This anonymous letter racket is not as easy as it looks. It made objective sense to start out small, but there was so much I wanted to say.
My father’s fatal weakness was perfectionism. What is it with men and beauty? Now that I’m grown up I can see men’s hysteria over female symmetry is really just another weirdly disguised fear about penis size. But when I was young, I didn’t understand anything; I had to accept my father’s view of the world. I lectured me as blithely as if I was another male just like himself, born entitled to savor the finer things of life. After my mother’s grisly death from uterine cancer he focused on perfect bodies and taut skin. As his own body fell so noticeably apart I assumed he’d change his mantra to something a little more universal but if anything he got more interested in boobs.
As his intellectual heir this put me in sort of a bind. But that wasn’t the first bind he’d put me in. Before I went to that stupid boarding school Charmian chose I attended the same all-girl Catholic school as my sisters, which my father pretended was “better” because the emphasis was on a “classical education.” I discovered that the major theme of classical literature is “hubris”, so I met my father everywhere: at school as well as at home.
Anyway the result of all these double binds resulted in the three P’s: perfectionism, procrastination and paralysis. It’s hard to do anything when you feel judged and found wanting all the time. So I let Charmian kill him. Did she withhold medicine? Did she smother him? (Even in his enfeebled state he showed unexpected strength). Did she overdose him?
When I made autopsy noises, the doctors laughed at me. They looked me over – I was in my Goth stage and a good twenty pounds over my current weight thanks to All you can eat cafeterias and I could see what they were thinking. Step mom problems and with a stepmother like that, was it any wonder? Hubba hubba. She had those guys in such a state of arousal they would have signed anything. They told me I had no standing and she had cremated him right away because that was what he wanted.
I couldn’t prove her wrong but I knew for a fact she must be lying. Dad was an atheist, he thought bodies were just junk, but we do have a family burial plot back in Colorado Springs that everyone is physically in.
I got absolutely no traction with my sisters. McKenzie says she wants to be cremated and Darby wants a “green burial” which is beyond disgusting but only because the poor worms need to eat too and crematoriums are polluting the planet.
I had to act. While I dithered she sold off our childhood house and seduced our trustee (don’t ask.) I assembled a pile of newspapers and magazines and awaited inspiration. Mainly I wanted to accuse her of my father’s death, but I was afraid that was too obvious. She would suspect me immediately.
I saw some FBI guy talking head on TV once say that anonymous letters, poison and bombs are the weapons of cowards. Yeah, that’s what the redcoats said about the Sons of Liberty. This is the same guy tapping your phones, studying your library cards and peeking at you through binoculars. Back at you, buddy. The same patience it takes to set a trap is required to spring a trap. Let’s add “patience” to my collections of “p’s”.
In the end, my father warned me, (without realizing he was talking about his end) it is always about power. He predicted his own demise.
My sisters said we were lucky to have her. She didn’t put him in a nursing home, which was the thing he’d always said he most dreaded. I lacked the persuasive skills to get them to see that this was worse, that he had to beg the woman he said he loved for every scrap of food, every breath of air, every second of pain relief?
They didn’t want to know. They told me I was imagining it when I said I could tell she enjoyed torturing him. People like that are different. I saw an unmistakable glint of ecstasy in her eye whenever he fell particularly low. I was as helpless as he was. I wept in Dr. Fortunato’s office, let my makeup stream crazily right in front of him but he said she was his health care proxy, she had power of attorney, she was his trustee. I was discovering the horrible secret of modern health care: there is no such thing anymore as a natural death. The system merely plays with us as long as it’s in anybody’s interest; then gets rid of us when it isn’t. Everyone turns a blind eye. Way too fast, she did grow tired of the game. When she found the house on Hayden Lake that she wanted to buy, suddenly he was dead. In his sheets afterward – when I was cleaning up his room – trying to be close to him – I found a tarot card. The Hanged Man.
My sisters say it doesn’t mean anything. She has her own weird religion: let her have it. Who knows what bizarre ceremonial she needed to conduct upon his body. He’s just as dead. But I know what it means. An electric current ran through me at that moment, from her to me. I heard her voice saying, COME AND GET ME. I DARE YOU.
The sisters at my Catholic school used to go on and on about “the sin that can’t be forgiven”. The sin against “the Holy Ghost”, whoever that is. My father told me to pay no mind to all that sin stuff, but he was wrong. There are sins, and there are certainly sins that cannot be forgiven. Torture from a trusted confidante has to be one of those.
Murder will out. Isn’t that an expression? The stones cry out for blood. I can feel the universe cry out. Doesn’t it say in the Bible that people who thirst for justice will be satisfied? With trembling joy I assembled that first letter:
I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.
Meaning: I’m coming after you, bitch. Look out behind.
Safely accepted for jury duty, I felt free to become…myself. How ecstatic are my beauty routines! I make love to myself with every unguent, every potion. No medieval knight encased in chain mail could feel as protected as I do, standing naked in front of the full length mirror with a paintbrush in my hand. I am I own greatest creation. I celebrate myself.
Every time I make myself beautiful, I am spitting on my stepfather’s grave. My stepfather, whose first gift to me was a spiral fracture of the arm when I was seven, was a skinny, worthless loser despised by the universe as well as by yours truly. I was eleven when he told me it was his duty to teach me about sex. He said that was what stepfathers were for. Don’t tell me my mother didn’t know what was going on; her cooperation (or at least her silence, she was too fat for cooperation) could always be ensured by a carton of Little Debbies.
Weirdly, he never wanted me to look beautiful, or even attractive. I suppose he feared I’d grow up and leave him. When my girlfriends and I streaked our hair one sleepover, he acted as if I had set the house on fire. Luckily it was the innocent kind that washes out; otherwise I think he really would have shaved my head.
I remember exactly how scared I felt the first time I decided to ignore my stepfather’s diktats about how I should look and dress. It was the kind of terror that makes you wet yourself; but what the enemy forgets is that can be the rocket fuel of rebellion. His own possessive rage became the engine of his death.
I recall my motivation, too; all those memories are crystal clear. Nothing that happened a week ago can retain that kind of power. It was my first day of high school, my first day among the Grown-Up People, and I wasn’t going in there looking like some Amish refugee. I knew I could make up my face and change my skirt at Deirdre’s house; her parents were never home. Contrary to what he tried to make me to believe, I knew in my heart my stepfather could not read minds, had no eyes in the back of his head, could not see through walls, did not have spies everywhere, was not connected to the Mafia and the CIA. He expected me to worship him. He apparently thought that if he could convince one poor slave that he was superman that would make him immortal.
But I discovered that what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt me. Makeup was not too radioactive a substance to keep me from shoplifting it – I built an impressive secret stash at Deirdre’s house. Deirdre’s parents didn’t care how much makeup she used or how trampy she looked. They wanted her gone and off the teat, and they welcomed the universal solution: transfer her grip to some poor guy.
In that year Saturn and Mars were equally fiery, it was dry and there had been a comet. According to Nostradamus such are times potent for revolution. In the first few weeks of school, Deirdre found her guy and I found mine. Paul. I have never forgotten him. I often wonder where he is and what he’s doing. To break the spell I try imagining him as a fat old businessman, but in the Eden of first love he will always represent manhood to me. You remind me of him.
I thought we would be happy ever after. I was too young to realize how expensive love can be. Dating I did not even aspire to: that would get my stepfather involved. All I wanted was someone else’s hand to take away the stain of his touch. It worked the very first time, and I could tell that, just as with any incantation, it would work better and better the more we practiced.
