#Haiku: Sexperts
Amateurs lust;
Adepts eye-roll –
Grind teeth;
Unslimed –
Moodless;
Un-
Quickened.
Category: #Sexuality
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Haiku by Alysse Aallyn
#Haiku: Playing Telephone
I quested
You bested.
I texted
You sexted.
You ghosted
I roasted
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Haiku by Alysse Aallyn
#Haiku: I’ll Sleep When You’re Dead
Only soulmates can
Slay each other’s dragons
Says Tibetan Master
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The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn
Chapter 17 – Grievous Bodily Harm
Verne’s voice: cruel, whispering,
Insistent, filling up
An answering machine with abortive calls
Never answered. “Mirabel?
Don’t think you’ll escape me.
You’ve begun a game
You can’t win”
My teeth began to chatter.
Derek’s eyes bugged.
It went on and on – filled the cassette –
Verne threatening that he’d find her and
The longer she made him wait
The sorrier he’d make her.
Did she want her family
MUDERED?
Did she want her friends
MURDERED?
Because he had nothing left to lose.
Sometimes he attempted different ploys;
He loved her –
They were made for each other –
She knew that
It had never been good with
Anyone but her.
Didn’t she want to be Lady Verne?
Wasn’t every bad thing
That had ever happened to either of them
All her fault?
She owed him.
He’d would find her
Wherever she was hiding,
He could smell her out.
He knew her friends were lying and
One of them would succumb – eventually.
“Call me, Mirabel.
You better call me.”
Derek and I looked at each other
Pale as ghosts.
“He did it,” said Derek, finally.
“He must have. He
Has everything – motive, means
Most of all, he has the
Personality – the – what do they call it?
The killer signature.
Even a past record for
‘Grievous bodily harm’.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions,”
I defended weakly, not wanting to have
Roomed with a killer. Not wanting my sister to have
Thrown me at a murderer.
Derek scoffed.
“We’ve got to take this to the police.”
Derek was supposedly the expert –
But even I could see the holes.
“It isn’t proof of anything,”
I argued.
“So he threatened an ex-girlfriend!
Do you know how many guys do that?”
“No,” said Derek. “Do YOU?”
“Yes,” I spluttered. “I read Teen Vogue.
It happens all the freakin’ time.”
“Well,” said Derek, red-faced,
“You caught me. I’m embarrassed
For my gender.”
God, he was adorable.
I made my case,
“If the police came calling
Would be to search for Mirabel HARDER.”
“OH, GOD,” sighed Derek,
“I gave him the name of my dad’s P.I.! I’ve got to
Call him!” I sprang back so fast
Derek’s phone clattered to the ground
Between us. “Don’t call Verne!”
“I’m not calling Verne!
I’m callin the P.I.! Hello, Angie? This
Is Derek Lowther. Can I speak to Ed?
It’s an emergency.
O.K., I guess I can tell you,”
He grumbled. “I gave Ed’s name
To somebody I just met
Who’s looking for his missing girl. But then I found out
He’s a dangerous kind of guy.
Oh, he doesn’t? Well, what if he asks
For a referral? OK.
He hasn’t called? Well, thanks.
I’m better.”
Disconnected.
“She says he never takes cases like that
And would only recommend
Police. She says –“
He gulped – “Most people –
Searching for a past lover –
Have nothing good in mind.”
And I had been helping him!
But what else could I do when
Mirabel dumped me, too.
I leafed slowly through Mirabel’s
Portfolio.
There was a picture that I recognized –
Mirabel sent it to the family –
Bikini’d Mirabel on a sun-beaten
Grey-weathered viewing deck
Posing beneath an osprey nest.
“She talked about this place,”
I recalled. “She called it Dream Island.
She said she wished
She could just live there forever.”
I grabbed Derek by the arm.
“I know where that is,”
Eureka. Hard to explain
Those moments of insight
Where everything just comes together.
“She’d be stupid to return
To any place she’d ever been.”
