Chapter Mrs. Bennet #2
Mary’s father had worked on and off as a freelance journalist through the years, and once in the 1980s he sold a book proposal that was sure to change the Bennet family fortunes, but it didn’t.
The book didn’t sell, even though it was quite good.
“And that’s that,” his wife said at the time, more disappointed at the failure than the author.
When it came to finances, Mr. Bennet’s single lucky break came in real estate.
His parents left him Number 10 Jane Street, though it was not a straight inheritance, as it was encumbered by debt.
The specifics of the debt had always been murky, and it did mean that the old house with the leaky pipes, shoddy electrics, and old windows on one of the most enchanting blocks in New York City would not be renovated by Mr. Bennet due to lack of funds.
The Bennets raised their daughters in Greenwich Village, which they could ill afford if the house had not been an inheritance.
But as it goes with families, gifts often come with strings.
There was debt on the building to the Collins family, Mr. Bennet’s cousin, which her father assumed without complaint.
Working and living under stressful financial circumstances was a Bennet family trait, like their predisposition for flat feet and adenoids.
Her father believed, no matter what, it was his role to soldier on and hold on to the house.
Mary wished her father was not beholden to the Collins family.
Surely they would allow the Bennets to remain in the house for as long as they lived, but it caused a deep sense of insecurity.
Owning a home meant freedom from the tyranny of the landlord, a luxury the Bennets had never known.
They would always be renters from the Collins family, who waited for Mr. Bennet to die so they might swoop in and sell the place.
The reality of the bad deal, struck before Mary was born, made her shudder.
Mary’s phone buzzed. She had propped it on the nearby toilet lid like a photograph in a frame, in order to follow the YouTube repair video. She banged her head as she pulled it out from under the sink. She cursed under her breath and tapped the screen.
“Mary Bennet?”
“This is she.” Mary squinted at the phone, which said in big letters: BLOCKED CALLER. “May I ask who is calling?”
“Tsk. Lady de Bourgh, of course.”
“Oh, Ms. de Bourgh! Forgive me.”
Mary and her sisters found it hilarious that anyone would give their daughter the first name Lady.
It was pretentious, like naming children after cities they hadn’t visited (Paris), foods they hadn’t eaten (Mignon), and designers they hadn’t worn (Chanel).
Lady de Bourgh had been the guest of the Bennet family many times, because she was the longtime president of the Greenwich Village Historical Society, and a cousin through Lizzie’s marriage to Fitzwilliam Darcy.
“I have no forgiveness left, Mary. I’m calling because you have won one of the playwriting prizes—well, you’re in… second place. Congratulations.”
Mary could hear de Bourgh shuffling papers.
“Yes, second place,” she went on. “A cash prize of five thousand dollars and a staged reading at the Transport Group.”
Hot tears flooded Mary’s eyes.
“Mary, are you there?”
“Yes, yes, I’m here. I’m so grateful. Thank you.”
“That’s nice. Frankly, I was surprised to see your name in the group of winners. The committee is composed of artistic directors of seven off-Broadway theaters. Your play must have rung a bell with them.”
“I can’t believe it,” Mary said softly.
Lady de Bourgh went on, “So I imagine you’re stunned that you won. The Bennet girls are intellectually elusive, in my opinion.”
Mary had no idea what intellectually elusive meant, but it didn’t matter. She had won a prize! Her play would get a staged reading, or even better, a production! That was all that mattered.
“Mary, are you there? Damn phone,” de Bourgh muttered.
“I’m here! I’m here. I’m just happy, that’s all.”
“Well, then. Go to the website for further instructions.”
Mary looked at herself in the mirror. The light on the headband gave a ring light effect in the mirror.
She leaned in to take a good look at herself.
She smiled. Her lips were thin but well shaped, coated with cherry ChapStick.
Her pale skin and brown hair were mousy, but now that she was an award-winning playwright, she saw a certain sparkle that she had never seen before.
Mary tilted her head in profile, like Virginia Woolf in her official portrait.
There, she thought to herself. I have character at an angle.
Mary knelt down and collected her tools, placing them neatly in the kit, when, suddenly overwhelmed, she leaned against the doorjamb.
She began to cry, which soon turned into a big weep.
Mary Bennet was unaccustomed to good news, or any surprising turn in her favor.
The news of a windfall based upon her work moved her deeply.
She didn’t dare think that a run of good luck had begun; instead, she would savor this happy news as a one-off.