Paul had a car. This is probably the whole reason the sight of black leather so arouses me. Here in our time capsule we could be alone, and when I was alone with Paul, he was touching me, and I was touching him. Every caress added to the fund of courage I would need to kill the man who tried so hard to convince me of my imprisonment. Self-defense, your Honor.
I began by attempting to poison him with chokecherries, then yew berries. I would have tried deadly nightshade if I had known what it looked like, but our high school science teachers were beginning to look askance at all my questions. Mark Twain said, if the desire to kill and the opportunity to kill always came together, who among us would escape hanging?
Alas, he suffered no ill results. A horrible feeling crept over me that in some satanic way, these poisons were actually improving his health. He became more vigilant, and I noticed he was drinking less. Uh oh. But opposing him was beginning to become addictive for both of us. Our battles were escalating. I was as tall as he was now; he must have felt his fists and his penis were no longer sufficient to control me. One day he produced a gun. His idea was that we were now a threesome, little me, paralyzed with fear, and Superman with his two dicks. My idea was different. He knew I was afraid of the cellar. He locked me down there as a punishment when I was little. I thought it was the mouth of hell; a dirt hole clawed beneath the bowels of the house that stank like a sewer. I never even passed the top step but clung to the doorknob, eye pressed to the light crack, wailing for release.
My expanding mind saw will as a muscle; you can train it just the way you train the body. I had transcended so many fears already; why couldn’t I outgrow this fear of confrontation? Previously I concentrated on making his death look like an accident; but what if he simply disappeared? He wasn’t employed, my mom was scared of him, nobody except his bar buddies would even notice he was missing. And they were way too fuzzyheaded to stage a meaningful inquiry. The only drawback I could see was that unlike poison, a gun guarantees your presence while he dies. I had to convince myself this was better, more immediate. Pop, pop, pop, you’re gone. I knew how to cock the pistol; I knew how to release the safety because I’d seen him do it countless times. If the cellar was dirty and stinky, and no one ever went down there, why couldn’t I bury him where nobody would ever look?
While my stepfather was out buying smokes I took a flashlight down to check it out. The wooden staircase rocked as if it would collapse, no problem, it had only to bear us up for two or three more times. Just as I had feared, there were bugs, centipedes and worms, but now I saw them as my friends. Let them eviscerate his corpse; if only they could chew the bones as well. The walls were rough stone, probably offering less support after all these years than the roots I saw sticking out between them. Then I saw the blessing of the Goddess. A wooden well cover, and I knew the time was now.
I was about six years old when the county forced us to go on public water and sewer. I recalled the furor as my stepfather raged against fluoridation and my mother pled abject poverty. Finally the town officials, after a desultory snoop into all our business or its lack, agreed to waive the co-pay. And all this time that old well was down there. The water in the bottom reflected the flashlight as I leaned over. It was even set flush with the floor; what could be easier? I practiced moving the wooden cover; no problem. The only difficulty now was to get him down here with the gun. No problemo. All I had to say was that there were rats down there; he was longing for something to shoot. At first he was a little suspicious, knowing how I avoided the place, but when I said I heard them scratching at the door, he was convinced.
He liked to be considered a man of surprises. I was surprised when he made me go down first, carrying the flashlight and a garbage bag. That meant I couldn’t push him from behind the way I’d planned. It also cut down on my time, because as I think I said before, the place was just a tiny hole.
But if he had surprises, I had ideas. The garbage bag gave me another one. I’ve met people who believe that hauntings are triggered by scenes of desperate violence. If that is true, then that cellar is haunted forever by me in a red sweater, red kilt and matching tights and my stepfather wearing a garbage bag over his head, struggling with a gun. I had to drop the flashlight which shot its crazy, useless stream of light across the floor.
He was wiry and amazingly strong, but I had the gun two-handed and I would not have let it go if the world around me exploded into flames. I discovered in that moment the secret of power, which is that if you want something with your whole being, if you have not one cell of doubt, you are invincible. I had to stomp on his instep to loosen his grip, but the gun came to me pre-cocked. I shot him right through the bag. That gun kicked like a rattlesnake. I shot him again and again and again, and one of the bullets somehow came back to graze me in the face. Doesn’t bother me. I wear that tiny chip along my cheekbone as a badge of honor.
I hadn’t expected all the blood. I guess I thought the bag would somehow contain it, but the bullets tore through that bag like tissue paper. I rolled him to the well, tipped him in, threw the gun and what was left of the bag in after him. I put the wooden cover back on, and I fled up the stairs. I had to throw out all my clothes, even my bra and underpants. Put them right in the garbage. Then I took a hot bath, reveling in making it deeper than my stepfather ever approved of, hotter than he ever allowed, using so much bubble bath that if he had looked in the door he would have accused me of “playing with myself”. Well, he could never look at my body again. In my innocence, I thought it was all Paul’s now. I did not know the Queen has many courtiers.
My mother was cooking a double shift at the diner; she would be gone for hours. Once I redressed I looked around carefully, but there was nothing to see. A little dirt from the cellar was easily swept up, but I saw no blood. He probably went into the water with his truck keys in his pocket, but I knew where he hid his spare. I drove his truck to the bus stop and called Paul for a ride home. Ironically, that call marked the beginning of the end of Paul’s and my relationship; he never would believe my story about what I was doing there.
My mother never even reported him missing. She acted mad that he was gone, but she cashed his VA checks just the same. She must have realized something had happened to him when they told her the truck was in the impound, but instead of paying the fine she signed it over to the lot owner. She never mentioned it to me.
I walked out of that house a year later when I was sixteen years old, and I’ve never been back. Fled Louisiana for Texas where I even changed my name. Mom and I were not what you could call “close.”
Consulting the power of my second sight, I like to think my mom guaranteed herself a (short) retirement of unlimited Little Debbies by selling out to lake property developers, and when they uncovered the skeleton they weighed the opportunity to rename the property Skeletal Acres, rejected it, and sold the trophy to med students. I don’t feel the need to test the veracity of this vision, nor have I regretted what I did for one single second. My stepfather’s card is The Fool. He was a born victim. The universe constantly offers us the challenge to believe in ourselves. Acceptance, and creation of our new world, is the key to inner peace.
She was certainly up to something. You should have seen her getup! Lying to me only makes me more suspicious. She thinks I can’t tell when she’s lying but it’s actually pretty easy. She has a “tell” as Penn, my on again off again boyfriend gambler, would say. She widens her eyes like she’s trying to hypnotize you. Works wonders on men – if she’s appropriately suited up. Maybe not so much in granny guise.
Could this be the result of my anonymous letter? I certainly didn’t expect a reaction this extreme! I was just laying groundwork, so to speak. Trying to master my frustration.
I pretended to drive away, listening to the mix CD (title: “I Hate My StepMom”) that I made for myself. First up: Scars of Life’s Bullet With Your Name On It. Ha ha. Always makes me feel better. Parked at the boat launch and walked back to the house up the beach. A few hours when I can be certain she won’t be home is too precious an opportunity to pass up. I love sneaking around in her house – my house – the house she bought with our money –the thrill is downright sexual. Probably something like what Penn feels when he looks at Internet porn. They expect you to look: it’s all for show. An addictive frisson composed of loneliness and unseen participation.
