Alysse Aallyn

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  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 8 – The Psychic Link

    Power is some heady thing.

    Maybe it meant I could get some

    Questions answered.

    “You really think she stole his jewels?”

    He pulled away.

    “Loose diamonds were his wedding gift.”

    Well, THAT seemed weird. 

    I envisaged the rock weighing down

    Mirabel’s finger. 

    Had it come from Ravi?

    If he threatened prosecution

    Would that be enough

    To make her disappear?

     “At least he gave us one name.” I offered. 

    “Jacobson’s.” Verne’s face set 

    Mulishly. 

    “A toady!”

    Seemed to me Verne enjoys me pushing 

    As much as he treasures

    His resistance. So I pressed on.

    No more of this false modesty. 

    “How long’d she work for him?”

    Sore subject! He thrashed in his seat

    Like a captured cat.

    “Years. I took her to England

    To make her break things off

    Only to discover

    He was still hounding her with

    Requests.” Requests?

    “What requests?”

    Fingers drummed. “Scouting.”

    “Scouting for what?”

    “Well, he’s a porn producer.”

    Verne touched my knee to

    See into my eyes. “I’m sorry.”

    Was this the secret Mirabel

    Did not want me to know?

    Was this why she disappeared?

     “Was there…anything between them?”

    “Definitely at first. I wooed her away.”

    He considered. “He disappointed her somehow.” 

    Not hard for married men to do!

    Verne looked at his hands.

    “In Europe

    He asked her to launder money

    Buying diamonds. I think it was a trap.”

    I caught on quick. 

    “He set up the theft?”

    In Ravi’s mind was he the only

    Rightful owner and

    Everyone else a thief?

    Verne explained:

    “He wanted people around him

    Who couldn’t get away.”

    Why did that sound like such

    A perfect description of Verne?

    Here’s Mirabel surrounded by

    Men wanting to shackle her;

    Possess her utterly. It’s a

    Horror tale. I shuddered.

    It made ME long to disappear.

    But; it also made it a lot less likely 

    She escaped to be with him.

    “Where’s Mrs. Ravi?”

     “He SAYS his wife lives in Paris. But

    No one’s ever seen her.”

    Could we have two, not just one

    Missing brides? Was marriage itself

    A disappearance?

    As we conversed

    Another limo pulled up, a

    Beaver-coated man rushed from

    The building – Ravi! And off they went.

    I made my decision.

    “Follow that car!”

    Back to Brooklyn.

    Obviously that address meant something

    After all. “Stop here,” I ordered

    At the final turn.  Now that we knew

    His destination why risk

    Confrontation?

    “But he lied to us!” Swore Verne.

    “Just watch,” I argued,

    “He’s one step behind.”  

    Ravi vaulted from the car

    Phone clutched to ear and paced,

    Shaking his fist at the darkened sky.

    “Look. He’s blowing up her phone.

    And see? She’s not answering,”

    I pointed out. “She’s long gone. Maybe

    She kept a vehicle here.”

    “She didn’t have a license,” quibbled

    Verne. But he seemed oddly cheered.

    Slowly, I was becoming his 

    Authority. Already I felt I knew Mirabel

    Better than he ever could.

    So, I didn’t bother telling him

    How easily fake licenses are to get –

    Girls must keep some secrets.

    Verne’s new role was

    To unplug his thoughts 

    And wave them about

    Like a series of semaphores.

    “Maybe it was my mistake to insist

    We be married in New York. But

    I wanted to meet her family.”

    I could HEAR this tale

    Evolving. Hadn’t he said that was 

    Mirabel’s idea? Were the two of them 

    Ever separate in his mind? 

    I flirted with the notion of men as

    Paramecia, seeking islands

    To engulf & absorb.

      “Let’s sleep on it,”

    I suggested. “Give her a chance

    To contact us.” It would take 2 Benedryl 

    To sleep with all this buzz. I wished

    He’d take his hand off my knee

    But I recognized this as a

    Compromise, when I could tell

    By his eyes that what he really wanted

    Was to launch himself into my lap.

    But why say that

    Just when we were getting along

    So splendidly?

    She wasn’t “home” at the unhomeless

    Home. She’d get as far as possible

    From any address associated

    With these two men.

    But what was MY future?

    That was the deepest mystery here.

    Now Verne was trying to hold

    My hand, laying his head

    Awkwardly along my shoulder.

     “You’re such a comfort. 

    Did you share sister secrets?”

    I could feel his inner engine

    Throbbing, luring

    Me to be fake with him.

    I know my parents do it – beg that

    Opiate of reassurance.

    I can’t do it with them

    And I couldn’t with him.

    “Buck up –“

    I braced him, “We’ll

    Find out more tomorrow.”

    He unloosed my hand and

    Glared at me distastefully.

    “I blame this androgyny,”

    He grumbled. “Girls have lost the art

    Of coquetry.”

    Good riddance, I thought.

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 7 – Bride & Seek

    In the elevator Verne requested: 

    “Game face only.” I was bemused.

    Which game is that?

    “Bride and Seek” – the ancient

    Party game – requires someone 

    Getting locked in an airtight trunk

    Does not end well, as I recall.

    We decanted on the penthouse floor.

    Battle of the Rich Men, I thought,

    Who knew that’s how my

    Weekend would devolve?

     But this man’s apartment seemed really his

    As opposed to Verne’s

    Antiseptic rented rooms – 

    Each gaudy piece carefully curated, 

    Trucked in from God knows where

     Art deco friezes,

    Naked ebony statues –

    Bows & arrows –

    Lots of brass and torchieres.

    And that’s just the hall.

     Leather paneled, copper nailed door 

    Opened before we even rang the bell and 

    A handsome, shorter, older man

    Stood before us in bathrobe and slippers.

    Mirabel with this guy?

    What is the use of beauty

    If this is all it gets you

    Verne’s at least good-looking. 

    “Why, Verne,” he said in a voice even I

    Recognized as jovially false: 

    “What brings you at this hour?

    Please come in.” Bizarre foreign accent

    I couldn’t place.

    He took my hand, mauling it like many

    An unbalanced teacher at my Special School

    for Introducing Adolescents to Adult Subjects

    Long Before They’re Ready.

    I am practiced at closing my mind

    Against these guys

    Even as they woo me.

     “You can only be Mirabel’s lost sister.”

    “That’s just it,” I said, “It’s Mirabel who’s lost, not me.”

    “I’m Ravi Kruptupian,” said the man, 

    Refusing to let go.

    Subtle power struggle – your manners make no

    Purchase here –

    My first flicker of

    Actual fear – alone in the world

    With two strange men who wore

    Compulsive need like ad logos.

    I can’t fault Mirabel for deciding 

     Better disappear than marry amongst this ilk but

    Where does that leave ME?