There’s Derek, arguing for the sake of
Arguing. “The smart thing
Is to light out for somewhere you’ve never
Been before.” I batted that one
Off easily. “Then what’s the point? If you’ve
Been miserable, what you want is
Guaranteed happiness.”
“Unless you’re shallow,” said Derek.
“Then you need guaranteed variety.
Guaranteed newness.”
What an awful thing to say.
The question was, is Mirabel that bad?
I refused to believe it.
“She’s my sister,” I one-upped,
“I hope I know her better than you.”
He could have told me
I didn’t know her at all
And been right, but he backed down
Immediately. Maybe he saw
In my face the high stakes I felt in
Rescuing the sister who made me
Happy face pancakes all those years ago.
“It’s like a password hack.”
Now he argued for my side,
Bless him. “Depends how well
You know the person.”
My phone rang. I jumped a mile.
“Oh, Jeez, it’s Verne!
What should I tell him?”
“Don’t pick up! We better get
Our stories straight.”
But I picked up. Bravest thing
I ever did. “Oh, hi, Verne
Did you find something?
Well, Derek’s talking to a neighbor
Who used to be a cop.
Sure – when we find something –
Ok. Catch you later.”
Derek stared at me awestruck.
“That was incredible! Have you studied acting?”
“Hell no,” I told him
“I’ve studied LYING. Can’t get through
Teenage life without it.”
Most lies are cover-ups where your quarry
Is already suspicious. That never works.
Smart lies strikes first –
Bold, believable
(Because part of it is truth)
And straight out of nowhere.
“What were you thinking? Maybe you
Spooked him?’
“I was hoping to spook him. I wanted a way
To hint what we learned from your PI’s
Receptionist. I mean,
WE NEED TO STOP HELPING HIM.”
“But what good is that?” Derek argued,
“If he finds Mirabel first?”
“He won’t,” I said. “I know where to go
And I don’t want him following me.”
Do you have a spare phone?”
“Sure,” said Derek,
“Brand new trac phone in my dad’s office
Still in the packaging. And
Plenty of air miles burning holes in my pocket.
Do you need a passport?”
“It’s only Florida. Isla Ensueno.”
-
The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn
We examined the boxes content.
“Let’s separate in two piles,” Derek proposed;
“Hopeless and intriguing.”
But which was which?
Everything seemed hopeless: ridiculous clothes,
Shoes with broken heels, endless piles of
old magazines. Souvenir of
Great Britain? – a Union Jack sleepshirt.
Cosmetics and grubby makeup kits,
Hairbrushes, scrunchies,
An ancient red plastic boombox,
Terrible Advice Books
(“The Power of You”)
costume jewelry of improbable value –
Even her jewelry box I recalled
From childhood days.
All just junk Dominica could
Have thrown away!
Why wasn’t Mirabel more literate?
Dyslexia? Hadn’t that word
Been bruited undefined
To the insatiable ears of
An eight-year-old –
I heard parents always looking for
Excuses. I thought about what I would
Have left – same thing Derek might –
Notebooks of scribblings
Journals and diaries –
“Notes to self” – cherished cards
Day planners and calendars?
The only exciting thing: a professional portfolio
Stamped MONFORT COLLEGE OF MODELING.
I opened the portfolio, scared and thrilled
Here’s the Mirabel I would recognize.
But all the photos seemed outdated –
Shlocky, overly made-up and
Inhumanly posed.
This girl should demand
Her money back.
But maybe there was no “money” –
Goblin gold melts away when you reach for it.
What is a “model” after all but
A blank screen embracing
Frenzied searchers for the
“Other.” Well, she’d been
“Othered” here –
One particularly traumatic
Mirabel in whiteface
With the cruel thorn-like silver
Piercings through her lip –
Rendered speechless –
Her life a cage around her
Nude starved body.
Derek saw my reaction and put his arms
Around me.
“Well, that settles it,” I said,
“That was really Mirabel. I saw that lip.”
To suggest anything else –
That there could be
Cadres of desperate girls
Scarred and marked and rendered mute
Thrown away into the dumpster?