You can’t call it “breaking and entering” when it’s your own house. I never had difficulty with the security system. There’s one codeword – six letters, none repeated. Anyone with a brain could figure that out. She sees herself as the High Priestess of her own little tarot card, fortune-telling cult – she’s a nut about palmistry and astrology, too. She makes such a fuss about her symbol as the “Queen of Swords” She even wears a little golden dagger around her neck. (Bought with our money.) But Queen doesn’t fit and Swords has a repeat letter. Same with dagger. So what would you do if – let’s say – you were massively undereducated? I tried “SWORDZ” — worked the first time! I can’t tell you what a boost that gave my confidence. Now I know I can outthink her.
Of course she could change the word. She could install cameras. Knowing she’s overconfident, I can’t afford to make the same mistake. I have to strike fast and invisibly. I call it “spelunking”. You never know what you might find.
I look for anything different. Recent acquisitions. How has she been spending our money? I try not to touch things but sometimes I just can’t help myself. Snooping makes me need to pee and when I use her private bathroom I fantasize that the electrically warmed toilet seat is heated from her touch. She left it nice and warm – for yours truly. “Queen of Swords” – bullshit! More like queen of the wolves. Better look out, there’s always some other big mean bitch coming up behind you.
Peering through the floor to ceiling glass windows along the deck I saw the book right away. It’s so big it looks like a freakin’ briefcase. Mauve suede with gold-deckle leaves. Laid out so appetizingly on her faux-Empire writing desk – that must have cost a pretty penny – along with my father’s Art Deco desk accessories. But I couldn’t be so lucky that she would actually write anything there. It’s probably a scrapbook or some such thing. Maybe she bought it to record my anonymous letters! In spite of a fancy vocabulary acquired from my father she’s basically illiterate. All her books are just for show; you know the kind: “Castles of Ireland”, “English Country Houses”, “Japanese Gardens”. Here I am, scrawling my every idea in a dollar-fifty steno book, because that’s the way I was raised. Planning. First draft, second draft, third draft, show! Give your ideas the best presentation possible before you send them out begging.
I wondered if that “knitting bag” of hers contained the anonymous letter. Who was she gong to consult? The police? A private detective? Someone she wanted to view her as a victim. Someone she had never seen before, obviously. Thrilling! Who knew I had so much power?
I was ready to run around front and let myself in when my cell phone went off. Office. Needs me Stat. I’d have to save Charmian’s Big Book for another time. This earning-a-living-business sucks ass.
On the morning I was under mandate to show up at the courthouse I routinely pulled a card. Justice. This is the balance card, the card of the Midnight Court. In the Midnight Court, women weigh men in the balances. On the face of my card the Goddess pulls down her blindfold to peek out at the man she assesses. As we all know, Justice requires assistance. It is built on the bodies of those who must submit. The Goddess herself calls me to sit on that jury.
Carefully I assembled my disguise. Any well-appointed home has just the thing. I went upstairs to the second bedroom to see what I could pull together.
Of course I don’t call it a “bedroom” around anyone else. They might get ideas. It doesn’t even contain a bed. Officially, it’s The Boxroom.
I live in the most beautiful house on the lake. Everything about it is perfect except its rather silly name – “Topside”. Some sailing expression. I was happy to wash my hands of Dr. Quantreau’s hideous house in Colorado Springs. Vast, dark, creaky and vaguely Japanoid. “Modern” back in the fifties. Ugh. Topside is too perfect even to allow a housekeeper, or maid, like the ones I had back in Colorado Spring. It would be too intimate, having another person here. I relish caring for all my beautiful objects. It doesn’t take up too much of my time to stroke my own beast.
Boulder is a much more happening place than poor old Colorado Springs. Here, we are all making ourselves up as we go along out here. How you were born is no comment whatever on how you will end up. Life on the lake combines the best of both worlds; the power, tradition and beauty of the status quo with the fiery challenge, the imaginative power of the self-made.
Whenever I step inside my door I hug myself. All this space is just for me. Three bathrooms and a massive two storey living room whose glass wall overlooks the lake, a pro chef’s kitchen (in case I entertain); even “a media room.” Plus underground storage for my current “baby”, a gold convertible Mercedes SL.
I sigh as I tell my stepdaughters that it is not a good house for children. Too full of treasures. And the lake is so dangerous. That’s why all family parties need to be at McKenzie’s house. She has a pool. I try not to visibly smirk as I watch five dirty children struggling to exhaustion in the chlorinated water. Then I finish my drink – McKenzie’s wine is as good as anybody’s – I know because I bring it myself – and leave. As I disarm and rearm the security system the house itself seems to sigh with pleasure. “I have been waiting for you.”
The Boxroom is where ill-advised gifts come to die. Who can know me well enough to actually give me anything? Not a soul on this planet, sister. On this morning I was looking for a specific sweatshirt given to me by McKenzie’s youngest. It’s pink, it’s covered with strange-looking cotton balls and it says Best Granma Ever!
Wig? I thought of that already – my sex club wigs certainly won’t do. Do they even sell gray wigs? Baby, they sell everything. Gray wig, check. No makeup. Ouch. Reading glasses. Big-bottomed elastic waisted Mom jeans. Am I shameless enough to pad them? Why not? Could be amusing. A couple pairs of the boys’ jams that form my usual lakeside attire ought to thicken me up nicely. Wow. If I had long brunette hair I’d look just like Whitney.
Add a tapestry bag full of yarn and canvas and there she is, the Widow Quantreau. Fair, balanced, but so easily swayed. Inexperienced – deliberately — in the ways of the world. The Widow Quantreau has kept her mind pristine. She tries to think only the best of people. In her life unpleasantness has always been taken care of by someone else. She hasn’t had to fight her way up, the way I have. The status quo is God-given and naturally right, and all who breach it should be punished. Unless they have a particularly alluring sob story, and then I guarantee my eyes will glisten and my lower lip will droop – droop – droop.
Talk show television, that’s what the Widow Quantreau favors. And non-abrasive cooking shows. You know, the helpful as opposed to the competitive kind. That’s what I told the questionnaire anyway. As I looked at myself delightedly in the mirror I almost wished I was going to the sex club. This was a new disguise for sure! Sadist or masochist? Because you better believe it, you’ve gotta be one or the other. Top or bottom; lion or lamb. I take my lamb rare, thank you. Very rare. But they don’t let lions sit on juries, if they can sniff them out in advance. They might enjoy themselves too much, and as we’ve all had dinned into our ears since grade school, it’s not “work” if you enjoy it.
Judge Sugarman made his call; I made sure of that. He owes me. So I probably have a fairly high interview number. Still, he assures me they will have a list of questions already prepared to ask me. (Sometimes designed by an expensive jury consultant.) Under “religious affiliation” I did not put Wiccan, as I sometimes do just to scarify and tease. Nor did I put down my mother’s church, the complex name of which I’m sure I can’t recall correctly. The Church of Christ Crucified and Unforgiving. Something along those lines.
No, I claimed Episcopalian, just like dear old Dr. Quantreau himself, the old atheist. Not that he bothered with a priest when he decided to get hitched. He was in too big a hurry, since I wasn’t prepared to get naked without suitable guarantees. Read: no pre-nup. But that Matterhorn proved amazingly easy to climb! I thought it was going to be the biggest challenge of the campaign. I didn’t know about “ux”. That’s what Latinists call “wife” apparently. He had all the trust documents set up – whoever was married to him at the time would step right in. Easy-peazey.
Dr. Quantreau showed up at church only twice a year, and then only if he thought someone was looking. He spurned what he cynically described the “comforts” of religion for himself, describing them as the province only for “females of both sexes”. Knowing that, I didn’t bother with last rites. There was nothing and nobody to protect him at the end.