     “Welcome to my enchanted forest,”

    Said the man in the bathrobe.

    “Please leave your shoes by the door.”

    He slid the bolt as

    We came through.

     “I know it’s late,” Verne began,

    Ravi said, “Never care about the time. Drink?

    Pot of coffee?”

    Kruptupian’s inner rooms did not reassure.

    Dark, hand-carved, certainly fake

    Tree branches projected from the walls

    Displaying riots of glittering glass objects.

    Coffee appeared from

    A wall recess. Why not? 

    Spiked mine with hot milk and brown lump sugar.

    “Where exactly did Mirabel SAY she was going?”

    Asked this man as if he and Mirabel’d never met.

    “Aren’t you supposed to be

    Honeymooning?”

    Was that a tinge of glee I heard?

    I’m sure Verne heard it too.

    He might go off on any moment –

    I didn’t think he was coping well –

    Game face was NOT in evidence.

    We sat in an upholstered leather booth

    Highbacked –

    Plundered from some café.

    “She didn’t say,” said Verne.

     “She was joining us for dinner,”

    I told this strange new man.

    “I just arrived on the six o’clock train.”

    “Sisters can be difficult,” said Ravi.

    “Or so I’ve heard.

    Your relationship was good?”

    Wow! Mirabel wasn’t great at telling folks

    The basic facts about her family.

    Was he implying

    Mirabel left because of ME?

    Two Marshott girls never breathe at once?

    I decided not to get into it.

    “She seemed fine when we tried on clothes together,”

    I began to feel hopped up on coffee.

    Quit that stuff

    Before the shaking hands. I

    Banged my mug upon his shiny table.

    “I heard you knew her well.”

    Let him think she’d squealed –

    I smiled in a way that forecloses

    Further questions and

    He blinked indulgently.

    “I haven’t heard a word 

    Since her going away party.”

    Ripple of surprise from Verne.

     “Going-away party” unknown to groom?

    Ravi kept smiling. 

    He had a lot of teeth.

    “Maybe she needs a honeymoon alone

    I heartily recommend 

    Fall in love with your SELF first.”

    We did not believe him for a minute –

    He was needling Verne.

    This bad conversation somehow seemed

    To be endlessly getting worse.

    “She certainly had the means –

     I gave her a generous parting gift

    Then found out she helped herself to more.”

    His face hardened, steely-eyed.

    “I didn’t know until she tried to fence my stones.”

    “Mirabel stole from you?”  spluttered Verne.

    “Who knows what went through her mind,” 

    Ravi spread his hands in apology.

    “She may have been confused about my gift.

    No harm done.

    Jacobson returned the stones.”

    What did all this mean? Don’t worry about Mirabel,

    She’s just a little thief?

    Disappearing from humiliation, exposure & shame?

    I felt surge of prosecutorial passion:

    Was it possible to get to the bottom of this?

    Never had “game face” seemed so

    Dangerous and unappealing.

    “She worked for you?”

    I tried to clarify.

     “She was my scout. She brought me – 

    Things I might want to buy.”

    Verne’s boil burst.

    “She never for anything with me!”

    He sounded ready for a fight

    But defending his money, his charm or

    My sister?

    Ravi skirted the issue

    With old-world politesse.

    “Women keep some expenses private.”

    That’s true as dirt;

    My mother calls it “mad money”.

    A hundred dollars tucked inside

    Your bra. Verne would never best this man

     Except in hotness and

    Eligibility. Someone

    Needed to tell him he was “enough”;

    Probably that was Mirabel’s job

    And she got tired of doing it.

    I was not the one to explain to him.

    I pursued investigation.

    “Did she call you?”

    Ravi pulled out his phone. 

    Flicked through content. “I don’t see it.”

    “She took a car to the wilds of Brooklyn,”

    Verne asserted, coming back up

    Like a Bobo doll.

    “Know anything about that?”

    He was overly combative – this

    Wouldn’t get us anywhere.

    “What address?” At least

    Ravi seemed interested.

    Luckily Verne recalled it.

    Ravi remained impassive.

    “I’ve got no information.”

    Verne stood up. This felt bad.

    “Sure she isn’t hiding here? Using some old key?”

    Ravi rose too. 

    Short but still impressive.

    “She never had a key. She couldn’t enter

     Without my knowing. I’d rather

    My house guests weren’t disturbed.”

    Verne veered away. Fisticuffs avoided.

    Ravi walked us  – miming helpfulness

    Towards the door.

    “I suggest missing persons.

    Get police involved.”

    He seemed to know this would insult Verne further

    And it did but Verne shook it off, 

    A punch-drunk fighter.

    “What good are they?”

    Ravi pushed his luck.

    “Troll the basics – hospitals and morgues.”

    Verne’s face melted into gargoyle. 

    Turning to me Ravi backtracked –

    “Likely bridal nerves?  The engagement was

    So sudden.”

    “We’ve been together forever!”

    Verne barked. I took his arm.

    “Sorry if we’ve inconvenienced you.”

    Somehow the door got opened.

    “No problem. Let me know if she turns up.”

    I shoehorned Verne outside.

    “You’ll tell us if she calls?”

    “If that’s what Mirabel wants.”

    I got the door shut before Verne

    Attacked him.

    “I hate that guy! He’s so disgusting!

    How I wish we hadn’t come!”

    I thought he might weep.

    The elevator opened without a

    Summons. This whole place seemed

    Intent on ridding itself of us.

    But Verne resisted. “I bet she’s in there.”

    He looked back longingly.

    “I bet she’s not.” I muscled him

    Into the elevator.

     “How do you know?”

    He looked at me as if I had

    Magic powers.

    “He accused Mirabel of stealing!”

    Verne blew that off.

    “Mirabel’s light-fingered.

    He steals from the world, she steals from him.”

    He didn’t seem to realize 

    This philosophy could apply to him.

    Why marry someone you can’t trust?

    One more thing I still don’t get

    About Adult World.

    I reassured him.

    “She burned that bridge. I could tell.”

    Verne taxed me with how I knew –

    Sneering, “Woman’s intuition?”

    Since he couldn’t trust Mirabel

    How could he trust me?

    Needing me made him hate me.

    I would have to manage him 

    Like a parent. Like poor

    Mirabel herself. Luckily

    He relaxed into the car without more fuss.

    I said, humoresque – “I’m psychic.”

    I say that to my folks because

    They’re just so clueless about

    Others’ vital signs –

    How else explain the obvious? But

    Verne’s whole face changed. He became

    Pathetically excited.

    “Of course!” he said.

    “The sister thing! It creates

    A Psychic link. I have no siblings. 

    Tell me what you feel?

    Where’d she go?”

    The driver also needed to know:

    Where to?

    We put him on pause while

    I equivocated. 