No wonder
Mirabel declared the fashion world
“Shit!” One precious picture
Evoked the “Murble” I remembered –
Filled my eyes with tears –
There she was
Pony-tailed Mirabel in Daisy Dukes,
Washing the side of a fake car.
Youthful, hopeful, tender, memories came surging up –
Mirabel filling the kiddie pool so I could play,
Decorating my pancakes with Picasso faces,
Gelling my hair into crazy shapes.
If you ran these pictures backwards
They recorded tragedy: the slow dawn
Of knowledge as she realized she was in
Bad hands; turns out beauty
Isn’t enough. Answering the question;
It had been my real sister who
Threw me at Lord Verne so that she could
Get away. Derek dropped the fake nipple
He’d been studying.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know
She was that kind of model.”
I blazed at him: “Everyone’s that kind!
It’s a job!” Derek spluttered.
“The human body’s beautiful.”
I cornered him:
“Will you get naked so I can inspect you?”
His face reddened. Suddenly he
Was fifteen years old. “Not unless you do too.”
“I won’t. You’d have to be the only
Nude person in the room.”
He huffed, and puffed, “Point taken.”
And to his everlasting credit
Hugged me again, but tenderly.
No further explanations required.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“Don’t apologize,” he said.
“It’s all horrible.”
Bad moment over.
“Hey, look at this.”
He’d clicked open the boombox.
“There’s a home-made cassette.”
It was an answering machine cassette.
I recognized it – Dad still used that kind.
It explained the ancient boombox.
“Let’s press play.”
-
The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn
Chapter 13 – Why Women Want to Escape Lord Verne
I know I did. Did this mean that I
Could finally consider myself
Grown up? Wouldn’t my teachers
Be surprised. Verne inveighed against Kruptupian
The whole way back
And I didn’t stop him.
I imagined myself floating above him
And looking down on him
Pityingly. Wondered if Mirabel
Ever had done that.
At the Fifth Avenue apartments
Someone claiming to be Derek Lowther
Was pacing back and forth,
Eyed by the suspicious doorman.
He was over six feet tall, very skinny with
Explosively curly brown hair,
Big soulful green eyes and perfect skin.
I almost threw myself into this strange man’s arms
And kissed him.
“You’re not Derek,” I announced, exiting the car,
.“Derek Lowther is a ratty, pimply little brat
Who spits when he talks.”
“And you were a squirt with braces
And a squint,” he sassed back,
All I needed to hear for confirmation.
Nobody knows about the squint.
“It’s called amblyopia
And I’m all cured now,” I told him
As we race-scrolled through family pics –
Growing up for each other’s eyes
Across eight years of ski slopes
School parties, beaches and
Christmas. “Verne, this is Derek Lowther.”
Verne barely deigned to register
The presence of another human being.
“Step into the café,” he ordered.
Perhaps if you’re six feet tall
And possibly still growing
Things are different but hadn’t we
Just breakfasted? No one cared.
Derek: 2 Breakfast burritos and a café Americano,
Verne: espresso and blueberry blintzes,
Richenda: Milky coffee, everything bagel.
Only ordered where I can
Shed bagel dust at will.
As he and Verne gazed at each other
I thought Derek required a call-back.
“Remember Mirabel?”
“I remember the Mirabel Legend,”
Derek offered. Honest guy.
“Kids absorb gossip.”
“What kind of gossip?”
Verne was too sharp, I thought, snapping
At a guest like that.
Soon Derek too would want escape –
Playing into my hands exactly.
I smiled to myself, steepling my fingers
Like a movie mad scientist.
“Text and sub text,” Derek offered.
“Text” was parents explaining Mirabel had run away,
“Sub-text” came through eavesdropping about
Mirabel living wild and free to public acclaim.”
I could work with this guy, I thought,
Satisfied. At least
We spoke the same language –
Very unlike me & Verne.
“We were going to get married,” huffed Verne.
“She gave up her job with her boss –“
“Her nasty boss –“ I added. Helping.
“She called Richenda to help with planning.”
See? THAT wasn’t true.
