One morning she decided to bring Catherine out of the back of the house and put her to work in the living room entryway. There wasn’t any doubt that the girl worked hard, and Maddy had her own things to do upstairs. Jane was on the mend from her chicken pox and would be back in school the following week. “The mantel over the fireplace needs cleaning,” Maddy said to Catherine, still manually illustrating every point, “and you can dust the tables. Use the window spray on the mirror.” She squirted the spray as an example. “When you’re through with that I’ll show you how to run the vacuum. God, do you understand anything I say?” Actually, thought Maddy, she’s not at all a stupid girl. “Jane,” she said to her daughter, who was at the foot of the stairs, “don’t bounce the ball in the house.” Jane had a translucent red ball with glitter on it. “If you have that much energy you ought to be in school.”
“I’m sick,” Jane explained.
“Yes, I can see.” She handed Catherine the dust rag and spray gun and went upstairs. In her bedroom she spent a few moments attending to the unmade bed before sitting on the edge of it, looking out the window to the drive, wondering if Lew would return today at noon or three or ten. He had come back at different hours the three previous days, out there driving around; she knew he wasn’t at the studio, since he’d been leaving and arriving without carrying any work. Of course she considered the possibility that he was seeing someone, but she didn’t believe it; she had the feeling it was something worse. How can it be worse? she thought. She sat on the bed with her hands in her lap, looking out the window about five minutes, when she heard a tremendous shattering in the room below.
She leaped up and ran down the stairs. In the living room she found Jane stunned and motionless, the translucent red ball rolling at her feet. The housekeeper stood at the side of the room in terror. In the middle of the floor was the glass of the mirror in pieces, its remaining edge framing a white gouge in the wall. “Christ!” Maddy exploded. She came down the stairs and took her daughter by the hand. “I told you not to bounce it in the house,” she said in rage; the child, amazed, just shook her head. The mother looked at the mirror again and began leading the child up the stairs.
“No,” Maddy heard someone say; it wasn’t lane. She stopped on the stairs and stared down into the living room. “No,” Catherine said again, quietly, the first word Maddy had ever heard from her; and Catherine pointed to herself and pointed at the pieces of the mirror on the floor. She was shaking, struggling for composure. Then Maddy saw her hands. They were slivered with glass, small dots of blood turning to wild streaks down her arms.
With one shard of the mirror and her own bloody hands wrapped in the skirt of her dress, the girl ran from the living room out to the back of the house.
Maddy stood on the stairs several moments before she realized her daughter was watching her, looking up. “Go to your room,” the mother said quietly, “it’s all right. Just go play in your room awhile, okay?” Jane walked slowly to her room, and Maddy finally came down the stairs to pick up some of the glass. She watched in the direction of the kitchen, expecting to see or hear something unimaginable. Then she turned to the front door and said, “Lew?” as though he would arrive on command.
Catherine lay naked on her bed, her hands wrapped in what had been her dress. Her white kitten dozed on her chest between her small breasts, and in her sink lay small pink pieces of glass from her arms. Occasionally she would hold up in front of her the shard of mirror and look into it several moments, for as long as she could stand it. When she didn’t look in the shard she saw her face anyway on the wall in front of her. Over all the months between the jungle and Los Angeles, over the thousands of miles, there was no telling how many hundreds of times her reflection must have flown past her in a mirror, or a window, or on a bright metallic surface. In ears, in boats, in the backs of houses, in entryways and pyramids, in the passage of place and time, opportunities abound for those who know their own faces. She had never known her face. She was as unconscious of its existence as she was of her heart, of which one is aware only when one stops to listen for it. She’d never looked for the image of her face by which she blended into jungles and houses, by which she signaled ships and persuaded men to wager all they had. When she stepped before the Edgars’ mirror, she saw what she’d come to know as the image of treachery and cowardice, by which her father had died, her village had been ripped asunder, and her life changed forever. That the image belonged to her, that it was attached to her hands and body, didn’t alter what it embodied to her. That it was not a shivering creature in water, that the Edgars’ large living room mirror placed her face in another context (when she raised her hands, the image raised its hands; when she gasped, it gasped) did not alter either the treachery or the cowardice but only attached those things to her. All those people, she thought bitterly to herself