     “I haven’t seen her in so long,

    The connection’s fogged.”

    The only thing I knew for sure was

    Mirabel must hate Ravi just like I did.

    “I need to get to know her again.”

    “Tell me where to go,” said Verne.

    Then he invoked the magic words.

    “I’ll do anything.”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 6 –

     Alt-Mirabel

    To be around Verne

    Was to feel

    Too many emotions at once –

    I almost don’t want to remember them.

    Depression, disgust, anger,

    Amazement.

    Safe to say

    I’m not “alt-Mirabel”

    And never will be.

    When my journey began it’s true

    I vaguely envied Mirabel 

    Enjoyed imagining

    The Perfect Life –

    How delicious doing only

    What you want!

    Some relief to feel above it all! 

    But now I saw her slavery.

    Still conundrums proliferate.

    How and where had Mirabel

     Learned to pretend so effectively?

    Had she studied foxing Mom and Dad and

    Turned it into outwitting this

    Aristocratic partial-wit?

    He who declared that;

    Thesis, antithesis

    Synthesis – so, if I’m not Mirabel

    I must be her opposite.

    His definition for rivalry.

    Girlfight!

    Naturally that explains

     Why he tried to kiss me.

    What can The Real Richenda say to

    A man so uninterested in her existence?

    “I’m changing,” I said abruptly.

    “Getting out of this idiotic dress.”

     “The car’s downstairs,” said Verne. 

    “You don’t have time.

    He’ll take us where she went.”

    “Go without me,”

    I said. “I’m changing.”

    A clash of wills;

    How did I know he wouldn’t?

    I joined them downstairs

    Wearing my oldest jeans and my Three Mad Cats

    T-shirt -turned out Mirabel had gone to

    Brooklyn, apparently – it seemed a long, long way.

    The driver was unhelpful – Mirabel’d said nothing and

    He was a glum fellow taken for

    Himself. We halted in the warehouse district. 

    Verne coaxed him to wait while we stepped out of the car.

    Pessimism was back.

    “Nothing here. I hoped she’d get sloppy.”

    I had my own ideas.

    Looking for the “other man”

    Verne forgot the critical

    Importance of staging areas; or perhaps

    He never knew – maybe he’s

    The kind of guy who thinks

    Women awake made up for him

    .

    Behind one of these doors could there be a place

    Where she changed from one facade to the next –

    But they were all unlabeled –

    No numbers, no doorbells,

    Broken-looking speaker units.

    Impossible to tell.

    But the psychic bond persisted.

    I was beginning to get a sense of her –

    Inhaled like faint perfume –

    My confidence conferred a heady power.

    I wasn’t alt-Mirabel

    But I did feel I knew her

    Better than he did;

    I’d seen her just beginning

    Before she polished up her act

    And took it on the road.

    The question was never –

    When did Mirabel get so wily? I felt

    She’d always been this way – but

    Now I wondered;

    Had her plans EVER

    Included us?

     “Maybe she met another car,”

    Verne offered, 

    “Parked somewhere out of sight.”

    That nemesis of his again – he preferred 

    A universe of dastard rivals. 

    We savored the possibility.

    The night was silent.

    “Well, who?” I asked.

    Verne sighed.

    “One chance left,” he said. “Humiliation, but 

    What have I got to lose?”

    I think he had already lost it

    But said nothing.

    Looking him up and down

    I wondered idly how many on this planet –

    Four fifths? Two thirds?

    Would trade places with this guy.

    My mother’s drill-sergeant voice snapped

    Inside my head, demanding he “buck up.”

    He gave the driver an address on the Upper East Side 

    And we settled in for another 

    Lengthy ride.

    “So…where are we going?”

    “Mirabel had a job – personal assistant to…

    This man and they

    Were friends. Too close for me.

    He might know something.”

    “Was he invited to the wedding?”

    Inquire I.  Ingenuously.

    “No. His wife thought they

    Were too close too. Let’s say I thought

    He dismissed her with

    An overly generous gift.”

    Aha. Torn between rich men,

    And only one of them

    Unmarried.

    Picture becoming clearer. 

    Verne drummed his fingers,

    Grim but seeming cheered.

    “She might be there. If we take him by surprise.”

    His eyes raked me over.

    “You were smart to change.

    Sorry for rushing you.

    Button up your coat. I want to

    Push you front and center.”

    I understood he

    Prepared to use the

    Adolescence; familial relationship 

    So recently forgotten –

    He had the nerve to congratulate me

    For dressing down to

    Young and vulnerable.

    Really they deserved each other.

    “He won’t care

    About me – I’m just the jilted bridegroom – 

    I’m sure she complained about me to him

    Just as she complained to me about him – but

    He’ll be interested in you.”

    Hmm. Yes. Abandoned sister. 

    The suburbs were dull but the city’s

    Charm now seemed theatrical; everyone required

    To play roles.

    Hilariously, both these men

    Would look to me for clues to who

    Mirabel had been.

    At another golden barracks

    The doorman demanded the

    Purpose of our visit. 

    Verne said, “Emergency.” 

    He flashed a picture 

    From his phone. “Seen this girl tonight?”

    The man shook his head, consulting his service phone.

    “Penthouse Suite. Mr. Kruptupian will see you now.”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    “Where would she go?

    You must have some

    Guy in mind?”

    Verne looked so childish, shoulders collapsed,  

    Unresponsive iPhone fallen to the floor.

    I was not going to mother him.

    I felt sorry for him but I also

    Fel everything was his own damn fault

    How could such a lucky man

    Wealthy and free

    So mismanage his own life?

    Suddenly my dream was

    Magically achieved; I felt

    Old; sophisticated;

    Like HE was fourteen and

    I was thirty-seven.

    I pushed coffee.

    It’s always been my 

    Panacea.

    He sipped in new docility.

    “Black. The way I like it.”

    I corrected brusquely,

    “There is no cream or sugar.”

    “It’s mean strong. I need it

    To fight back.”

    I wish he’d stop raising these

    Disturbing concepts –

    Was that what he liked about me?

    How was that possible when

    He hated it about Mirabel?

    Maybe he was trying to apologize. 

    I muted.

    He studied me ironically.

    “Will you tell The Folks?”

    Mirabel’s word for them.

    Felt a chill. 

    How explain this to the world?

    Did I finally have

    Something to write about for my break essay –

    I could rush home

    To my life as a

     Powerless teenage nobody. 

    “We don’t know what

    Happened.” At the very least we should

    Figure out what the hell

    Was going on.  It’s true that Verne

    Seemed a loose cannon now but

    I could always lock my door.

    Grab that bull by his

    You Know Where.

    “No more kissing. OK?”

    He flushed a dirty red.

    “No. Hell no.

    I’m sorry.”

    “Maybe she’s in trouble.” 