Since I didn’t challenge Verne went on more
Confidently, “Ghosted us at dinner.
Didn’t come home at all last night.”
Derek looked at me with an
Expression seeming to communicate
“Tell me the REAL story later.”
I liked him more and more.
“Wow,” Derek commented evenly.
“Rough.” Turned to me. “You saw her?”
“I did,” I offered, not willing to say
In front of Verne what exactly I had seen.
“She’s a redhead now.”
Verne was impressed enough
To plunge into a long recital
Of our late night Kruptupian call,
Then insisting Ravi posed as
Mirabel’s groom. I could tell
My silence was registering with Derek.
Since he seemed to know I saw it
Differently, he must know I wanted
Getting out of there.
“Runaway Bride,” said Derek,
“I get that you can’t involve the media.”
“Any ideas?” asked Verne.
“I’ll study traffic cams for Mirabel locations,”
Derek offered, “See where she went.
And with who.”
Verne’s eyes jumped with excitement.
“You can do that?”
“Traffic cameras are easy, private cams
Are more complex.”
“I’ve got the exact times she was in
Brooklyn and at the spa,” I offered.
“I just need my laptop,” said Derek,
Hastily said,
“I need the ladies’ room”
But secretly went upstairs
To get my bag and leave it
In the hall.
Verne did not alert, unaware
Of my escape. Like Mirabel
I was getting the hell out.
When I got back they were discussing
Hiring a P.I., Derek’s dad
Had an art theft guy.
“We think she ditched her phone. “
“But her online account,
See who she called –
It’s golden. Maybe just a password hack,”
Said Derek. “Depends how well you know
The person.” “I can help with that,” I said,
Possibly unwisely – Verne’s face
Froze in jealous competition.
Apparently I belonged to him
Already.
Verne paid the bill,
Discomfited by precipitous
Abandonment.
“I have some friends to call,” he sniffed.
Threat or promise – we encouraged him.
“I’m going to see Derek’s folks” I lied so
Smoothly Derek kept his calm.
“They’ll have all kinds of suggestions.”
Verne was stymied
By our determination.
“I’ll call,” I promised pathetically.
Verne made a note of Derek’s number.
I marched after Derek
Who was walking decisively.
“So where are we going?” I hissed
Conspiratorially.
“Subway. No car service on my allowance.”
Down the steps into the hot and stinky
Underworld. “Fine with me,” I offered.
“I want to be anonymous.”
“I know the feeling,” said Derek.
“What’s with that guy?
You’re escaping a police state.”
We clutched straps and leaned together
Studiously ignoring people who
Were studiously ignoring us.
“So, what’s the deal?”
Hissed Derek. “Do you think he murdered her?”
“Not sure,” I said, “When he wanted me
To comfort him he said
I wasn’t the first fourteen-year old he’d had.”
“Oh, my God,” said Derek. “Disgusting guy.
His world is him and whoever he’s picked
To be his mirror.”
A startling, grisly, accurate thought.
“He left with me,” I mused,
“I’m his alibi but he could always hire someone.”
“But you don’t think she’s dead.”
“I hope she’s not. But if I find her now
I feel sure she’ll finally tell the truth.”
That idea sounded stupid to my ears.
Wouldn’t Mirabel do what she’d
Always done and feed me any story
I wanted to believe?
“I think I can tell the truth from lies,”
I offered, I’d like to
Test it.” To Derek’s credit
He didn’t argue. “My only question is;
What if he killed her, and then
Hired a girl to impersonate Mirabel?”
I had to admit I’d thought of this.
“It doesn’t sound so hard to me,” said Derek.
“After all you haven’t seen her for – what –
Six years?” I shook my head.
“I think it was really her and everything
She said and did was signaling.
I longed to learn her language.
“I think –“ could I confess this deepest secret
To this stranger –
“She’s longing to be found.”
A moment’s silence but Derek didn’t
Counter. “We’ll check her friends,” he said,
“When we open her account.”
Did Mirabel have friends?
Would Verne allow it?
I must have looked like a stopped clock
Because he propelled me out the double doors.
