Tuesday Mooney Wore Black

by Kate Racculia

  Of course Dex, never one to miss an entrance, chose exactly that moment to slide into her line of sight.

  He must have been standing on the staircase that loomed to the left, or behind one of the pillars. He wasn’t there, and suddenly he was: Madonna – pinstriped, finger-waved, “Express Yourself,” David Fincher Madonna – was standing in the middle of the great hall talking to Nefertiti. It felt like watching the moon rise; she was so glad, so very, very glad, that Dex was here. That Dex was playing. He deserved to be. Tuesday didn’t make a conscious decision. She grabbed Archie’s hand and pushed the kitchen door open.

  The girl in the half-horse costume saw them first. She shrieked. Nefertiti had a much cooler head, and only jumped a little to see two new strangers approaching from the darkness beneath the stairs. It quickly became clear that the shriek wasn’t out of fear, but recognition. Tuesday wasn’t a stranger. She was known to these people. “I thought it was funny that you weren’t here,” said Nefertiti, after introducing herself as Cass. “Where were you hiding?”

  “Basement,” said Archie. He shook his head. Tuesday hoped that would be enough to convince them not to investigate.

  She looked at Dex. Dex looked back. A long black umbrella was hooked over the crook of his arm. In his hand he held a vintage silver microphone. There wasn’t coolness between them, but there was a field. It was electric. Tuesday felt it lifting the hairs on her arm.

  “You look wonderful,” she said. “This might be your best” – she cleared her throat – “Madonna to date.”

  The thing between them changed a little. It softened. Dex nodded. “Thank you,” he said, and fingered the chain of the monocle looped around his neck.

  Archie went rigid beside her. She was still holding his hand, and he squeezed so hard she felt her bones shift.

  His brother was walking toward them.

  “This is Trudy,” said Cass, introducing the short woman in the yellow tracksuit. “She’s a sound engineer, works over at MIT. Marcus and Colin, home renovators. Lisa, best friend. Verena, queen of all she surveys.” She turned to wave to the beefy, purple-panted Incredible Hulk, who was now on the opposite side of the hall – “Alex, bodybuilder slash Hulk” – who waved back. Archie continued to squeeze Tuesday’s hand. “And this,” she said, turning back to introduce Nathaniel, “is Archie.”

  Archie let go of Tuesday’s hand. “I know,” he said, reaching out to shake his brother’s. “He’s my little brother.”

  Nathaniel took Archie’s hand in his own. “Nat,” he said. “Imagine seeing you here.”

  Cass moved her head to the side. Tuesday’s heart was beating painfully, but still, she smiled. Cass was no fool.

  “What are you looking for?” Tuesday asked her. The only thing to do, it seemed, was move things along, hurry them to their conclusions as quickly as possible. “Do you have a sense what the final game is?”

  “Invisible things,” said the old woman, Verena. She sat up on her stacked coffins, very tall and very straight. “With the assistance of young Dorothea.”

  “Young Dor—” Tuesday only got half the name out before she looked up. And saw her next-door neighbor.

  Dorry was standing at the top of the stairs. Beside her was a nerd version of Prince: a skinny kid, maybe a year older than her, wearing a purple jacket, black pants and boots, with a high wig and black-framed glasses. Dorry was wearing the costume she’d had on when she came over to borrow hair gunk, because of course this was the party she was going to. She’d found a way to get here on her own, without Tuesday’s help. She was Death, and she was inevitable.

  She had a pair of aviator goggles with green lenses down over her eyes.

  The great hall held a small crowd of excited, talking humans, but Tuesday felt the world narrow to a single person, a single girl. A girl who wanted to talk to ghosts. Who had fought her way to a treasure that could only let her down. Who wanted, who needed, to believe an impossible thing.

  “Dorry,” said Tuesday, stepping forward. She raised her voice. “Dorry, how are—”

  Dorry lifted the goggles.

  Her face was full of light.

  Dorry was a burning warmth Tuesday could feel on her own face. Tuesday walked toward the foot of the stairs, looking up, and thought of the first time they met: how sad Dorry had looked then, how translucent. How she had hugged Tuesday so hard it felt like she was trying to squeeze the life out of her. Now Dorry was the sun. And Tuesday was shocked and grateful for everything Dorry Bones still believed was possible.

  Tuesday felt she shouldn’t raise her voice above a whisper. “Do the goggles—” she said. “Do they work?”