Knitting bag in hand, I hurried out to the rental car. What kind of vehicle does the ideal juror drive? I wasn’t taking chances. You never know who you’ll meet in the parking lot. Each time – prosecution and defense – has a universe of hangers-on. Mid-size, mid-expense, nondescript seemed my safest bet. That’s what I ordered and that’s what they brought me. A gray Buick. One yawns at the sight of it.
No gardener today, and if I hurry, no Judge Sugarman, but it’s hard not to pause just long enough to survey my plot with pride. Spring is my season! I feel the blood fermenting in my ripening veins. The carefully hand-scattered daffodils have sprung up beside the stone wall; the weeping cherry trails kimono sleeves across the Buick’s roof. Beneath the thundercloud plum a slate birdbath vaunts a tall metal sculpture of feasting heron and dancing frogs. Frogs dance when they are about to be eaten. It’s an old Cajun joke. I’m Cajun on my stepfather’s side. Didn’t you know that? You acquire the powers of anyone you kill.
I shouldn’t be surprised to see Whitney’s jalopy. Fortunately she’d turned the engine off – she’s always playing the most God-awful, brain jangling music. No wonder kids can’t think if this is the stuff they listen to.
I pulled her card yesterday so I knew she must be lurking. In the Tarot universe she’s the Princess of Wands; a girl-woman whose weapon is the fire wand. Naturally she doesn’t know how to use it; she has yet to come into her power. Fire wands may have their place, but a sword will cut a fire-wand in half. A true Queen will not be burned even by a shower of sparks. The Princess’ only hope is to catch a Sword Queen napping, but…
Aging Dr. Quantreau didn’t do Whitney any favors, making her into his “ideal companion” while he was waiting for me to arrive. A teenage girl who is half seventy-five year old man is most certainly fated to struggle to find her place in the world. She should be out clubbing with her friends, daring the rituals of sex and drunken exaltation.
Instead, she’s hanging around me. I used to think she nourished quite a charming little passion for me; it’s the man-woman in her. Her sisters and I have mastered the language of femininity; but she refuses. My Empress (whose powers I also acquired) also risked mannishness. And look how she ended up.
Yes, I had high hopes of Whitney, before she set herself against me. She is an Archer, just like myself, born under a full moon at the exact time of the Winter Solstice. Mercury and Neptune hung above her cradle. Mercury is the Mind, Neptune the Imagination; it is a fatal double blend. She will over-think all her choices and frequently suffer paralysis between competing options. Her questioning sarcasm might remind me of myself. But I corral and empower my thoughts; spitting out an endlessly empty hostility is a mark of cowardice.
Her father spoiled her rotten. Her sisters – Princesses of Cups (so zodiacally impoverished they must share identity) at least understand that a family trust that pays all education and health expenses is extremely generous. I can feel Whitney wanting more. She is too wily (or fearful) of my power to come right out and claim what she desires, and I have no incentive to make it easy for her. Let her come to me, if she ever thinks she can summon up the power.
I realize I went about befriending her in completely the wrong way. I was unsure of my sway over the doctor –what if he got well before I could get rid of her? Plenty of men recover from stroke. Luckily she opposed me so obviously he took my side. Plus, he yearned to be alone with me. Ah, the naked nights and the drunken days! He should have been suspicious of upselling at his age. But we all are victims of our hopes, are we not? I didn’t have time to break Whitney’s spirit; I had my hands full with her father. Respect once lost can never be regained.
Whitney lacks self-pride. She never seems to care how grungy she looks. She shops at thrift stores. If she’s ever had a boyfriend, I’ve never met him. She insists on remaining a club that even she doesn’t want to join.
The Princess of Wands would be a proud archetype for anyone but Whitney, who refuses to so much as acknowledge its existence. Her fire throne (Fire is Whitney’s element) is guarded by a pair of lions and a single black cat, reminding us of the Egyptian goddess she once was. Her flower is the Sunflower, her star the Sun. In my deck she has long dark hair, just like Whitney. Whitney may come into her own someday; but she’s not going to do it on my dime. With no husband or children, a studio apartment and the merest hint of an excuse for a job, Whitney seems to have plenty of time to gad about; which she uses poorly. Hovering around me. The helicopter stepdaughter is always up for getting into trouble. I’ll never make it easy for her, why should I instruct her in her powers? I zip my lip. Intimacy with her ilk – even the kind obtained through criticism – is to be shunned. I certainly hated her unwelcome appearance on this morning; seeing my disguise. But it could play out to my advantage. “Might could” as my mother used to say. Let’s keep her guessing.
“New car?” She studied my rental curiously. She’s all about the moolah. Let her think it’s mine. “You don’t like it?” I asked airily. Always answer a question with a question; never give out free information. Make them pay for it. What she’s really worried about is my spending of her father’s money. Because she thinks she gets what’s left. That’s if there’s any left! I lean as hard as I can on Trustee Nicholas Rudoff’s investment decisions to keep them out of the “blue chip” category. That is, when I have nothing better to do.
She continued to stare. “It doesn’t seem like you, somehow.”
So now I’m obligated to live up to her fantasies, whatever those might be? I tried not to manifest my annoyance. “I contain legions,” I teased. Somebody famous said that once. Goddess knows what the real quote is.
Whitney’s “job” is selling advertising. Her Mazda Protégé is slapped with stickers. Beats me how a person so deliberately unpleasant can survive on commissions but she says she loves the excuse to be out in the open air. She must rely on her garrulous nature. She loves “chewing the fat.” Today she wore white pants, too early for the season, a brilliantly colored op-art blouse and a short pink suede jacket emphasizing her girth. Why does she insist on wearing belts as if she had a waist? But what can you do? I’d tried and failed. Built for comfort, not for speed, as my stepfather used to say. She fastened her eyes on my knitting bag. “Late for class?”
“That’s it. I’ve got to run.”
Of course I had to lie. If I got on the jury she’d find out eventually. Let her. But while I wove my spell I required a decent darkness.
“Sure is a new look,” she remarked, her eyes sliding about inside the glop she decorates them with. Brunettes don’t need so much makeup. Someone should tell her.
Pointedly I unlocked the Buick door. I seriously doubted I was even the target of this visit. It’s spring, after all. She, too, had probably noticed Brainerd’s Beautiful Assistant. She must have sap – or something – running through her veins.
“I’d offer you coffee but I’ve already set the alarm,” I climbed right into the front seat. Buh-bye! No need to stand on ceremony with family members!
She leaned right in the driver’s window so I found myself staring right into her somewhat bulgy pale blue eyes. She has worn the same makeup ever since high school; black eyeliner, turquoise mascara, rose blush and a sweep of pink lipstick. Just like an American girl doll. Sacrificial offering to the Lost Daddy.
“Wow, do you look different,” she emphasized.
“I’m in disguise,” I hissed conspiratorially. “Charitable works.” Keep her guessing. I tried not to seem too impatient as I pointed to her car blocking my path. She hurried to accommodate me. Do her good to run. She can use the exercise.
I know what Henry Kissinger said about power being an aphrodisiac, but I was caught off guard when Charmian’s and my father’s relationship turned romantic. Surely my elderly parent, who couldn’t button his own shirt, was finished with sex. Who could be attracted to a geezer male with uncertain or explosive plumbing? I guess it’s money, that makes the juices really flow. Lie back and think of Vail, or Cabo.
For a while I had the weird thought that she might be a lesbian. Of all the people in my life she was the most interested in my body. She was always giving me diet advice and begging me to try on clothes. I found her the whole situation distinctly unwholesome. What would she have done if I suddenly lunged at her, grabbing and kissing? We’ll never know. I turned down all gifts, visible and in.