    He shrugged this off.

    “Impossible. She’s just a tease.”

    This did not feel right.

    If she could get out of her depth with Verne she could

    Certainly do it with other men.

    Plenty going on am

    I am curious.

    I was slowly realizing that

    Because Verne was Verne he MIGHT

    Always be the last to know.

    “You really think she’s left you?”

    He writhed. “We played the hurt game

    To the top of our bent This could

    Be her winning shot.”

    What was the score?

    Why inject me?

    Did she owe me or –

    Did I owe her? I said,

    “If she left you

    She left me, too.”

    Why couldn’t I believe

    That Mirabel would ghost me?

    Wasn’t that what she’d always done?

    But it was different now –

    We’d been “sisters” together –

    For one split second.

    Fresh chills fevered me – 

    Was she handing off her bridegroom? 

    The matching dresses were just too weird.

    On the other hand, fashion is transgressive;

    Always trying to break the rules.

    No. no. Can’t go there.

    “Until Mirabel calls it off

    It’s on. This could be nothing. 

    She might come back.

    She’ll call.  Sleep on it. Have some 

    Lemon cake.” He shuddered. Grumpy.

    “I asked for Hazelnut.” 

    I easily imagined a Mirabel

    Blocking his desires.

    He settled for coconut

    Companionably we ate together.

    He’d fed me, now I fed him.

    That’s called a relationship.

    Then he fixed me with

    A gnarly eye.

    “Did she warn you?

    What did she tell you?

    Did she say anything

    About HIM?”

    I always hated third degree.

    I blush as if I’m guilty.

    “She told me nothing,”

    I said coldly. “I

    “Was invited to a wedding.”

    “She’ll never call,” he moaned.

    “She’ll keep the tension up

    Until the victim dies. That’s her way.”

    “Then you should call it off.”

    I scraped the rest of my cake

    Into the trash – I only

    Like the frosting – and

    Hardened myself against their

    Nuptial craziness.

    Verne rose so decisively

    His plate fell to the rug.

    “I’m going to find her,”

     “Game on. She chose me. She doesn’t get 

    Another choice.”

    What was the matter with this man?

    Physically attractive – 

    Wealthy – powerful –

    So insecure?

    The only game with players is REFUSE TO PLAY.

    Mirabel had always coveted those

    She could manipulate. But

    Did I know that of my own

    Knowledge – how could I – or

    Did my parents prompt me?

    That’s the thing about growing up –

     It slowly dawns on you that

    All you’re told is nonsense.

    A dose of sense is

    Obviously required.

    “I think you’re looking at this wrong,

     Mirabel’s frightened

    Of our dad. He’s the “other man.”

    Verne gaped at me,

    His focus readjusting as if

    He saw me for the first time.

    “Explain.”

    “Don’t you know the story?

    She pretended to go to college but really cashed all

    Daddy’s checks and lived the high life.

    She got in trouble with the student loan people,

    Forging documents.  We haven’t heard from her for

    Six years. Dad’s still angry.

    I thought something was up when 

    She wanted to come home.”

    “I didn’t know.  Quite little scamp.”

    He seemed cheered.

    “Think we should wed in church?

    I don’t know one marriage that’s survived ten years.”

    This man could certainly surprise me.

    “Mom and Dad have been married FOREVER,”

    Worse than that –

    Unimaginable without each other;

    A true team – like Laurel & Hardy or

    Abbott & Costello.

    I could imagine no other human

    Puting up with either of them.

    How to convey this?

    “Maybe you shouldn’t get married

    When you are so uncertain,” I suggested.

    Would I get kissed or

    Slapped for interfering?

    Adults don’t like to second-guess but

    Mirabel forced my hand.

    “All our bridges burned,”

    He sighed.

    “The only way is forward.”

    Depressing thought.

    Keeping up this guy’s mood is work.

    “Let’s figure out where she

    Could have possibly gone. Like,

    How would she travel?”

    Verne sat straight up.

    “Car service,” he announced.

    “I pay the bills. We can track her.”

    He worked his phone.

    “I’m so glad 

    “You’re staying. I need you.

    You’re Alt-Mirabel.”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    “I’m a vegetarian,” I said.

    And pushed my plate away.

    “A vegetarian who eats turtles?”

    He challenged me.

     “I was trying to be polite.”

    And now I’d stopped. 

    Saw no reason to continue the game.

    “Americans think food fuss

    Makes them interesting,”

    He snarled. But it turned out

    His disgust was not for me.

    “Oh, imagine that,”

    snorted his Lordship scornfully, 

    Talking to his phone.

    “We’re on our own,

    Mirabel can’t make it.

    And now her phone is locked!

    We’ll see about that! 

    I’m ordering the car. Time to find out just what

    This bride is playing at.”

    Chapter 5 – Unavoidably Detained

    She must have known he’d come

    After her – the apartment was empty.

    Of course she wasn’t there.

    Furniture gazed at me

    Forlornly as I wandered through

    Expensive accommodations crying out

    For individuality and life. 

    The closets were still packed but

    Some of her clothes and luggage

    Could have been gone

    How would I know?

    The bathrooms were still littered with cosmetics –

    Everything replaceable.

    In the long, bare white kitchen I 

    Started a pot of coffee.

    The refrigerator was particularly sad: champagne, 

    A month’s supply of celery juice. 

    And three kinds of wedding cake in origami boxes.

    Mirabel must have returned – however briefly –

    Because someone drank the last of my wine.

    Her dress lay discarded on the floor

    One flounce torn 

    And stepped on,

    Ground beneath a fleeing heel.

    When the coffee was ready

    I sampled the cake –

    I pick lemon though

    Everyone likes coconut and

    Some people are partial to 

    Chocolate raspberry.

    Found Verne collapsed in the bedroom,

    Clutching Mirabel’s dress.

    “I didn’t believe she’d really do it,”

    He said. “I suppose the wedding’s off.” 

    “Maybe she had an errand,”

    I proposed stupidly. 

    “She’ll be back.”

    I bundled the fantasy garment

    Back into its slick bag; a glittering

    Promise too fragile to stand up to actual wear.

    “Don’t you see what’s happened?”

    demanded Verne,

    Trying to recruit me on his case

    “She doesn’t want to marry me. She

    Probably she never did. All along

    There’s been this game. Some another man;

    I know it. Using me as leverage.”

    Was this the double life he’d mentioned?

    Crazy stuff. No way could he get me to sorrow

    Over postponed parties; 

    I saw plenty of reasons not to marry Lord Verne

    And in case I was likely to forget, he demonstrated more.

    He sat on the bed and

    Reached out his arms, clearly thinking 

    I would pet his shoulders

    Or at the very least, kiss his hair

    But chose not to comfort him.

    I preferred to get some facts.

