WHAT WE'RE BACK?

Mrs. Dufton had said the clock was an antique, but Cassandra knew the old woman just wanted to dress up the tiny maid’s room. Not that Cassandra was a maid; the Duftons hadn’t been able to afford a live-in maid in decades. No, Cassandra was renting the maid’s room and helping the Duftons finance their son’s unfortunate capentry business. The Duftons had been so desperate for a tennant they did not even mind Mittens.

(Well, Cassandra knew they actually minded very much, but they did a good show of smiling and showing her where the cutlery was when she went to butcher Mittens’s meal.)

Cassandra sat on her bed and waited, watching the clock and studying how the hands moved, and what must be going on with all the little gears inside, and how the grain of the wood went, and no, it really wasn’t nearly as old as Mrs. Dufton had said. Mittens raddled about in his cage, chewing the bones left over from the chicken she’d given him yesterday. Yellow eyes glared evilly at her.

“Hello, Mittens,” Cassandra said quietly. “You’ll be on your best behavior for Mama, right?”

Mittens grunted and scratched his warty bald head with a browning claw. Cassandra should really cleans those… and sharpen them too: any longer and he’d be able to pick the lock again.

She returned her attention to the clock. It was a few minutes fast, she thought. Yes, something about it was a bit off. Her mother would be arriving right on the hour, as her mother always did, and the clock already read a minute past noon.

Sure enough, two minutes later the doorbell rang. Yes, the clock was about three and half minutes fast…

Cassandra listened to Mrs. Dufton greet her mother as she double checked herself in the narrow mirror on the back of her door. Her hair had been teased perfectly into place and she had managed not to smear her lipstick in the past half she’d had it on. She turned to the side and smoothed the back of her skirt. Then she lifted and lowered her arm twice to make sure her blouse sleeve would keep the bite on her wrist properly covered.

Cassandra noiselessly opened and closed the door and walked as gracefully as she could to greet her mother. The older woman was stil in the foyer with Mrs. Dufton, slowly handing over her handbag and and hat and parasol for Mrs. Dufton to hide away somewhere. Both their backs were to Cassandra and she watched them silently, reading their body lanaguage the way only she could.

Mrs. Dufton thought it was awfully strange for a modern woman to carry a parasol, but oh wasn’t this pocket book nice, and her wedding ring too, Cassie must come from a nice family after all. Meanwhile, Cassandra’s mother was sizing up Mrs. Dufton’s olive complexion– lucky woman probably didn’t have to worry about things like freckles and moles, although she hoped that she wasn’t feeding Cassandra whatever was causing those lovehandles.

“Good afternoon, Mama,” Cassandra said finally.

Cassandra’s mother did not react beyond turning around. Mrs. Dufton jumped and then laughed nervously.

“Afternoon, Cassie,” the plump woman greeted. “I swear, Mrs. Lombard– your daughter walks like a cat!”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Lombard agreed. Cassandra tried not to wince. She could see– no, feel– her mother’s mind crumbling with disappointment. Her daughter could never do anything all the way. She could glide through rooms silently and gracefully, but she never had any presence, she was always and afterthought, she could never–

Cassandra turned to Mrs. Dufton so she wouldn’t have to look at it anymore. “Shall we eat on the patio?” she asked. “It’s a lovely day, and I’m sure mother will love the garden.”

Mrs. Lombard was sufficiently pleased with the little closed in patio the Duftons had at the back of the house. It was shaded enough to not bother her skin, yet it let in a pleasant breeze and Mrs. Dufton’s overflowing garden surrounded them. It was untidy, but pretty enough.

Mrs. Dufton settled them down with a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of cookies before rushing off to finish lunch and hunt down the rest of her family. When her hurried footsteps had disappeared down the hall, Mrs. Lombard reached over and gripped Cassandra’s hand.

“She does know, right?” she asked, thin lips pinching together.

“Of course she does, Mama,” Cassandra answered, eyeing the birthmark on her mother’s thumb, the one that mirrored Cassandra’s own. It was faded by make up. “I mean, I didn’t outright tell her, but as soon as I explained about Mittens she knew…”

Mrs. Lombard narrowed her eyes but relaxed her grip on Cassandra’s hand.

“You should tell her. That way, she knows you know.”

“Yes, Mama,” Cassandra muttered, not raising her eyes.

“Good girl. I’m proud of you,” Mrs. Lombard said and poored them both glasses of lemonade.

They spent the next few minutes in silence. Cassandra could never quite riddle out this part of her mother. The woman was proud of her daughter, but also… it was a pride tinted with something like fear-disgrace-disgust.

Mrs. Dufton returned her her husaband and son. The two men were each carrying a pot of soup and a plate of sandwhiches. Mrs. Dufton served them all and the family chatted amiably while the Lombards watched.

“So where’s Mr. Lombard?” Mr. Dufton asked after they’d exhausted all the new town gossip for that weekend.

“In town, visiting his brother,” Mrs. Lombard answered with polite stiffness. “He’ll stop by in a bit.”

Mr. Dufton asked some more about the family, but Mrs. Lombard would only offer vague, clipped answers. Cassandra stayed quiet until the Duftons son, Jeremy, happened to say:

“I think I’ll build something for the gremlin, a little house to sleep in or soemthing. How’s that sound, Cassie?”

“Oh,” said Cassandra, taken off guard though she should have expected it. “That’d be lovely. I’m sure Mittens will appreciate it.”

Mrs. Lombard snorted. “Little demon is more likely to destroy it,” she said. “Best not to bother.”

Jeremy’s face fell. Cassandra winced. She hated when her mother did things like that. She wanted to be friendly with the people she lived with.

“Did you know,” she said, acting on a sudden impulse, “I think Mr. Walker is having an affair?”

The most gossipy family in town errupted into excited chatter. Mrs. Lombard nearly dropped her spoon. She fixed her daughter with a fierce, reprimanding look. How dare Cassandra know these things?

This was why Mrs. Lombards pride in her daughter was not pure. Cassandra would have to except it.