My father and I had always enjoyed eating together. We relished prime rib, mashed potatoes, lasagna, sauerbraten. The one dish I learned to cook was sweet and sour pork. We loved trying new restaurants; it was our “thing”. But Charmian says the way to a man’s heart is not through his stomach, but his eyes.
I recall one diet tip in particular: drink a glass of hot lemon juice and eat an apple before every meal. Guess what? It absolutely works. Totally ruins the meal. Kills your appetite dead. You get to sit there and watch other people eat. But the question she never answered was, why should I want my appetite killed? My father always said the purpose of education is the cultivation of the appetites. If you wear blinders you won’t be distracted. But you also won’t see anything. Like a cart horse. What’s the good of that?
My father used to praise the fact that I was “substantial”, unlike those “modern girls competing to disappear”. Until she got hold of him, convincing him that our diet gave him a stroke and made me “unpopular”.
Everyone was on her side. I was thirteen years old for Chrissake. Plenty of time to be disappointed by men. I’m not convinced becoming a Cultural Icon has all these advantages, anyway. Don’ supermodels end up selling their eggs over the Internet? The prettiest girls in our high school class seem the saddest now, like somehow they got cheated. To me they seem to have less personal freedom, not more. Take my sisters for example, always acknowledged to be pretty, pretty girls. They’re perfectly willing to let Charmian rip them off. They say it was “his” money and there’s nothing we can do. Hells, no. Our mother is spinning in her grave.
Dad made lots of bad decisions, especially when his mind started to go. He expected me to stand up to him. To challenge him. Darby said I was the son he never had. He used to stand at the top of the old Colorado Springs house – it had a turret and he knew I loved that – and say, “Someday all this will be yours.” I know he said it metaphorically. I know he said it humorously. But you simply don’t leave the kingdom to the wicked stepmother. Gag me with a spoon.
What do you give the woman who has everything? It’s a problem. By definition, femininity is yearning for a never-to-arrive completion. Queens, of course, are different. Power is what we yearn for. One thing I’ve learned, if it’s masculine “approval” you’re waiting for; you’ll never get that! Men call us “insatiable” in self- excuse. So what new toy could tempt me?
I hesitated a little as I opened the mailbox. Usually it’s a pleasure to stand in my immaculately groomed garden looking through trust and bank statements, but last week, for the first tie in my life I received an anonymous letter. It was postmarked Colorado Springs, the old neighborhood, but the address had been made by label and the return address was “Suite 7, Flatirons Office Park”. So even though the envelope said “Hallmark” I opened it with a distinct lack of excitement. Almost certain to be begging disguised as an invitation. Strangely enough, it was both.
Inside were cut out letters assembled to form the words:
I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.
A chill ran through me and I looked up hastily, but as far as one can see through woods and leaves, I was alone. Things that seem very unpleasant at first conceal hidden delights; there’s a life lesson for you. Emotions first repelled as shocks to the system can even become addictive. So I thought hard about it. In fact, I had been thinking about it all week.
A new game. I used to love games. A hazard of wealth is a lack of surprises, since you control everything. I usually visit the sex club as a corrective. Plenty of surprises there. Here’s a game with a new disguised player. Someone jealous, obviously. Someone who feared coming out from behind the mask; someone who hoped to upset me from a distance.
I’ve done some terrible things in my life, that’s for certain. A Queenship that’s routinely handed over isn’t worth having. On the other hand, it’s literally impossible for anyone to know what those were. So here’s a person – a disguised person, a gameplayer – trying to manipulate me into acting in some way I wouldn’t have acted without this incitement. Now what could that be?
Criminal psychology says it’s a woman, an older woman (what junior would ever choose this mode of communication?) but it might be a man. A man-woman. I know plenty of those. That’s the reason that I put my hand slowly into the mailbox as if a second coachwhip waited in the dark to pounce. But no Colorado Springs Hallmark card. Instead, a summons to jury duty!
What could be more intriguingly amusing than a power of life or death? In Colorado, death sentences are decided by the jury. My whole life has been about deciding when to cut the cord. I might have to share it with eleven others, but most people are easily manipulateable, and our jury system is such that one holdout is all it takes to derail a prosecution.
KDVR has been screaming at me for weeks about the Sivarro-Haymaker case. Did pretty Karen Sivarro, dragged back from Europe in chains, really ask her boyfriend to hire a hitman? Is she as responsible as said hitman or perhaps even more so? The murder of Rafe Zanelli – we had all seen pictures of his bullet-ridden body sprawled in the roadway – wouldn’t have occurred without her, that’s for certain.
I became aware of someone creeping up behind me. It could only be my neighbor, Judge Sugarman, who has lately been stalking me. I steeled myself to face him with a smile. The Judge came lumbering at me with such speed he must have been spying from his kitchen window with binoculars. Judge Sugarman has a sort of a wife – what is left of her. She’s already been outsourced to a nursing home so he is frantically shopping for a replacement. He has a fine pool to select from – literally vans of women arrive carrying electric brooms and casseroles and baskets of flowers — but in the most ancient tradition of romance, he doesn’t want anyone who wants him.
He wants me. His only love affair at present is with the internal combustion engine, so a racket of clippers or weed whacking usually precedes him as he angles towards the privet separating our lawns. I tried not to gag at the love light in his eyes. After all, this summons I held in my hand could give him an opportunity to be useful. Quid pro quo makes the world go round, as my dear, late, late husband used to say.
I could have told him that being alone these days is no reason to go without sex. As a local potentate he probably knows about the sex club. I see plenty like him on my nights there – suited up and eager for excitement. But they don’t last. They soon discover that anonymity removes their sole attraction. Suddenly they experience the kind of catastrophic fall in status it used to be their professional obligation to inflict on the rest of us. They find themselves subject to a new order – the rule of beauty. If they expect to dance, they had better bring a partner. Judge Sugarman has big shoes that need filling.
He is looking to purchase, not rent. His clothes say Nieman Marcus but his jowls say prenup. Someone patient with him in bed, supportive at public events, self-effacing at parties and ready to memorize the birthdays and anniversaries of children and grandchildren. Been there, done that. This man doesn’t need a beginner, he needs an immigrant. Off the boat, or under the fence. An indentured servant with a huge bill hanging over her head. He had better look elsewhere. Now I please only myself.
I made a magnanimous effort to pretend I’m not automatically repulsed by wandering nasal hair and a gym-free torso – Goddess knows I’ve had worse. His needs and my needs do not match up. Yet he possessed a small capability to be of service. The judge took my hand and as I touched his Mount of Venus I could read that he is an ungenerous lover. Failure to achieve paradise is your own damn fault. I relinquished his hand by the simple stratagem of spewing my mail at his feet. He half bent – half knelt – to pick it up, allowing my eyes to stray to a more delectable sight – the arrival of Brainerd’s assistant.
Brainerd is my gardener, and there is nothing attractive about him. He is slowly becoming skeletally thin – Paris Hilton would be jealous – but on him it’s not attractive and suggests some terminal condition unresponsive to modern meds. Lately he has started bringing an assistant – his heir, one supposes – who is as radiant as sunrise. I don’t know his name, but I have stood at my bathroom window many times watching the muscles slide around under his tattoos. He’s probably gay, but I can play male. One has the obligation to explore all appetites, creating new ones as necessary.
Only the dead don’t hunger. Nostalgie de la boue, as my late husband used to say. We all suffer from an atavistic longing for the primeval mud. I admit, I’ve even been tempted to slide a guest card to the sex club underneath the bent windshield wipers of the ramshackle steamship he uses for transportation, but frankly, I’m too lazy.