    “Who?” I demanded. Sadly,

    Both of them were bad at facts.

    He held his head.

    “There were so many.”

    I came up with my most 

    Comforting message;

    “Of course she’ll return.

    “Or why on earth invite me here?”

    But a terrible possibility began to niggle in my brain.

    He certainly was suspicious of her

    So probably watched her

    Like a hawk. What if the whole wedding – 

    And my presence – was only to allow escape?

    It was so thoughtless and cruel I knew nobody I dared

    Explain it to; but it also sounded just like her;

    The Mirabel who pretended to go to college, 

    To have diseases,

    To be in jail; All to wrest

    Advantage from the poor old folks. 

    What would she care about me?

    Verne turned to me a tear-stained face –

    I was amazed – and just

    As I was thinking he couldn’t be a rapist –

    Grabbed my shoulders and

    Sucked me into a kiss.

    The real “adult” kiss I’d pined for

    Fantasized about and mimed

    On all those lonely nights

    After Ricky Stoekels ghosted me

    Couldn’t be THIS one –

    A full body penetration –

    A probing grasping invasion

    Shutting off my air.

    I jerked away with so much force

    I landed on the floor.

    Verne threw himself 

    On the bed, face down

    Wracked with sobs

    While I wiped my face

    Stunned.

    “Love the one you’re with”

    Isn’t that what Ricky Stoekels says?

    “She cheats, you cheat?”

    I hope all men aren’t

    All bastards.

    “Forgive me,” shuddered Verne,

    “I’m out of my mind.

    I don’t know what I’m doing.”

    Maybe. I recognize excuses.

    I’ve used them.

    “Don’t do it again,” I said. 

    He said, “You’re so like her”

    Which was an insult at this point.

    I could stomp away, go home –

    Explain to a mother trying desperately

    To make it all my fault

    Or I could find out about my sister’s life.

    “Where would she go?

    You must have some

    Guy in mind?”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Mirabel’s been hard to pin down lately. 

    Then suddenly she changed. This marriage idea.”

    Did he blush or blanch?  I couldn’t

    See clearly in the darkening light but

    His throat trembled raw

    With pent emotion.

    My face must have betrayed 

    My distaste

    Because he hurried to explain.

    “She’s been trying to

    Talk me into seeing her family. 

    A wedding to erase her

    Great Silence. I thought we were 

    Two avatars alone. I imagined 

    A woman to stand with me against the world.”

    How rich, I thought, literally, 

    For a man with a title based on family 

    To disown that very concept.

    But to quarrel seemed

    Perfidious, and once again,

    The youngest person in the room

    I was silenced and shamed.

    He leaned back in his chair

    As beef wellington arrived.

    “I’m amazed you existed, frankly.

    I thought the little sister

    Was another of her stories.

    Kudos to your parents.”

    I stared nauseated

    At beef wellington –

    Perhaps I’m vegan after all.

    This party made me gag.

    “I’m so glad you’re you,

     Just like her but so

    Unspoiled.”

    Never had a compliment

    Felt more like an insult.

    What kind of talk was this from

    A prospective groom?

    And any idea that my parents “made” me

    Is creepy and revolting.

    “Mirabel and I are opposites,” I stressed

    Too angrily before I considered.

    “How can THAT be?”

    He was smug. Superior.

    I schooled him.

    “She cares what others think and

    I just don’t.”

    That should have stopped him but –

    It didn’t. He smiled

    Indulgently.

    “Sisterhood is powerful.

    I see she’s got “the drop”

    On me,” he emphasized the slang

    Like any English lord raised on 

    American movies.

    Unable to be me;

    Unable to read him,

    Know him, change him.

    Is this the dawning of

    Despair? It makes me hate

    The grown-up world. 

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    We were silent in the elevator.

    Feeling naked

    I clutched the fur I’d borrowed 

    Summoning up the nerve for

    Questions but

    Mirabel’s mood seemed depressed.

    Encumbered, perhaps?

    With me? With Verne?

    With family – obligation –

    Tradition – without her help

    I couldn’t map it out.

     “When did he propose?”

    My query’s girlish gaucheness echoed

    Off the shiny doors

    That bent our reflected beauty so

    Unflatteringly we seemed 

    Haunted.

    “It’s not when he proposed,” she said

    “It’s when I accepted. He

    Proposed the first night I met him –

    Five years ago.

    Said he’d marry me

    If I’d change from blonde to red.’”

    Wow. I didn’t know what to say

    To that except

    Why was he never in her pictures?

    What shame could there be? 

    “Was it a secret?”

    “He hates the press – it

    Treats him so unfairly in his own country –

    And he wants me to himself. I was so unready – 

    Seeing other people,

    Savoring my options.”

    We nodded at the doorman

    And the driver of 

    The waiting limo –

    “He slowly won me over.

    He was so suave, so

    International. Adoring.”

    She let me climb in first,

    Then backed away as if she’d seen a ghost.

    “I forgot something. Tell Verne I’ll be along.”

    The car swept away, leaving Mirabel 

    Huddled alone, by the curb in her mink coat.

    Chapter 4 – Cocktailing

    Had I been played?

    It’s what you do to children.

    I couldn’t shuck the memory of

    My own mother through the years –

    Lofty & deceitful –

    Briskly turning “road trip” turned into

    “Summer camp” and “one night” 

    Into seven. 

    I hated being “managed”, but really

    Who could blame Mirabel?

    Quoting Mom: “Guests must

    Be adaptable, obliging – a guest has

    No one to blame but herself

    For her bad treatment.”

    Was it something I’d said? Or

    Something I’d done?

    Or simply one more humiliation as

    Baby sister. Why did she keep throwing me

    Alone together with this man?

    Did I want to get to know him?

    I wanted to get to know HER.

    The driver helped me out of the car

    And I saw his frank expression.

    Another stunner. It was

    Admiration. I looked too good. I

    Was too tall.  Had I insulted the bride

    By overreaching?

    I blame the heels – when

    I towered over her –

    She must have hated it.

    She’d gone back to reposition – 

    To pivot, as they say,

    While Verne sat in comfort at the bar.

    He rose at the sight of me and once again

    I saw that face. Tribute

    To my manufactured beauty and yet

    I saw the calculation – was he 

    Managing me too?

    Naturally, he’d have to be –

    They had a goal of some kind

    Inviting me here –

    Weaseling their way back into the

    Famiglia, the family that gave up on them

    For whatever purpose.

    He seemed satisfied that

    I was alone –

    The arm that contained me 

    Was decidedly un-brotherly:

    Squiring me away from his 

    Desultory conversation –

    He didn’t bother to introduce me. 

    He enjoyed them seeing he was meeting

    Some strange woman.

    “Let’s get you dinner.”

