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I nod weakly and hold out my hand. “Bu-bu-bu—” I falter, unable to speak.
Bunny is Mary Gordon Howard.
Mary Gordon Howard arranges herself on the couch like she’s a precious piece of china. Physically, she’s frailer than I remember, although George did say she was eighty. But her persona is just as terrifying as it was four years ago when she attacked me at the library.
This cannot be happening.
Her hair is white and thick, swept back off her forehead into a bosomy arrangement. But her eyes look weak, the irises a watery brown, as if time has leaked out their color. “So, dear,” she says as she takes a sip of sherry and slyly licks the excess from her lips, “George says you want to be a writer.”
Oh no. Not this again. My hand shakes as I pick up my glass.
“She doesn’t want to be a writer. She is a writer,” George interjects, beaming with pride. “I’ve read some of her stories. She has potential—”
“I see,” MGH says with a sigh. No doubt, she’s heard this too many times. As if by rote, she launches into a lecture: “There are only two kinds of people who make great writers—great artists: those from the upper classes, who have access to the finest education—or those who have suffered greatly. The middle classes”—she looks at me, disapprovingly—“can sometimes produce a simulacrum of art, but it tends to be middle-brow or slyly commercial and of no real value. It’s merely meretricious entertainment.”
I nod dazedly. I can see my mother’s face, the cheeks sunk right down to the jaw, head shrunken to the size of a baby’s.
“I—um—actually, I met you before.” My voice is barely audible. “At the library. In Castlebury?”
“Goodness. I do so many of those little readings.”
“I asked you to sign a book for my mother. She was dying.”
“And did she? Die, that is,” she demands.
“Yes. She did.”
“Oh, Carrie.” George shifts from one foot to another. “What a nice thing to do. Having her book signed by Bunny.”
Suddenly, Bunny leans forward and, with a fearful intensity, says, “Ah, yes. I do recall meeting you now. You were wearing yellow ribbons.”
“Yes.” How can she possibly remember? Did I make an impact after all?
“And I believe I told you not to become a writer. Clearly, you haven’t taken my advice.” Bunny pats her hair in triumph. “I never forget a face.”
“Auntie, you’re a genius,” George exclaims.
I look from one to the other in astonishment. And then I get it: They’re playing some kind of sick game.
“Why shouldn’t Carrie become a writer?” George laughs. He seems to find everything “Aunt Bunny” says extremely amusing.
Guess what? I can play too.
“She’s too pretty,” Aunt Bun-Bun responds.
“Excuse me?” I choke on my sherry, which tastes like cough medicine.
Irony of Ironies: too pretty to be a writer but not pretty enough to keep my boyfriend.
“Not pretty enough to be a movie star. Not that kind of pretty,” she continues. “But pretty enough to think you can get by in life by using your looks.”
“What would I use them for?”
“To get a husband,” she says, looking at George. Aha. She thinks I’m after her nephew.
This is all too Jane Austen-ish and weird.
“I think Carrie is very pretty,” George counters.