Brainerd’s assistant acknowledged my presence shyly and began unloading a collection of rakes and sprays. I favored him with a luxurious smile while Judge Sugarman staggered red-faced to his feet. “You certainly get a lot of catalogs,” he puffed.
I dazzled him with a leftover lip-pleat. “Oh, you know how it is,” I told him, “So much money, so little time. Why should my stepdaughters get spoiled? We must prevent the heirs from plundering the estate.” He laughed gamely. He loves it when I flirt with him, but I like to go beyond flirtation into actual discomfort. Because it’s fun.
“Here’s my latest acquisition,” I said, dangling the jury notice in front of his yellow-orbed irises. “The Sivarro-Haymaker case is the one I want.”
“That’s the one everybody wants,” he said, and I saw his mind struggling with the realization that I was asking for something in his power to grant.
He backpedalled. “They usually divide the pool randomly between civil and criminal.” I pouted. “I don’t want to waste my time on a civil case.”
Still, he hesitated. “I could make a call but…even if you had a very high number and were interviewed late the prosecution might use a strike against you.”
“Why the prosecution?” I was annoyed. Dr. Quantreau’s widow was a celebrant of the status quo, why should anyone assume I automatically identify with the accused? I have personal reason to know, where there’s smoke there’s usually a smoldering ember someplace. I felt insulted by the ugly film muddying his eyes. I could hear what he was thinking – yes, I read minds when it’s worth my while. Isn’t he thinking the trophy second wife is just the kind of predatory adventuress poor Karen Sivarro is accused of being? Yet it’s a damned poor adventuress who ends up on a murder rap. They had to drag her back from England in chains.
Cut to the chase. “So who’s their ideal juror?” No false pride here. I can play anything. Pick his brains since that’s what he’s here for.
“The different sides want different things. They’ll give you a questionnaire. The trick is to appeal to both of them.”
“And how would I do that?”
“You’re uninterested in gossip. Never read “bad” news or watch frightening television. No relatives in prison or law enforcement. No crime victims in the family tree.” He leaned forward to whisper in my ear, “Easily swayed.”
I laughed out loud. “Why that old thing!” I exclaimed in my best Southern accent. “I can fake that twice a day!”
I rapped him on the shoulder with my invisible fan. “Don’t forget to make that phone call! I’m counting on you now!” And then I was sprinting for the house, leaving him standing there as if he had forgotten why he had come, as, given his advanced age, quite possibly he had. Bastard! He owed me that phone call! The more I thought about it, the more it seemed likely that he himself was my anonymous correspondent. It was just the kind of thing an elderly law-saturated geezer would get up to.
He’d probably had plenty of cases like this, when he was on the bench. Why should a beautiful, rich young woman with all of life as her plaything have anything to do with the likes of him, unless she required his counsel, expertise, and a professional shoulder to lean on? It certainly would explain why he hovered for the “trigger” of me at my mailbox. Men are so transparent.
I always knew she murdered my father. Does evil have a smell? Only eleven percent of people can detect the odor of cyanide. Almonds. But I am one of the eleven percent. I guess I have a nose for evil. Something about Charmian twitched my nostrils from the beginning. Charmian! That name is fake like everything else about her – nails, hair, eyes, breasts; fake, fake, fake. And my poor idiot father, who raised me to know quality and to seek it out, to insist on value, to treasure worth and reward effort – said he didn’t give a damn about Charmian’s past – who or where she had been.
Didn’t care that she was forty years younger! Or was it what was left of his dick that didn’t care? My older sisters were much more pragmatic about his dick of clay. They had husbands, children, they were grown and gone. Out of the house. In fact they said all men had clay dicks. McKenzie says every man’s ideal woman is a Vegas stripper. Darby says hookers work hard and earn their money just like everyone else. McKenzie says old men are a lot of work, and Darby says Dad treated Mom like crap and karma is a bitch.
I don’t remember. I was still little when she died. I took his side, always. He was the fun parent, giver of candy and prizes. He pointed out to me how logical he was and how stupid she was; why should I ever join her team? Dad and I read hero books; Beowulf, the Iliad, Genji, Gilgamesh. He encouraged the highest aspirations. I was the son he never had and didn’t need, because he had me. Then came the stroke. He needed help. No biggie, basic assistance. He didn’t want to help from me; he said I had my own life to live. I should have worried more when he hired Charmian. She was totally unqualified.
She was dangerous. Anyone could see. Every layer I’ve peeled back is perfidious and I don’t think I’ve hit bottom yet. I learned it from you, dad. You were so demanding, such a skeptic. My father was a doctor, a teacher, a diagnostician. Whenever I say my last name everyone asks, any relation to Dr. Quantreau? His whole ethos was to look beneath the surface – never settle for the obvious – take full note of signs and portents. Intelligent people have the obligation to educate themselves until they understand what they’re up against.
So that’s what I’m doing. I’m going t catch her and expose her. After they married he kicked me out of the house – she kicked me out – and he had no protections. I thought I had more time. When nobody was looking she finished him off.
I didn’t tell my sisters. I should have seen it coming. felt too guilty. So it’s up to me to do the dirty work. But is it really “dirty work” when it concerns someone you love? Dad, the raging unbeliever who taught me how to make the most of every second we are given, was tricked into lapsing gently into the dark night. How could you have disappeared so completely from the lovely earth you taught me how to savor? Exactly as if you had never been here at all.
Duel between a stepmother and stepdaughter turns deadly.
Charmian: Chapter I – The Knight of Swords
My mother was bitten by a coachwhip while carrying me; that’s how I got my second sight. My stepfather, not a witness to the event but someone who always had the be the smartest person in any room he was in and the greatest living authority on everything, said it wasn’t a coachwhip but a blue runner and it never would have killed her anyhow. It wasn’t until I left home that I discovered they’re the same snake. So that argument, like most they had, was entirely pointless.
She would have killed me deader than any snakebite but she was too fat to even realize she was pregnant. So that was the first lucky thing in my lifetime string of magical good fortune, the second being that I didn’t drown in the toilet. Let’s say my “home birth” was quite a surprise.
To those blessed with second sight time is circular. There I was: an old soul born to pawns of fate just up from rats. When they come back it will be as cockroaches. I was seventeen when I came into my royal nature as Queen of Swords. The Queen ‘s blood is power, intuition is her oxygen, action is her throne. I am the only one who recognizes truth. My sword cauterizes like a laser. You might as well submit; you’ll feel better after. All living creatures, whether they know it or not, draw breath in fealty. I grant consciousness and unconsciousness; just as I choose.
This morning, I pulled a card, as is my daily custom. And there you were, my Knight of Swords, leaning down from your horse to penetrate a dragon’s proffered belly. I must have need of you because when I summoned; you came. My late husband used to say, “When the servant is ready, the master will appear.” He thought he knew who was the servant and who the master — a dangerous assumption to make when I’m around.
In my beautiful Doré deck this Knight is teen-mag handsome, with a carved-marble face, blocky jaw and a panther’s square nose. Luxuriant blonde hair, rippling into curls, is tied back for battle. His quiver contains a multitude of arrows unlike the poorly-equipped King of Swords. A “suicide king”; his blade is turned against himself.
This knight is also slightly cross-eyed, like a Siamese cat. Does it mean that, like me, you see forward and back? I almost feel I’m looking at an echo of my double-eyed face – one eye green and one eye blue. He is ready to launch himself on his heroic quest; but one eye still looks behind him.
