“So, that’s a no?” Lucy says with a weak smile.
“Yes. It’s a no,” Jane says, surprised by her own passion. “I mean, I think that’s what Charlotte thought, but it sounds like she was kind of . . . an oddball. Have you been talking to Kiran about Charlotte?”
“No, it’s just a feeling I get,” says Lucy. “Tell me if you change your mind. It’s a lonely point of view.”
As Lucy leaves, Jane sees the self-defense umbrella, suddenly, that she needs to make. When it’s closed, it’ll feel like a blade in her hand, good for slicing through bloated air. Then it’ll open with a loud crack, good for shoving bad things away. Yes, she thinks. I’ll just stay here on the rug and contemplate it, but when she lies back, her mind keeps picturing Octavian’s sad little crumpled corner in the library. What kind of umbrella would that make?
She gets up once to let Jasper out, then lies down again. Air and water push distantly through pipes in an uneven concert of noises like melancholy sighing. Jane finds herself stroking the rug, as if to soothe herself, or someone else.
*
The house’s soft sounds fit themselves as harmonies around Jane’s lathe, her drill, her rotary saw, her sewing machine, her own absentminded humming. The glass wall captures heat and light and channels it into Jane as fuel for her focus. The energy of the room strips everything else away; the umbrella she’s building is the entire world.
In fact, it has ribs like Jane. It has one long leg on which its other parts balance; it has moving and bending joints, like Jane, and it has a skin that stretches across its bones. Jane will paint on that skin, just as the tattoo artist marked Jane’s skin. How nice, to have a weather-resistant skin and a body that can vibrate with tension or be at rest. How satisfying to have working parts, lovingly crafted. Rain is a musical patter against Jane’s imagination. Every umbrella is born knowing that sound, its soul straining for that sound, waiting patiently through rainless day after rainless day for the day when raindrops will thrum against its skin.
Jane shakes herself, confused. She wonders, are those really her thoughts? Why does it feel like she’s thinking someone else’s thoughts? She’s too warm, and, when she tries to remember, she’s not certain what she’s been doing for the past however-long. She vaguely recalls . . . an intense connection with the umbrella she’s making. Her ears still hurt and she becomes aware of her own repetitive humming. It’s a Beatles tune, “Eleanor Rigby,” about loneliness.
Jane grips the edge of her worktable, takes a jellyfish breath. Then, under her fingers, she discovers a carving of a gentle whale shark swimming with its babies. It runs along the edge in intricate detail. Ivy must’ve made this table. Ivy, Jane thinks, her mind clearing. Aunt Magnolia. Me.
Why does Jane smell paint?
Turning suddenly to the work she’s been doing, Jane finds a half-painted scene on her umbrella canopy. It looks like the dark brown and black books of the library, and a smudge that’s the beginnings of Octavian’s divan. This wasn’t the plan; this was supposed to be her self-defense umbrella. When did she get so off track?
Jane slaps her paints closed. She needs air, she needs to open a window.
At the wall, she discovers that one of the low panes of glass is designed to crank open. The joint is stiff, but, determined now, she uses her own tools to oil it. Applying all her strength, she manages to budge it slightly. A feeble current of cool air drifts in through the crack.
Jane puts the self-defense umbrella-in-progress aside. It’s pulling too hard. It’s unnerving. She’ll repair and improve Lucy’s navy umbrella instead.
The repair to the bent rib is a few minutes’ work. As for the embellishments—Lucy, Jane expects, will prefer something on the more quiet and tasteful end of the spectrum. Tiny, glimmering stars in a night sky, maybe—the most obvious approach when one’s tools are a navy canopy, glue, and glitter—or maybe something even plainer.
Choosing a gore, Jane spreads an even stripe of glue across it. Simple lines, few in number. She’ll start with that, exercise restraint, and see where it leads.
Some unknown length of time later, a noise in the house, like a yell, touches Jane. She misses a high note in the song she’s singing and the dissonance jars her out of a haze. It’s another Beatles tune, “She’s Leaving Home,” about a girl who runs away from home, abandoning her well-intentioned but repressive parents, leaving them to dwell in their own heartbreak and confusion. Jane wasn’t even aware of knowing the lyrics to that song. She’s changed the lyrics too. She’s replaced all the names and pronouns with “Charlotte,” as if all the people in the song—girl, mother, and father—are named Charlotte. “Charlotte’s leaving home, bye-bye.”
Jane discovers that she’s moved away from Ivy’s table, though she doesn’t remember picking her supplies up and carrying them across the room. She seems to be working on the tarp on the floor, her legs crossed, her back bent and aching. She straightens herself, stretching her neck. Then she takes a look at what she’s done to Lucy’s umbrella and is horrified.
The stripes she started with have become the bars of a prison cell. Behind the bars, a woman sits on a cot, one leg propped up, her head thrown back against the wall, eyes staring out, face grim. The whole scene is rich with shadows and depth, composed of various colors and thicknesses of glue and glitter, an impressive artistic feat considering the awkwardness of her media. The woman even wears an orange glitter jumpsuit. A book rests on her thigh.
The smooth curve of her hair makes her look an awful lot like Lucy.
Oh, hell, Jane thinks. How did that happen?
Someone somewhere in the house is shouting, the sharp fury of a male voice somewhere near. Another male voice responds with a roar and Jane recognizes the tone of this argument; she’s heard these voices raised against each other before: Ravi and Octavian are at it again. Still holding Lucy’s jailbird umbrella open, Jane stumbles into her bedroom, becoming aware that Jasper is whimpering on the other side of the door, scratching to get in. How long has he been out there? Everyone in this house is unhappy. When Jane opens the door, Jasper surges in and runs circles around her, barking too loudly.
Ignoring Jasper as best she can and still carrying the open umbrella, Jane moves down the corridor toward the shouting voices, which seem to be coming from somewhere between her rooms and the Venetian courtyard. “Aye, aye,” she says vaguely, almost tripping over Captain Polepants.
The noisy room is Octavian’s bedroom. Octavian sits upright in an enormous, tall bed, tangled silk covers pulled to his waist, wearing a T-shirt that says “All You Need Is Love.” He’s rubbing his pale face wearily, squinting at the light from open curtains.
Ivy stands at the foot of the bed next to Ravi, who is shouting and waving his arms around.
“You don’t even care, Dad!” says Ravi. “You’re like a shell with nothing inside. You’re turning into a ghost. Soon you’ll be able to walk through the walls!”
“That may be,” says Octavian through steeled teeth, “but I forbid you, positively forbid you, to rifle through the possessions of the staff members or the guests of this house in pursuit of the answers to your self-righteous questions.”
Ivy’s got a small yellow daffodil behind one ear. Lucy St. George is just inside the door, her eyes wide and shocked and focused on Ravi. And Kiran leans against a wall with her arms crossed and an insolent expression on her face, like a mutinying twelve-year-old.
Jane remains in the doorway, holding Lucy’s redecorated umbrella out into the corridor behind her, where the wet glue and glitter are less in danger of bashing into a doorframe and making a sparkly mess. Jasper is butting her calves, repeatedly, which is annoying.