As a middle sister, she expected her portion and nothing more.
What a portion this was! The beam of cold blue light on the headband bobbed as she cried, throwing shards of light on the pink linoleum floor and making circles on the speckled tile.
Through her glassy tears, Mary saw a field of pink diamonds that filled her with a sense of her own possibilities, and her future, she hoped, in the American theater.
She stood and wiped her tears on her sleeve.
She turned on the faucet and peered under the sink to see if the duct-taped pipe held against the water pressure. It had.
MRS. BENNET
Mary carried a tray with tea and a fresh sugar cookie up the stairs to her parents’ bedroom.
She shoved the bedroom door open with her elbow and peered inside.
Her mother, fully dressed in slacks and a blouse, lay on the bed and studied the television set.
Her gray hair was pulled back into a low bun, which Mary had brushed into place that morning.
Mrs. Bennet’s brow was creased with worry lines as she listened to Spectrum News NY1, a local channel that covered stories about the city, from congestion pricing to the weather.
Occasionally, the roving reporters would catch a crime as it was unfolding.
It was essential viewing for Mrs. Bennet—even the questionable content.
“If we get another storm like Sandy, lower Manhattan will overflow like a bathtub.” Mrs. Bennet’s blue eyes were shiny and wet.
“We’ll bob in the filth and muck like plastic toys.
You’ll see.” She waved her hand at the television screen.
“This idiot is talking about sandbags. What good are they in a tsunami? How many blocks are we from the Hudson River?”
“Five blocks.”
“Too close.”
“There won’t be a tsunami, Ma,” Mary said, placing the tray on the chair by the bed. “And we’re far enough from the river. The house is on an incline. We won’t flood out.”
Mrs. Bennet was not comforted. “You made me tea? My Mary.”
“You asked for it, remember?” Mary smiled.
“I did, didn’t I? I try not to be a bother,” her mother said, not meaning it.
“You’re not.”
“I can’t watch another moment of this.” Mrs. Bennet turned off the television. “Television used to be entertaining. Now? It’s a sump pump of nerve-inducing stories designed to upset people. It’s constant. When will it end?”
“You’re fine.” Mary plumped the pillows behind her mother. “Lean forward.”
Mrs. Bennet leaned.
“Now, lean back.”
“Oh, you’re an expert caregiver. You should have been a nurse. Or a PT. Or a doctor.”
“I’m bad at science and math, remember?”
“Oh, please, Mary. Those are just excuses. When you have a weakness, compensate! A little elbow grease and common sense go a long way to counter low SAT scores.”
That she remembers. Mary shook her head as she sat down on the bed. “You’re right, Mom. I’m a compensator. Even my mechanical skills are improving. I fixed my sink. I’m a plumber without a license.”
“See there? There is nothing my Mary cannot do when she puts her mind to it. She’s a star.” Mrs. Bennet had complimented her middle child as though she wasn’t in the room.
Mary stood and began to straighten the space, hanging clothes draped on a chair and stacking magazines neatly.
Mrs. Bennet had a way of pulling her daughter into her emotional twisters.
Mary couldn’t see her mother’s rages coming, even when the signs were the same.
Distemper led to fretting, fretting led to panic, panic giving way to a full-tilt meltdown.
Mary had learned to ride them out. Her sister Lizzie was an expert at it.
If only Mary could be more like Lizzie. Inside Mary’s soul, she was a trash heap of steaming emotions, though on the outside, the only indications were the sweat and squirm, where she couldn’t stand still and settled her nerves with busywork.
Like now. She shifted from one foot to the other as she contemplated the end of the world and gathered empty teacups from the nightstands.
“Why are you sweating?” her mother asked.
“It’s hot in here.”
“It’s freezing. Your father has the heat on sixty-five. Why?”
“To save money, Ma.”
“Of course, I could’ve answered my own question. It’s always about the purse.”
Then why did you ask? Mary wondered. She believed, at her age, in adulthood, she would’ve devised a way to cope with her mother.
“We will soon have to plan Christmas.” Mrs. Bennet pulled a handkerchief out from under her bra strap and began to pull at the edges.
Mary recognized the sign and went to her, placing her hands over her mother’s, which seemed to soothe her. “Mama, listen to me. You don’t have to do a thing. I’ll take care of it. All of it.”
“You need my help with the roast.”
“Happy to have you season it. You can help prep the potatoes, too.”