There’s fate for you. Even when you don’t believe in it, it believes in you. Let this card inaugurate my new life. I have been feeling something missing. My ideal lover is out there waiting for me to find him. In a way, I feel I have invented you. Or perhaps you, lonely as only gods are lonely, have invented me. I rose up out of one of your nocturnal emissions in my most seductive guise. Blonde (of course), full-breasted (of course), boy-hipped, five feet eleven in stilettos. Come and get me. Since I can recall eternity I must have always been here. We are primal elements: archetypes. We are fated to meet maskless. History itself evolves to smooth my path. I will teach you mastery of the future. I inserted your card in a gilt display box and left exposed it to the consideration of the universe on my mother-of-pearl dressing table.
I live surrounded by beautiful objects, such as this suede book in which I write with my ivory pen. I too lived my early life as a beautiful object, much sought after by collectors. Beauty is my birthright, but conquest has leaves me lonely. Until now.
“Jazz, Jazz, Jazz,” Corso shook his head. His voice turned silky. “I am your advisor. It is my job – I think I can say my calling – to step in when you’ve gone astray. And what have you done to your hair? I’m not sure I like it. You look quite a different person. It’s as if you’re attempting a disguise. As Mr. Quinn how that works out. You really require professional intervention at this point, but hasn’t that always been the truth about you?” He turned to Chase.
“I see you have been hanging around with quite a bad element, Mr. Quinn the housebreaker. Mr. Quinn the burglar. Mr. Quinn who lives – rather tragically I must confess – on the edges of other people’s lives with other people’s things on other people’s money. When will you learn that you are a free agent, Mr. Quinn and not my shadow-doppelganger? Jazz, it grieves me that you are so impressionable.
“Put down your fists, Mr. Quinn. Did you wish to duke it out? Never let your mouth write checks your body cannot cash. Why don’t you let me explain my proposition before you land yourself in the slammer? I’maware that you can be bought; you’ll see my plan is lucrative. I’ve prepared a spreadsheet for your delectation. If you’ll sit down — and calm down — I’ll show it to you.
“Do I look dangerous here? Trust me that I’ve come in peace. Now as for you, Jazz, I’m aware that cash can’t sway you or you’d actually have some of it. No, you are motivated by – “ he paused delicately, “I think we’ll call it love. Love, love, love, love, love. Who am I to say it can’t exist? Sit down, Mr. Quinn.”
To my astonishment Chase sat down. I hesitated, unsure of what to do. I wanted to believe Chase was playing a deeper game – collecting evidence as he had the first time I’d seen him with Corso – but there was a crushed look on his face that hadn’t even showed around his father. Could anyone be that good an actor?
“This is win, win, children.” To emphasize, Corso leaned forward and Chase flinched as though the other man’s penumbra touched him. Observing his advantage, Corso threw out his arms. “I will lay my life wide open for you, since that’s what you so desire. Tell you all my secrets.” He thumped his chest. “Here’s the first; I am the master key that opens all the doors.” Behind the saturated silk of his voice I heard the scorpion hiss with a sting in its tail.
“You have no right to be here,” I challenged. “Get out!” Took every ounce of my non-existent courage, I have to say.
His face assumed a sorrowful mien. “I was so afraid you would start without me,” he sighed. “What can I say to persuade you that I am the multiplier in this equation?” “I can take you,” asserted Chase, his voice rough and gravelly as an unpaved road.
“That would be lovely,” soothed Corso. “By all means let us bench- press each other for the delectation of the fair maiden.” He gestured at my poster. “This is so quaint, Jazz. I’m hoping once you’ve memorized it you’ll loan it to me. If only I had known, every time you said “Oh, Bosch” that you meant Bosch with a “c”. We would have gotten on much faster.” “Go to hell,” I returned. Feebly, alas.
“Jazz, we’re already there,” croaked Chase. Oh God, I thought. He’s still set on killing him. Throwing him out the window, like Howk’s body in my vision? I’ve got to do something. But what?
“Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Quinn,” snapped Corso, exactly as if we were still in class. “You are just a beginner. Give me a child at the age of seven…then give me another. I’ve plumbed your depths.” He laughed dismissively. “Frankly, Jazz deserves better than you.” “We know what you’ve been up to, murdering Miss Howk,” said Chase. “Did she kill your wife for you?”
A smile broke over Corso’s face. “What fun this game has been,” he sighed. “You advance a pawn, I advance a rook. Rook kills pawn. If I’d had any idea what a pleasure it is having stalkers I’d have tried it long ago. So gratifying to see the pair of you so aroused by my spoor.” ““You made all sorts of mistakes,” I said angrily, out of control and aware I shouldn’t be doing this. Should we show him our hand? But the temperature in the room was just too high. I wanted to throw every weapon I could find.
“I don’t think so,” said Corso. “That doesn’t sound like something I would do. On the other hand, one likes to leave a signature behind. You know Jazz, there’s always more than one suspect. Can you think of anyone who wants to show off for you and thus secure your trust? Is there no one you can think of?” He spoke loudly, as iffor a hidden recording device. “Poor Miss Howk disappeared wearing your scarf, after all. They told me at the Health Center that you seemed angry at her for some reason. Did you take her for a rival?”
What a master of smoke and mirrors! As if Chase and I didn’t recognize truth when we tripped over it! “You are ridiculous,” I challenged, flinging out the biggest insult I could think of. “What will the dean say about the way you exploit your students? Don’t tell me there isn’t plenty of evidence.” “I’m going to tell you something very shocking,” Corso admitted lazily, rising to his feet and peering out my eighth-floor window. He turned his back upon the world to perch upon my ledge. “The internet is full of porn. It’s hard to tell one slave from another. So really, only the slaves can testify they were present at their own comeuppances! Does that sound likely to you? The compensations of continuing just as we are, are enormous. I do wish you’d let me show you. Isn’t there anything you desire? Mr. Quinn has a nice shiny car. What do women want? Let me see…hmm…women want men!” He laughed out loud. “I think we’ll guarantee you that! This poor slave, if you require him. Don’t you see yet, you won’t catch flies with threats, adorable little Jazz? Time to try your famous honey instead.” He sighed luxuriously. “Infamous honey, perhaps I should say. Enjoyed by all.”
I knew the urge to physically attack was just what Corso wanted, so instead of advancing, I retreated, wondering how I could prevent Chase from wrestling with his demon. I walked to the door and turned on the lights. Because right then I saw it all. I had something Corso never had, or if he had, he’d willingly surrendered it. The connection Chase and I had forged to the infinite answered all our questions. With my room’s fluorescent lights lit, the room became a stage. I knew that Bex and his rifle were out there somewhere.
“You are such a bastard,” spat Chase, staggering to his feet. His face was so drained of blood his freckles stood out like plague spots. Separate, we couldn’t fight him. How could we come together?
“Oh, come, come,” said Corso, throwing his arms out to embrace the universe, “I gave you what you wanted. I brought her to you, didn’t I? I brought all of them. Turn about is fair play. I’ve upheld my part of the bargain. Now it’s your turn to share.”
I shouted at Chase, “Transitional objects!” and threw him to the floor in a flying tackle. Chase’s eyes met mine in a suddenly full comprehension. I saw the Corso-induced glaze disappearing from his brain as I mouthed, “Window.”
Was that crack the window breaking? Crack-crack-crack. Firecrackers. Or bullets. Eight shots, or four shots and four echoes? Who can say? We were face down on the floor in that hug that was our gateway to the universe. We felt, rather than saw, Corso stagger, looked up to see his face express astonishment at his own mortality. He was not immortal, lilies blossomed redly on his naked chest.