  Dorry fluttered excitedly. “Come on. Up the stairs,” she said. “You can see it best from up here.” So Tuesday climbed. She was starting to feel woozy. When she got to the landing, the balcony stretching to her right and her left, Dorry said, “First, I need to – uh. Ned,” she said, looking at Prince, smiling like she had a secret. “Meet Tuesday Mooney.”

  Ned smiled at her. His face was smeared with red makeup, his ears stuck out, and he had a little kink to his smile. He was radiating the same light as Dorry. The light was bouncing between them, reflecting.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Mooney,” he said, shaking her hand.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you too,” Tuesday said. She appraised his costume. “Prince,” she said. Then, after a beat, “Prospero.” She smiled. “You’ve got some red death on your face.”

  Ned cackled. “I knew you’d get it,” he said. “I’m Ned. Ned Kennedy.”

  “Ned,” Tuesday said. Then her breath caught, because she got it again. “Ned Kennedy. You found the clue in the alley. You posted it to Facebook. To that group—”

  Ned’s mouth dropped open. “No way,” he said. “You know me from the internet?” He shouted down to the group on the floor of the hall. “You hear that, Cass? I’m internet famous.” He turned back to Tuesday. “She’s my sister. She thinks I’m—” Ned laughed. “I don’t know what she thinks,” he said. “But it doesn’t matter, ’cause I’m internet famous.”

  “You’re about to get more internet famous,” said Tuesday. “We all are.”

  Dorry pulled the goggles off her head. “Put these on,” she said, “and tell me what you see.”

  Tuesday slid the straps over her ears. Adjusted the lenses over her eyes. The world was green. She blinked. Her contacts shifted. She saw, in the center of the great hall, a jumble of pine boxes. Pedestals displaying artifacts from Pryce’s collection. She saw, directly across from her, a tremendous crack in the plaster of the wall, shooting up to the ceiling, which she saw was old and feathered, cracking. Falling down in places. She saw Dex, fitting the vintage microphone into a stand on its pedestal. She saw Archie – the real Archie – inspecting the other pedestals, and she saw Nathaniel circling him, stalking him, never taking his eyes off him. Circling—

  Circle.

  She saw, on the floor, where tattered rugs had been rolled or pushed back, darker than the wood or the tile, a circle of symbols around the great hall. Roman numerals. I. II. III – all the way around, and instead of the numeral for twelve, there was an ankh.

  Tuesday shoved the goggles up into her hair.

  “You saw them, right?” said Dorry. She practically squeaked. “And the numbers – there’s numbers on the pedestals too. They match. We think we have to move them, like, into place. Pedestal to number. Now that you’re here, I can guide everyone. There are supposed to be thirteen players. That’s twelve pedestals, twelve players, and one to guide them. That has to be it, right? That’s the solution to the riddle. This is the clock, and with all of us here now, it—” Dorry’s eyes were bright. “It equals twelve. Right?”

  Tuesday swallowed.

  Guess not every clock is a metaphor, said Abby.

  “Places, everyone,” Dex called. “Places.”

  It felt very right, directing. Though perhaps what felt right wasn’t the directing but being at the
center. He had taken charge of the pedestal with the vintage microphone stand mounted on top – the second he saw that microphone, all gleaming striated silver, he needed to hold it – and that particular pedestal was marked VI. The VI on the floor, then, was positioned several feet in front of the foot of the grand staircase, six on the clock face. He formed a perfect line with Dorry’s goggles at the top of the stairs, the ankh on the floor, and the crack in the opposite wall. Dex was the beam. In a room of chaos and boxes, costumes and dust, he was part of the spine.

  Tuesday was next to him, situated at pedestal V. Under a small glass dome on top was a taxidermied tarantula. The remaining ten pedestals and players stood in a ring around the hall. Ned the Prince was at VII. Cass the Queen had taken VIII. Even Verena, that delightful crone, had taken charge of the ankh-marked pedestal at what should have been XII. Archie was next to Tuesday at IV, and his brother was at III. The pedestals were large – four-foot-tall rectangular columns – and heavy, as though they contained something more than the wood used to construct them. But the only pedestal that didn’t seem to be impenetrable was Dex’s. A glass knob near the top slid out to reveal a slim drawer. Inside the drawer was a black cord with a headphone jack on one end.

  “Before we do this,” said Lisa the half-Pinto, over at IX. “Seriously. What are the chances that all of these pedestals are, like” – her voice was flat – “bombs.”

  “This would be an extremely complicated way to kill people,” said Cass.

  “I think we can agree that the dead guy was nuts,” said Lisa Pinto. “And maybe he liked devising extremely complicated – I mean, isn’t that the whole plot of Saw?”