    Anything better than a bar

    That looked me over as if 

    I was some Russian call girl.

    As we turned I was confronted

    By the mirrors: I looked like

    Some Russian call girl.

    Can I blame champagne, allowing

    Mirabel to paint me up?

    Or the society that wants –

    Expects me to look this way.

    None of this is my fault.

    I said in my best-guest manner,

    “Should we wait for Mirabel?”

    He demurred.

    “Waiting for Mirabel’s never a good idea.

    Putting yourself out only encourages her.”

    He snuck an angry glance at his phone

    As the headwaiter flashing menus

    Manhandled us

     Towards a darkened booth.

    Perhaps this engagement was far too long –

    Were they tired of each other already?

    “Turtle soup’s very good here,”

    Said Verne: I longed to claim

    To be a vegan but also yearned

    To sample everything.

    Sucked my water greedily

    As a martini-bearing waiter 

    Assessed me so attentively. 

    “A Virgin Mary?”

    Verne seemed startled but

    The more knowledgeable waiter sped away.

    “Without the vodka.”

    He seemed relieved.

    “Something Mirabel said let me

     Feared you were religious.”

    It was too complex to enlighten him.

    Famiglia’s religious but

    I’m free choice. I’ve yet

    To make up my mind about

    A lot of things. Switched it up.

    “What kind of ceremony will you have?”

    He seemed stunned as if I’d proposed

    Barbarian rites, then vague.

    “Some judge. A ballroom.”

    Shrugged his shoulders.

    “Mirabel says you proposed

    First night you met.”

    He laughed sharply.

    “I was young and stupid.”

    Well THAT was tough to follow up.

    Could both be afflicted with

    Cold feet? But Verne could

    Switch it up as well.

     “I recognize the signs,” he said.

    “What signs are those?”

    Struggling to regain my footing.

    “Mirabel can be very shattering, can’t she?”

    I shrugged, dismissed 

    Disloyalty, opting for

    Vagueness.  As he did.

    “Life comes at us so fast.”

    “I tried to free her from the life,” said Verne.

    “I don’t believe she’ll really let me.”

    Which life was that?

    This was depressing – my parents hoping

    For good news, find a bride and groom stuck

    In mutual complaining.

     “Mirabel proposed to me.”

    He said coldly. “It’s the title.

    They all do that. 

    She was no virgin when I met her.”

    I was stung on her behalf – who wants his

    Moth-eaten old royalty?

    And what cretin expects 

    Virgins among New York models?

    “She said she accepted

    The proposal you’d made long ago.

    And you said yes!”

    My Virgin Mary was 

    Too spicy to be truly virginal.  I

    Almost choked.

    Sipping slowly to wonder

    If I liked it.  Doesn’t hot sauce 

    Wreck your palate?

    As the waiter manifested a fresh martini, 

    I assessed Verne’s subtle desire

    To put me in the “wrong”.

    Lack of breeding?

    Was my hair not red enough?

    Too bad for him –

    I am well used to disapproval.

     “Mirabel said you like red hair,”

    I teased him.

    “I wanted her natural color –

    Yours, I assume?”

    Who could say?

    My memory was of long ago.

    “I think people should make themselves,”

    I defended, arguing

    Too fiercely.

    Soup arrived, bread slathered with 

    Mozzarella, pesto & tomato. Mini-pizzas!

    I sighed ecstatically and felt from him 

    An answering thaw.

    “When you inherit an ancient world,”

    He pontificated, “you learn to value the past.”

    “So you have a castle?”

    I asked through my full mouth.

    Turtle soup OK. Too much sherry for my taste

    Or was that stuff curry?

    Are turtles seafood?  Just like my sister

    I got a bored “I do.”

    He checked his phone.

    “It’s a bit of a ruin with tourists crawling

    Everywhere. Mirabel doesn’t care for it.”

    Phone again. Was Mirabel texting?

    I studied mine to be

    Companionable. My folks again.

    Always, with the questions.

    “She’s not answering,” he sighed.

    We’re not as attractive as

    Her double life.”

    This gave me a jolt.

    “She has a double life?”

    “Probably triplicate by now.”

    He snorted.

    I tried my father’s ploy.

    Get ‘em talking.

    “Why don’t you just tell me about it?”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 3 – The Lost Sister

    I realized with horror that

    I was going to cry.

    Seemed I’d never expected

    To actually see her

    She was a scam  – a myth –

    Like so many ones

    She pleasured to perpetrate

     On our poor parents.

    “Darling!” Threw her skinny arms out

    And kissed the air.

    “You escaped!

    You’re all grown up!”

    She was shorter than me now –

    A tiny person-

    How I laughed.

    Laughed with relief – 

    Suddenly I was initiated into

    Her exclusive club

    Two of us against the world

    Superiority & sisterhood.

    She’d always known – none better

    How difficult parents are.

    They didn’t need me to protect them

    Running my own modest scams

    To engineer breathing room

    Took all the help I could get.

    Could it be time for Mirabel and me 

    To grow up together?

    I’d have a New York City sister –

    Married to a lord 

    Providing escape anytime.

    Mirabel tossed Verne a burning look –

    “Get us drinks?”

    And dragged me –

    Literally DRAGGED me –

    Into a double-doored bedroom where she

    Swept me down upon the white flokati rug

    And gazed deeply in my eyes.

    I felt a bit of a hostage at that point

    To tell you the truth.

    She seemed more desperate for ME –

    A nobody fourteen year old –

    Than I was for her.

    How could this be Mirabel?

     So much smaller than my memory –

    Disappearing before my eyes in fact,

    Running away

    As she had seemed to do 

    The whole of my existence –

    Shoulders folding together

    Over her knees –

    Dress size diminishing

    Smaller, ever smaller.

    How could this tiny thing

    Ever strut a catwalk?

    Blondness was history

    She was a redhead now.

    She caught me staring at her scarred

    Upper lip and covered it

    With a gesture I recalled

    As if moving her hand fast enough

    I wouldn’t see it. “Too many

    Piercings gone haywire,” she explained.

    Apologizing to me

    For the ruin

    Of her beauty.

    Something rattled at our door – Mirabel called –

    “We’re naked!”

    Pulled me into giggles –

    “Leave it outside!”

    She covered my mouth and signaled with 

    Humongous eyes –

    Crawling to the door she –

    Peeked out low –

    Pulled in a

    Champagne bucket and a pair of flutes.

    My face must have showed

    Surprise at his exclusion; but

    She said: “Grooms get in the WAY 

    Of weddings! No one wants them!”

    She lifted an unsteady

    Rock-wearing hand to toast –

    “Men! You know! They want to

    Decide everything but weddings are the

    Bride’s-” She gasped and gagged 

    As if from desert thirst – as if

    She’d never had such wine.