His power sucked out of the room along with his body. Chase leaped to his feet and when I rose to stop him from following the cascade of shattered glass I saw on the library roof what I expected to see; the glittering motorcycle jacket, the gleaming long gun.
I pulled Chase down and held him as hard as I could. “What a monster,” said Chase. “Hold me.”
I held him. “You’re mine,” I told him. “And I’m yours. You have to stay with me.” I felt the tension in his body ebb as we both awakened from our long sleep. We had never been able to fight him separately but together we were invincible.
The sound of sirens gave us courage to lean out and look out upon the new world. The snow had started falling, and snowflakes gathered on Corso’s naked chest where he lay shattered below us in the parking lot. He was human after all. The flickering lights came closer; a symphony of color and music playing in our honor. A few distant walkers huddled around the dead man, taking cell phone pictures and shouting.
“It’s great to dream,” said Chase, “And it’s wonderful to be awake.”
I kissed him hard and he kissed back. “Come on,” said Chase. “It’s time to free the others.” The skin crinkled around his blue eyes as the spirit – my spirit — danced within him.
We awoke cuddled together at the foot of Chase’s bed, wrapped in his comforter. Chase was moaning.
“Too late,” he said, “too late.” I kissed him and ran to the kitchen for coffee. Caffeine and aspirin. When I came back he was holding his head. “Bad one,” he said.
“Except we found her!” And I felt fine. I was beginning to see the psychic pain engendered by our flights was different according to what we went in with and how we could process what we learned. See? If there’s always progress, there’s always hope. “Maybe Bex will loan me his gun,” moaned Chase.
I made him drink bitter instant coffee. Our roles were reversed from my “spontaneous combustion” at Hadleigh. As log as there were two of us, we could help each other through anything. “W don’t need Bex for anything and we certainly don’t need guns,” I insisted.
Chase rolled coffee around his mouth as if was a fine wine; then ruined the effect by gargling. “Well then what the hell are we going to do?”
“Maybe we can’t get Corso for everything,” I asserted, acting brave for Chase’s benefit, “But we can make a start. The sex thing is bad. He’s involved with his students, so even if he tries to blame us, they’ll do something to him. Maybe they’ll lock him up.” “You’re willing to have the world…see that?”
“I think the world may be already seeing it.” Although it would be just like Corso to play gatekeeper so he could make money. Off of us. Besides, we owed the others something; at the very least to make sure “dream lab” never happened again. “We’ll go to the Dean. Remember, he said dream lab was recorded. He has to show them something. ”
“He’ll just say the equipment malfunctioned,” sighed Chase, rubbing his jaw as if soul flight dislocated it. “How about this, I promise we’ll do whatever you think is right.”
“First, walk me back to my room so I can get my things.” It would only take moments to pack it up and never return to that “sick building”. I admitted the unmentionable. “I’m scared of Bex.” “Let’s go.” He struggled to his feet, rolling a bit as we came together. Steadying each other. “And then I’ll fix that window.”
Darkness was just settling on an ordinary – to everyone else — Sunday afternoon. Students strolling, linking, hailing one another and hooking up. It looked safe. It looked as if all we had to fear was each other. That’s what the maze-master wants the mice to think.
“Let’s don’t wait until it gets too dark,” I angsted in full Foreboding Mode. “I’m ready. Thanks for the “to go”. He flourished at me his plastic cup.
We crossed the quad without a problem, though I felt people looked at us strangely. Because we walked so close together, marching hip to thigh in a solitary unit? Inside Hadleigh, I allowed myself to unravel a bit as the hiss of automatic doors closed us in. “One down,” I said aloud.
I might sigh with relief, but my inner bell was gonging, and I’ve learned to ignore that at my peril. Something was wrong but I couldn’t tell what. Still, here at Hadleigh we were surrounded by students; the night security guy had even taken over the desk. Phones in every room, cell phones in every pocket.
First warning: elevator out of order. That was the first bad thing. And the freight elevator was in service. We waited for it quite awhile.
“Eight floors is not so bad,” said Chase. “No pain, no gain.” Tossed his coffee cup into the trash. He said that so lightly, then saw me wince.
“Sorry,” he apologized. “It’s just that we’re fighters now. Can’t afford to ditch training just when you’re approaching Final Contest. “ He took my hand. “Come on, I’ll race you.” As we chased up the stairwell he shouted. Facilis descensus averno!”
“You got that right,“ I puffed. Going up is so darn hard! It’s so much easier to let your muscles go limp and slide. But…better up than down.
At every floor the fire doors were propped open – illegally, but it lent me confidence. Heartening scraps of music could be heard at every floor; Snow Patrol, Hands Down, Vampire Weekend.
Speaking of Vampire Weekend, there were so many people around. Nothing can go wrong in a big crowd. Right? Unfortunately most of them were hollow-eyed revenants fleeing Saturday night crime scenes for parietals. With their piss- stained hair and their bile-stained clothing they were not good advertisements for the party-hearty lifestyle. Somehow we never get to see the “after” photos. Corso’s zombies. I imagined the mark of Corso on every forehead.
I believe they shuddered as much at the sight of us as we shuddered at the sight of them. Because we were going up, like fireman, while they fled the burning building? Maybe we are all just ghosts to each other anyway.
When I exercise I can’t talk. So I have to think. If shame is felt only by the haunted, that’s damned unfair. Gives the thin edge of the wedge to those like Dr. Corso who applaud a guiltless super-race. Confidence and entitlement – those most envied of attributes — shine out around him like a magical light. At least two corpses in his wake plus a genocidal wave of shame. And what of bodies unrecovered?
“We’re dead to him already,” I gasped aloud.
Chase knew exactly what I meant. “If so, he’s wrong,” said Chase, hardly showing the effects of an eight-storey climb, “I was dead but you brought me back to life.”
“He’s the dead one”, tolled my inner bell. I took off my shoes for the last three flights. I think now I can say I’ve officially had it with stiletto heels. It’s kitten heels from here on out, unless Chase begs. I wished I could say something light, to conceal the fact that I was puffing too hard, but I was puffing too hard.
“And I don’t even smoke,” I said, unlocking my door. Chase proclaimed our new mantra “Facilis descensus–,”
“Avernum!” Corso finished triumphantly. He lay stretched at full length upon my bed, shirtless and exposing his perfect six-pack. “So glad you’ve been keeping up with your Virgil, Stevie. You’ve got to be careful to get the declensions right. Excuse me, I mean Chase, of course.”
How was he able to suck every scrap of power out of a room and use it to fuel his own personal generator? Reading glasses perched upon his nose and my laptop perched upon his thighs. He turned his shining face to me and said, “I must apologize for checking your work, Jazz but it did get a bit dull waiting for you. Unfortunately, there’s no work here. There are, however, lots of other interesting things. JazzOne makes a terrible password. How’s the chemistry going?” No, no, don’t close the door; don’t lock us in with the monster. But these damned heavy, soundproof, fireproof doors – so unlike poor Miss Howk’s – close by themselves.
I was still holding my shoes; should Ithrow them at him as if he was a dartboard? I flushed; feeling him effortlessly read my every thought. I could flee down the stairs, but I’d never leave Chase alone to face the dragon. I saw his shoulders set in that familiar wrestling stance; but Corso wouldn’t crumble like Bex; this was real-time, and my room is deficient in vases to throw. And besides, if we marked him it put us further in the wrong. My brain seemed frozen. I was long past having clever things to say. All I managed was, “How did you get in?”
Alysse Aallyn 