“Is this our stop?” “Change trains.”
Back to waiting on a dangerous platform
In the dark, hovering over an electrified hell.
Had I always been this scared
Of everything?
-
The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn
Derek speaking.
“Sounds just like Mirabel to me. Wasn’t
Disappointing everyone her stock in trade?”
Impossible to argue with.
But I put in the effort.
“Maybe something’s REALLY happened to her this time.
She seems to have been juggling two men
She hated; stealing diamonds and God knows what.”
Should I explain her attempted
Brain hijacking?
Maybe I shouldn’t tell him anything.
Why couldn’t I stop myself? Because
Derek is my age and will have
Predictable response? It felt like,
AT LAST a human being
To speak to in this world of artificial masks.
“God. I’m sorry.” His voice really did
Sound sorry. “Do you want to come here?
Should I go there?”
It was fresh and novel to be offered
The Choice. Sounded like he really
Wanted to help.
“What could you do?”
My own voice sounded like a five year old
Quivering on the edge of tears.
“Help you look? I’d do anything I can.”
I gave Derek the bridegroom’s address.
Speaking of the bridegroom, he burst through
The doors, arms full of literature and bottled water.
“Hotel coupons, flight discounts –
These could suggest where Mirabel might go.
Or where Ravi might stash her.
What a liar! That bastard!”
He DEFINITELY wanted to be the one
Whose mood Mirabel controlled.
I felt I had to interject some authenticity.
“She probably wanted to keep Ravi
From chasing her. Or suing her.
For, you know, the diamonds.”
Verne paused to drink from his
Chilled bottle, flicking
Droplets on his collar.
“She shouldn’t turn to him.”
So we were back to Bad Mirabel,
Conniving Mirabel, with motives
Always suspect.
Not so different – as Derek pointed out –
From the way she’d always been.
We climbed dispiritedly back into the car.
I needed Derek. Just to speak to
Someone sane.
“Have you announced your engagement
Formally?”
“No. We just thought of it. No details yet.”
This opened an unpleasant picture.
Why was I the first
Wedding task?
It couldn’t be that Mirabel needed
Someone sane to speak to –
I must be a distraction
From what I could see was Verne’s
Slow boil.
At that very moment
he eyed my phone suspiciously.
“So, who was that?”
I saw him itching to
Commandeer my phone.
Who WOULD I be talking to? The press?
Poor Mirabel! Her trap was sounding
Worse than ever.
I engineered my way out.
“My parents’ friends.
Their son could help –
He’s hacker smart.”
Should I mention my upcoming move?
Best not; a storm settled between
Verne’s eyes. He thirsted to be
My focus of attention with
No competitor to mute his power.
“He’s meeting us at the apartment.”
Verne didn’t like that one bit.
I realized, even if I have to sacrifice my clothes
I must escape.
-
The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aalyn
I closed the door for
Privacy but Dad only wanted
To speak to Verne. He was
WAY more interested in talking to a man
He’d never met than listening to
His own kid! Go ahead. IGNORE the Virgin.
The virgin is used to it!
At least I was allowed
To listen in.
Verne said Mirabel had just pulled a “Mirabel.”
“Wedding’s off, I take it?” asked my Dad.
He sounded relieved!
“Not because of anything I’ve done or said,”
Verne assured. “She just can’t seem to cope.”
Handed back the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”
“Take the first train home,”
My Dad directed.
“Dad, it’s only Saturday!”
“You can’t stay alone
In some young man’s apartment.
Doesn’t look good.”
“Who’s looking?” I demanded. “Besides, he’s staying
at The Stanhope,” I winked at Verne.
“I’m sorry, no! Must I put your mother on?
You know she’ll back me up.”
“At least let me call the Lowthers.
Maybe they’re in town.”
Longtime family friends. He subsided.
Muttering.
“Parents are so awful,” I proclaimed out loud once
Severing connections.
“They think I’m a baby.”
“They want you to never age”
And Verne smiled wickedly at his private
Epsteinian joke.
I found the Lowthers’ number and got only voicemail –
Should have figured that would happen!
