Wallflower

emphasizes the blush generated from within.

Her eyes, too, are red, as if from weeping.

The second figure, older, shorter, plump, sits opposite the first in a high-backed chair. She is dressed in a too-tight strapless crimson gown which can barely contain her bodice. Her eyes are narrowed as she stares with cold reproach at the younger woman's face. But the younger woman does not return the seated woman I s gaze.

Rather, her eyes engage the eyes of a third woman, actually a painted image hanging on the wall just above the seated woman's chair. This woman, the one in the picture, wears the same crimson gown as the live woman below, but the garment suits her better. While the breasts of the seated woman are constricted by her gown, the bosoms of the painted woman fill hers perfectly. There is a cunous resemblance between the seated woman and the painted one that must haunt a spectator. It is as if each one's face, in a completely different way, is a caricature of the other's.

But perhaps what would seem most strange would be the powerful force field of emotions that appears to exist among these players. A spectator would know that the three are bound to one another in some inexorable and yet tragic way, bound so tightly and forcefully that anything outside their triangle, any person or event, would have no meaning to them at all.

'She says she did it because Jessica wouldn't return her bow! What do you think, Mama? Hours of punitive bracing and she comes up with that.'

'The bow we gave-'

'Right, Mama, the bow we presented to her when she came back from commando school in Colorado. Rememher, she was first in her class out there, and we thought she ought to be rewarded for doing so well, especially as most of the other students were males. Besides, she'd told us her martial arts instructor had suggested she take up archery to hone her concentration. So we mailordered an excellent target bow and set of arrows and laid them out for her on the bed so she'd see them first thing when she reported in after her trip.'

'But wasn't there another connection?'

'Of course, Mama! Do you think I'm such a bad analyst I didn't understand what was going on?'

'Gosh, Bev, you're touchy today. I don't think you're a bad analyst at all.'

'Forgive me, Mama. I thought you were implying that I wasn't aware of the play on words. Because, of course, I was. Diana wanted a bow so she could play archer, or should I say 'Archer'? She liked being the patient but also wanted to play at being Doctor or at least try out the authority role for a while. If she had a bow in her hands, she'd be a kind of Archer, with real potency, too, as a bow can be an extremely powerful weapon.'

'You were always a wonderful analyst, Bev. You have your deficiencies. Who doesn't? But you've always been good at your job.'

'What deficiencies?' 'Oh, please, let's not get into that.'

'I think we should get into it. I've known for some time you've found me deficient. Now's as good a time as any to clear the air.

I'm waiting, Mama. Tell me where you find me wanting. I can take your criticism. God knows, I've taken it all my life.'

'You're sure you want to hear it?'

'I'm sure.'

'Okay, but just remember you asked for it. So don't complain.'

'I won't.'

'Let's start with this wallflower business.' 'Is that what it is? A 'business'?'

'You know what I mean.'

'I'm not sure I do. I happen to be a wallflower.' 'No, dear, that's what you made yourself into. No one's born a wallflower. A wallflower creates herself. Something in you likes being a wallflower, so you have Tool leave those flowers beside the walls, as if-'

'As if what, damn it, Mama?' 'There, see, you're getting angry. You were always so touchy, Bev. You could never take the slightest bit of criticism.' 'Never mind that! Just tell me how I've made myself into a wallflower, since that seems to be what you think.'

'It's not just what I think, dear. It's the truth. And having Tool leave those homely, withered flowers by the bodies only reinforces your negative self-image. Which, frankly, you could remedy if you'd just ftnd yourself somebody who… you know.'

'Somebody to screw me. That's what you mean, isn't it?' 'I knew this dialogue was going to turn unpleasant, Bev. I think it would be better if we stop talking.'

'Certainly, Mama, if that's the way you want it…

There's a difference, Mama, a big difference between us. It's important for you to understand the difference and why, as much as I might like, I cannot be like you. For one thing, I don't have your looks. I know, I'm not really bad-looking. And I certainly don't feel sorry for myself. In this world, as I so often remind my patients, you've got to play the hand you're dealt. But you're beautiful, Mama. Just look at yourself, your eyes, complexion, bones, the marvelous planes of your face. There were those who called you the most beautiful woman in Cleveland. You played the part, too. Grand. Mysterious. Elusive. Even cruel at times. Not really cruel in the sense of mean or small, but cruel in the way that a great woman projects cruelty, becoming, as the poet said, a Lady of Pain. Mystical. Unfathomable. My nurturer and my nemesis.

It was you who taught me the lines:

Cold eyelids that hide like a jewel Hard eyes that grow softfor an hour, The heavy white limbs, and the cruel Red mouth like a venomous flower.

Sometimes when I'm lying in bed, I look up at you and think: How could I, little me, be the child of such magnificence? I know I shouldn't run myself down. I am who I am and, as such, am as valuable as any other human on this earth. But it hasn't always been easy being your daughter. I never had your stature, your beauty, your compelling personality. I had to find my own way to power, and the way I found, the way of concealment and craft, is not nearly as attractive as yours. While you own. That won't be hard. All the receipts from her various trips, the paper trail as they call it, have been safely preserved on our orders in her room. And Carl Drucker will gladly testify that we resisted when he first broached release. The most important thing is to make sure the little lynx hasn't kept a diary or anything that can directly tie us to the crimes.

Of course, we are tied to them indirectly: It was her insane obsession with us that pushed her to kill these various figures from our past.

That's easily documented. All the information she needed was available in our personal files, to which she had ready access by virtue of living in the basement of our house. The plan is foolproof. Even if the cops suspect our influence, all the evidence will point to Tool alone. But we mustn't forget to move the trophies. they mustn't be in front of the portrait; rather, they have to be hidden away in various comers and drawers. The paper trail should nail her nicely, as will the wallflower trap we laid so carefully at Carlisle. We'll have to do it quickly. It will take all our courage, and we'll have only one chance to get it right. The staging must conform to the provocation: Tool tried to kill us; we struck back at her in self-defense. After all, she's a confessed killer. All we ever wanted was to help her adjust. She attacked us, her therapist and mother surrogate, just the way she attacked her own mother, with an ax.

We managed to kill her only because she slipped. Another second and her ax would have split our skull. We defended ourself-, we had no choice. It was either her or us.

Too bad, of course, but now that we gather she killed all those other fine people, whole families of them, it seems, and by so doing replicated her original crime against her own family-well, we can't help wondering if perhaps she's not better off dead. This may seem odd, coming as it does from a healer, but we truly believe there are times a person is truly better off in the grave than living possessed by the kind of demons that ravaged poor young Diana Proctor's tormented soul.

Where are you, Mama? I need you now, need you so much! Why are you silent? Talk to me. Please, talk to me! Pleeeeeease!

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