    “You can’t think what pleasure it is

    Finally getting rid of him – too much

    Togetherness destroys

    The hardiest relationship.”

    I sipped sedately, even though

    The brew frothed my sinus

    Parked burning foam

    Behind my eyes.

    How COULD this be Mirabel?

    The way she looked at me –

    Something stank of 

    Imposture and deceit.

    I just can’t say –

    I’m far too new –

    It’s just too weird.

    She was my sister and yet not.

    She leaned too close to

     Touch my hair.

    “They should have named you

    Maribel so we’d be twins.”

    The door opened and Verne stood over us

    Looked reproving as

    Mirabel fell away.

    But he was mild enough 

    Laying dress bags on the bed.

    He winked and

    Then was gone

    Door slightly left ajar –

    Pointedly, I thought –

    Mirabel closed it with her foot,

    Called, “See you at dinner!”

    I felt sorry for the poor groom –

    Then we heard the outer door slam and

    Mirabel unzipped bags briskly after

    Topping off her glass with

    Vodka from a bottle by the bed.

    “Bad champagne,” she excused herself,

    “In Europe, babies drink this stuff.”

    I studied the bottle –

    Beau Joie Brut Special Cuvée –

    “Brute” champagne 

    Sharpened me like

    Winter air when you can

    See farther, fly further

    Or think that you can.

    Mirabel offered her bottle.

    “No thanks.”

    And drained her tulip glass

    And spoke my words.

    ”You’ve changed,” she commented.

    Did I drink vodka at eight years old?

    I said, “So have you.”

    “My hair hated being blonde.”

     “Is he really a lord?”

    Mirabel rolled her eyes.

    “Unfortunately.” At my surprise she added –

    “It’s a cruel trick if

     You can’t do anything you want.”

    Shrugged.

    “At least the restaurants like it.”

    “And you’ll be –“

    “Lady Verne.”

    Unexcited at the prospect.

    Opposite of what

    Old Mirabel would have thought

    She followed the doings & undoings of

    European princelings in 

    Vogue magazine.

    I probed deeper.

    “You just met?”

    “God no, we’ve been together FOREVER –

    And only now we tie the knot. But you!”

    She spun me all around.

    “You’re so tall! And thin!”

    I found myself apologizing.

    “I can’t stop eating –

    “I must grow so fast because I eat

    Whatever I can find.”

     “After the wedding,”

    Mirabel promised

    “We’ll do a purge.”

    Sounds like a great honeymoon

    I thought but didn’t say.

    She was not making out a

    Great campaign for aristocracy &

    Marriage.

    “Think you’d fit a four?”

    The dress she flourished was pale gold,

    A fairytale gown with an endlessly flounced

     Puffy skirt. My gasp 

    Relaxed her. And she smiled.

    Most beautiful dress I’d ever seen.

    “Let’s find out!” I

    Almost dropped my wineglass in

    Excitement. Rapidly

    Stripped to totally unsightly sports bra

    And cartoon briefs.

    I knew we’d try on clothes

    But I owned no decent lingerie.

    “Can’t wear a bra,” said Mirabel.

    “You don’t need one anyway.

    I’ll cinch you in.”

    She gazed too long at my sad breasts

    A man’s gaze I thought –

    This dress had ribbons for corset strings 

    and Mirabel cinched me tight.

    “There!” The mirror exposed a stranger. 

    I was a new person.

    “A little short, maybe” said Mirabel,

    “With the right shoes…”

    From the closet she threw out flats.

    Disappointing – but –

    Bridesmaid shouldn’t tower over bride! 

    Maid of honor harnessing

    The clashing egos! 

    In weird familial telepathy

    Mirabel said,

    “Princess Richenda

     To the Dark Tower came.

    Just like in the

    Tarot cards.”

    In the mirror

    I admired my nude

    Beribboned back.

     “How about your dress?”

     “You’ve seen it.”

    It was like the breath went out of her.

    She tossed it out – they were identical.

    How could that be?

    Wasn’t that too strange?

    I was gobsmacked –

    Never heard of bride and bridesmaid

    Wearing the same dress –

    Think of the confusing pictures – 

    People getting entirely

    Wrong ideas. 

    Sounds like bad luck-

    Guaranteeing

    The groom will see the gown

    Before they’re hitched

    If you believe in that sort of thing.

    Mirabel’s dress was

    Smaller – size “zero” –

    Competitive,

    Combative Mirabel.

    She knocked my phone right out of my hand –

    “No pictures till the wedding.”

    Her pressured speech rushed on –

    “We’ve got to dress for dinner.”

    She checked her phone.

    “What will you wear?”

    I looked embarrassed at my

    Corduroy skirt

    Discarded like a 

    Shriveled carapace along the floor.

    Mirabel threw open mirrored

    Doors to reveal another bedroom –

    This one stocked with girlish stuff.

    “This room is yours -”

    She told me –

    “He’s staying at The Stanhope.”

    I blushed – I don’t know why

    He’d called it “his” place –

    And these closets were packed

    With Mirabel clothes so

    Where did I fit in?

    My sister unbound my dress –

    I’m not used to

    Clothes that need assistants.

     “You can borrow anything.”

    Tossed out a slinky gown green with

    Scales that matched my eyes

    Still with price tags –

    I’d never had a dress this costly.

    No bra here either –

    I dangerously chose heels that made me

    Six feet tall – but Mirabel

    Didn’t seem to mind –

    She gave me smoky eye, nude mouth and

    Emerald glitter.

    “Verne hates lipstick.”

    But she wore plenty –

    Cherry red to match her dress –

    I felt lucky anyway

    To be transformed.

    Now I was an impostor too.

    “He’s waiting at the Stanhope Bar.”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    He reached for my bag

    Kissed the top of my forehead –

    Doubtless drinking in

    Sweat, hairspray, foundation;

     “Richenda?”

    Pronouncing it “Richendor”-

    English accents are so cool.

    “Recognized you immediately. You’re

    Just like Mirabel. Maybe it’s 

    The dark glasses – always dodging

    Paparazzi.”

    I felt helpless rapture as if

    He flattered me when all it meant

    Was that Mirabel wanted to hide and yet

    Remain superior in just the way I’d

    Fantasized. I did some obscure

    Need to argue –

    I’m an arguer –

    But taking “compliments”

    Is the better part I know.  

    But usually people said how unalike we were

    Snow White and Rose Red.

    “Er, thanks,” sounds so ungracious and

     “What happened to Mirabel?”

    Downright rude.

    I said it anyway.

    He batted at it briskly.

    “Unavoidably detained.”

    Swept me and bag away from the escalator

    Clogged with ordinaries –

    Down the platform

    “We’ll take the elevator to the car service.”

    Actually, it was a limo.