They were at the Cold Spring country house of course!
I enunciated clearly, “This is Richenda Marshott
with an emergency question. Please call me back as soon
As you get this at 715-527-1313.”
This granted me another day at least
I thought till
Someone might check in.
If I spoke to any member of the family –
even barf-inducing Sierra – I could fend off Dad
For the entire weekend.
Verne looked hungrily at my phone.
“What question will you ask?”
“Why, if they’ve heard from Mirabel of course.”
Dropped it in my pocket. High-waist jeans
Have deep, deep pockets.
“I’m going to the Day-Spa,”
I said, allowing him to bail.
But of course he said,
“I’m coming too.”
Chapter 12 – Derek
Bioceutically Renewed was so far east
It was almost in the water. At the door, a
Sweet-faced Asian lady
Expressed almost comic dismay.
“Customers privacy sacrosanct! You understand.
Sacrosanct.” But
Just when I would have recommended
Verne get more friendly
He went haughty.
“We’re talking about a missing person!”
He barked. “This is a police case!”
She was not to be caught.
“Are you police?”
“He’s the fiancé.” Reaching out to touch her arm was
Too naïve! She shrank away.
Verne swelled, his importance
Throbbing. “I’d like to see
The manager!”
We filled the tiny waiting room.
The employee backed away, alarmed,
Scurrying, hastily diminishing
In size. I imagined that was their secret to dispense –
Clients requesting “to be smaller”
Turned into mice. I hissed at Verne.
“What if she calls the police on US?”
He waved this away, airily.
“Flunkies never do. A British title paves the path
To everything.” How I wished
This wasn’t true. The frosty-eyed manager
Was neither young nor Asian,
But when I introduced, “This is Lord Verne,
Mirabel’s fiancé and I’m her sister”
Her expression changed most notably.
How in our democracy could Verne be right?
“Have you told the police?”
“They’ll get involved after the waiting period,” Verne said
Smoothly. Far too smoothly. How many
Wives had disappeared on him before?
“We think she’s under duress. We’re trying
To act fast.” I begged;
“We just want to find her! She carries
Valuables. She could be in danger.”
Verne’s eyes raked me over,
While he fluttered his lips
Disgustedly, as if to say –
“And she left me with this THING!”
Instead of instant ejection
We made it to the inner sanctum, an
Unromantic room where filing cabinets loomed
Over wooden chairs. Ms. “Operations Manager”
Consulted her computer.
“She signed up for our Wedding Package
But only made the first appointment. That was
Days ago. I understood – er – her fiancé
Was…someone different altogether.”
Verne paled and lost his breath.
Fell into a punitively twisted chair.
It was up to me to ask the questions.
“Short, fat, bald?”
“That’s the one.” The woman panicked
At her own audacity.
“Tells us what we need to know.”
Verne was gasping like a fish
And he was not a good color.
I thought he might stroke out.
“Contact numbers?”
“Contrary to policy. I’m sorry.
Her voice was cold, but her eyes were warm.
“May I get you a water?”
“Please,” said Verne. “Bottled, if possible.”
The moment she was out the door I raced
To the computer. “Last appointment was three days ago!”
I took a screenshot with my phone.
Ms. Harvey returned with a bottle of chilled water
which Verne accepted. I was rescued
By the ringing of my phone.
“I’ve got to take this.”
Stepping into the hall.
I heard a deep masculine voice.
“Hi. This is Derek Lowther. Is that
Richenda?” Derek Lowther? Last time I saw him he was a
Particularly nightmarish twelve year old jerk.
(I was a cool eleven year old sophisticate.)
This was NOT the person I’d hoped to speak to. I
Pushed out through the anteroom and into
The pale winter sunshine, playing
For time. “Yes,”
I told Derek unwillingly, “it’s me.”
“So what’s the emergency question?”
“Have you heard from Mirabel?”
He was genuinely astonished.
“Has ANBODY heard from Mirabel?
I certainly haven’t. I’m at the apartment.
Do you mean, did she call here?”
