shaking out her free hand as if it hurts.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, my hand still stings from that splinter or whatever. Here.” She passes her umbrella to Jane. “See, it opens funny.”
Lucy’s umbrella does indeed open funny, but Jane can see that it’s just because a metal rib is bent and needs reshaping and reinforcing. “It’s a simple fix,” she says. “Listen, I don’t have the right paints just now, but you can do cute things on this type of nylon with the right kind of glue and the right kind of glitter.”
Lucy St. George is pinching her lips together to stop a grin. “Are you saying you want to make my dull umbrella sparkly? Go ahead.”
“Really?” Jane says. “It might not be subtle.”
“Do your worst,” Lucy says. “I’m curious.”
“Hey,” Jane says, surprised and smiling. “Thanks.”
“Do you think this house has moods?” Lucy says.
“Huh?”
“Moods,” Lucy says. “You know. Does it have emotions, and intentions, and objectives?”
“The house?”
“Yes.”
“Um,” Jane says. “Isn’t that a little bit fantastical?”
“So, that’s a no?” Lucy says with a weak smile.
“Yes. It’s a no,” Jane says, surprised by her own passion. “I mean, I think that’s what Charlotte thought, but it sounds like she was kind of . . . an oddball. Have you been talking to Kiran about Charlotte?”
“No, it’s just a feeling I get,” says Lucy. “Tell me if you change your mind. It’s a lonely point of view.”
As Lucy leaves, Jane sees the self-defense umbrella, suddenly, that she needs to make. When it’s closed, it’ll feel like a blade in her hand, good for slicing through bloated air. Then it’ll open with a
loud crack, good for shoving bad things away. Yes, she thinks. I’ll just stay here on the rug and contemplate it, but when she lies back, her mind keeps picturing Octavian’s sad little crumpled corner in the library. What kind of umbrella would that make?
She gets up once to let Jasper out, then lies down again. Air and water push distantly through pipes in an uneven concert of noises like melancholy sighing. Jane finds herself stroking the rug, as if to soothe herself, or someone else.
* * *
The house’s soft sounds fit themselves as harmonies around Jane’s lathe, her drill, her rotary saw, her sewing machine, her own absentminded humming. The glass wall captures heat and light and channels it into Jane as fuel for her focus. The energy of the room strips everything else away; the umbrella she’s building is the entire world.
In fact, it has ribs like Jane. It has one long leg on which its other parts balance; it has moving and bending joints, like Jane, and it has a skin that stretches across its bones. Jane will paint on that skin, just as the tattoo artist marked Jane’s skin. How nice, to have a weather-resistant skin and a body that can vibrate with tension or be at rest. How satisfying to have working parts, lovingly crafted. Rain is a musical patter against Jane’s imagination. Every umbrella is born knowing that sound, its soul straining for that sound, waiting patiently through rainless day after rainless day for the day when raindrops will thrum against its skin.
Jane shakes herself, confused. She wonders, are those really her thoughts? Why does it feel like she’s thinking someone else’s thoughts? She’s too warm, and, when she tries to remember, she’s not certain what she’s been doing for the past however-long. She vaguely recalls . . . an intense connection with the umbrella she’s making. Her ears still hurt and she becomes aware of her own repetitive humming. It’s a Beatles tune, “Eleanor Rigby,” about loneliness.