    The driver rushed to fondle my

    Pathetic flowered bag. Couldn’t parse whether he

    And this mystery man

    Knew each other – casual hire? or

    Permanent position?  Hard to know.

    “You’re the fiancé?” I stuttered out. 

    Worse and worse! Country cousin

    Morphing into bumpkin sister.

    He seemed surprised.

    “So sorry,” he bundled me into the limo,

    “My excuse is wedding nerves. 

    Meet the family!

    Philip Valerian. Everyone calls me 

    Verne.” Now I was 

    Laughing and I couldn’t stop.

    “Mom thought your name was Rupert Golden!”

    Verne didn’t see the amusement. 

    “Must be some other swain,” he huffed.

    Was I

    Getting Mirabel in trouble? 

    Would she thank me?

    What kind of fiancé

    Hates to hear his glamor girl

    Has been around?

    “I guess we all have wedding nerves.”

    He was jumpy,

    Fingers drumming on one knee.

    What a relief to turn away

    Make what brain-meat I could of the street outside.

    Writing my own story

    In which he was smoother, easier,

    Less knotty and complex.

    New York City! Kubla Khan!

    But everything was dark and dingy

    Until Fifth Avenue; there a

    Nonstop parade of glittery storefronts 

    And entitled shoppers

    Promised trousseaux and makeovers and

     Glamorous fun!

    The limo stopped at the dress designer

    Questrina,

    And the driver stepped out of the car.

    A woman rushed through the double doors offering

    two glossy green dress bags in outstretched hands-

    Driver swept them into the trunk and we were off again.

    “Your dresses,” explained Verne.

    My excitement dulled to confusion &

    Disappointment –

    Bait and switch:

    I should have known.

     “I thought Mirabel and I

    Would choose our dresses -“

    “Oh, there’ll be lots for you to do.”

    I’m surprised he didn’t offer a

    Lolly to distract me.

    “Here we are,” said the would-be groom.

    “At my place.”

    A skyscraper on Fifth Avenue? 

    Shiny red doorman

    Rushed the curb. “Your lordship.”

    I thought my ears were ringing.

    Was I hearing right?

    Should have watched that damn Downtown Abbey 

    Or whatever it was called –

    My oldsters begged me to 

    Watch with them

    Instead of proudly sequestering my anime anger.

    Could he really have a title?

    Do they still give those out?

    We were alone for a looooong 43 floor ride.

    Under sallow yellow

    Lighting he seemed

    Depressed – was it me or

    Or approaching Mirabel?

    If only I could read minds!  Then

    Gold enameled door opened and 

    There stood my sister.

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 2 –  @Valerian

    Once Mom had exited

    I fell contentedly into

    Wondering:

    Who would Mirabel be now?

    When I turned ten

    I followed her face &

    Body through

    Inter-space but in

    Three long years  

    But there’s been nothing to see.

    I fully comprehend

    That shiny airbrushed people

    Don’t resemble that really. But

    Mirabel was always gorgeous;

    Swimming through some

    Different air; her

    Huge eyes and Roman nose teased & promising

    Cavernous depths of soul.

    We all want to believe that beautiful people

    Get everything they want out of life;

    Otherwise what’s the point –

    Yet the Mirabel I’d known

    Deliberately evaded us;

    Abjuring the fold

    Unless needing something.

    At eight years old I had learned

    She was a mysterious gift-giver

    Like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy

    In whom it would be unwise to

    Believe.

    So, as my train slid into the darkness

     Of Grand Central tunnel I texted the number 

    They gave me with “Train on time” &

    Happiness emoji. 

    Of course I wanted to delete it

    Immediately;

    But as the sole bridesmaid –

    Wasn’t I 

    The real Maid of Honor?

    Obligated to planning

    If not excitement but

    No response from Mirabel.

    Someone called 

    “@Valerian” tweeted: “I’m meeting you. 

    M. otherwise occupied as usual.

    Look for red hunting coat.”

    Who was Valerian?  Where was Mirabel?

    Did fiancé have charge of her phone?

    Possibly he cloned it;

    My friend Derek does that.

    Forced fresh perspective:

    If parents had known

    There wasn’t a Mirabel

    Would they let me come?

    That was the emotion Mirabel engendered

    I well remembered –

    She was a genius at 

    Preparing the faithful –

    “Softening us up”

    For future hard times. 

    This means never forthrightly

    Telling those Inconvenient truths.

    As the train lurched to stop I vaulted upwards 

    Greeting myself in the

    Mirroring windows. The girl 

    “Valerian” would see

    Passable in gray skirt, shiny thigh high 

    Pink leather boots, subtly highlighted 

    Nut brown hair. Nothing to compete

    With Mirabel’s blond goddess-hood.

    Free from Mom’s diminishing thumb

    I could exaggerate my eyes – 

    Outline my cheekbones

    Use lips to suggest

    Goddess potential all my own.

    The sight of my made-up face 

    Makes me feel hopeful.

    I didn’t answer that text:

    Stranger-Danger ever-present;

    If I didn’t like the look of him

    I could Uber myself – 

    Once I knew where I was going.

    I  bet on my chances;

    There were other girls on this train –

    I had a hat and sunglasses

    I’ve been melting into crowds

    Once I learned how to walk.

    Problem; my idiot mother

    Sent pictures

    Proud as she was –

    Cross-eyed in her fearfulness –

    If he was the one trying to

    Friend me –

    He’d already seen me grow up.

    Ugh!

    How the past follows us!

    Tortures us; cramping our style!

    How I long to be known 

    Yet forever undiscovered

    Wild virginal territory

    The better to project myself 

    Into the brains of others –

    Ultimate Observer.

    I’m aware

    It makes no damn sense

    To wish for admiration and 

    A the same time 

    Disappear – could it be

    We’re all the stalkers of our dreams?

    Threw diary, book, magazine

    Into my capacious carpet-bag –

    Diaries take one

    Only so far –

    Scribble scribble

    Ratcheting up while 

    Tamping down

    All the sharp points of life. 

    Fell rather than walked

    Down ungainly steps and My God

    There he was-

    Guarding the escalators, in his famous

    Red coat.

    Mirabel would NEVER come 

    Way down here 

    “To the tracks” –

    Hoi polloi, déclassé –

    But this sharp face looked eager

    Gladdening to see me.

    Was he

    A sight for eyes too young to be sore?

    Tall physique; you’d say

    “Distinguished,” but 

    Foreign looking, really,  in spite of 

    American jeans and that red down parka.

    The closer I got the more

    Startlingly handsome appeared

    That knife-planed face –

    Curly undisciplined black hair –

    Couldn’t stare long because

    He grinned at the sight of me. 

    No possibility of escape –

    Nor desire really 

    Wasn’t this more fun 

    Than forging some raw

    Uncomfortable relation with

    The long-lost sister?