“Maybe you could find out
If your parents have heard anything?”
“They’re on retreat in Sri Lanka. You can assume
The answer’s No. What’s the hurry?”
“Mirabel is missing.”
A beat of silence. I could hear his struggle to be polite.
“Wasn’t Mirabel ALWAYS missing?”
“This time’s exceptional. She came back.
She was getting married.
Then she disappeared. Again.”
I have to admit it did not sound like an emergency.
Impossible to explain anything to this guy!
Hadn’t seen him in 3 years and already
I was angry at him.
-
The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn
Chapter Ten – Is Lord Verne In the Epstein Files?
Cycling through museums of dream –
Christine, threatened forever by
Her hideous Phantom, Daphne
Sprouting as a laurel tree;
Philomela without her tongue.
Was that what Verne meant by
Classics? In the night’s dark heart
I woke and thought I saw him standing there or
Was it Mirabel – reaching out through a gold-framed
Mirror to beckon me closer
Or warn me away?
Somehow I became convinced
Mirabel was dead – murdered by
Lord Verne – he must have done it because
I was his perfect alibi, covering up
His appearance in the Epstein files
Of life, where old roués
Tarnish up the young.
If I stayed here
I’d be Mirabel forever – so I
Fled through shattered French windows where
Sheer white curtains blew across my face
Impeding me; supplicating
Me to dance, daring my embrace.
Where was I? Was this the ruined castle
Where the wraiths were tourists
Gazing at destruction paid for
With the lifeblood of the country?
The stone terrace beneath my feet
Was littered with the broken glass
Of Piper Heidseck bottles – picked my way
Between the broken statues – horny Pan
Whose face had split, cupids gaping with
Their fractured mouths, Vulcan lobbing
Stone pineapples down the mossy garden steps.
Pursued by something
Too disgusting to confront
I saw his shadow –
A leering man with antlers.
At least the distant view
Was comforting – pond encircling island
Ornamented by gazebo – forests crowned
By snowy mountains.
Surely he could not pursue me there.
Something amiss about this lighting –
Bleached too white – bad weather or
Apocalypse; eclipse of the sun or
The end of the world? I revert to
The “helpless bystander” dilemma of childhood –
This was too horrible: I forced myself awake.
Dreams multiplied enigmas –
I could not abandon Mirabel
Prance on home
And declare she’d
“Done it yet again.”
Either she was in danger or
I was. And all my life
I’d been preparing for this moment.
In the mirror I saw
Richenda Marshott complete with morning mouth –
Sunlight exacerbating a hangover
Not from overdrinking but
From over-dreaming.
Verne’s door was closed –
It would be awkward if I’d killed him
But I refused to check. Men
Should not be so dangerous.
I took control of the empty kitchen.
Some bad person – probably me –
Left out the cake – stiff and
Ruined now – only cardboard sugar
Which I guess it’s always been.
Tossed it,
Put the last espresso in the
Microwave and
Opened cabinets sadly.
Here’s finally a place where guests could
Unpack their clothes –
Empty, empty, empty.
The front door unclicked –
I jumped so hard
I banged my head.
“Ow!”
And Verne cried
“Breakfast!”
I hadn’t killed him after all. Seems
I’m the one who overslept.
“I haven’t slept so well in ages. What was
That stuff?” he
Eyed my mug with disapproval.
“You can’t drink yesterday’s.”
I’ve heard it said their lordships
Can’t comprehend the hoi polloi.
“I brought everything.” He went on,
Impossibly cheerful
Considering yesterday.
Waffles, eggs, fruit.
Coffee. No milk?
“It’s OK,” I said to his
Self-recriminating face
“I noticed you have ice cream.”
Vanilla works as well or
Even better.
“Mirabel never drank milk,” said Verne.
“She says it makes cowbones
And soy makes man-boobs.”
She would say that.
Charming Mirabel.
I could one-up and list the
Plant-based milks I willingly absorb but –
“Ice cream is better.”
Hard to one-up when one is
Drooling. Visibly.
-
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.
Alysse Aallyn 