  Dex cleared his throat. He felt the room turn to him.

  “Pinto raises a fair point,” he said. “If anyone would like to step back or leave, do it now.”

  Nobody moved, of course.

  He opened the drawer. Reached into the inside pocket of his suit for his phone. Snapped the silver headphone jack into place. Opened his music app.

  “Everyone ready?” he said. He looked back up at Dorry. She had her arms wrapped around a column, hugging it with glee. He made deliberate eye contact with every soul in the room. Then he set his music to Shuffle.

  Gentle flutes, far away, floated to his ears. He heard Tuesday snort.

  “Where is that coming from?” Cass asked.

  The flutes rose together over a military snare, and Dex’s heart followed.

  “Dex’s pedestal,” Tuesday answered. “There must be a speaker inside.”

  “That would explain why it sounds muffled,” said Cass. “Anyone else’s pedestal doing something?”

  Dex hummed. He mutter-sang to himself. Ahh, Fernando. We were young. We were full of life. And none of us prepared to diiie.

  “Prepared to die?” said Lisa. “What the hell song is this?”

  The chorus hit, louder and faster. When it did, Dex’s pedestal vibrated. And he noticed something interesting: the slightest whine. Feedback.

  His microphone was live.

  “Hello,” he said into the mic.

  Ten people twitched and jumped as their pedestals quivered with Dex’s voice.

  “Whoa,” said Trudy, the sound engineer in the yellow tracksuit. “Guys.” She squared her hands around her pedestal. “These are speakers. With very serious subwoofers, I bet. Wireless.” She lifted her chin to Dex. “Can you talk again? High, and low?”

  “Sure,” said Dex in a helium voice. “What should I say?”

  “Something lower,” said Trudy. “And louder.”

  Dex tucked his chin into his neck and summoned a deep bass. “Like this?”

  He felt it in the floor. It rubbed the soles of his feet. Another chorus was coming around, and Dex, in heaven, opened his throat and sang. His pedestal trembled. The players shook. On every sustained note, every taffy-stretched Fernandooooo, the thrumming in the floor got stronger. The volume was rising of its own accord, and Dex didn’t think it was his imagination.

  The silence after the fade-out was whole and still.

  Until a giant hunk of plaster peeled away from the crack in the opposite wall. It slid down and shattered into pieces on the floor.

  The next thing Dex heard, over the knocking of his heart, was Tuesday. Laughing. Into her hands, covering her mouth.

  And then Ned, shouting.

  “It’s a face!”

  General confusion followed. Ned pointed at the wall, at the small section now denuded of plaster. It did – Dex squinted down the length of the hall – it did look like there was a face underneath. Half a face; a face with a beard hooked over its ear. “That’s why I’m here,” Ned was saying. “It’s a mural. It’s a painting. There’s art on the walls. All around us!”

  All around us.

  “Dex.” Tuesday was leaning in. “Dex,” she said, almost whispering. “Sing the house down.”

  “Preferably songs with many long, sustained notes,” Trudy said, laughing. Everyone seemed to be laughing at once. Like they were all drunk. But they weren’t. Dex was sober as a stone. “And bass. Lots of bass.”

  Dex wrapped both his hands around the mic stand. He closed his eyes. The hairs on his arm rose. His heart filled his throat, so tight he was afraid he was going to choke, because this wasn’t karaoke roulette, this wasn’t drunk and fucking around. This was something else.

  But then:

  Look at that little faggot, said a voice, deep, his father’s voice, from the general vicinity of the back of his head, a sore spot behind his right ear. Doing a perfect imitation of a Dire Straits song. Like his father even knew Dire Straits existed. Singing some stupid song. You call that working?

  That’s no way to make a living.

  Dex’s eyes flicked back open. He saw the great hall. He saw the crack, and more plaster dangling, eager to break free. He took a deep breath. Then he pulled his phone out of the drawer and chose a song. The only song he wanted to sing.

  When he said “God?” into the microphone his voice was louder than he had ever imagined it might be.

  Dex did not, strictly speaking, believe in God. He didn’t strictly not believe in God either, and when he was feeling particularly self-castigating he told himself his agnosticism was another manifestation of his general cowardice, his disinclination to pick a side, to make up his mind; the proverbial hottest places in hell were reserved for persons such as himself. But then he’d remember what he learned, long ago, at the altar of Our Lady Madonna Louise of Ciccone: the power, the necessity, the elemental beauty of refusing to stop becoming.

  This particular song, this song that was her bedrock, that transcended, for Dex, all the other Madonnas – he had lived with this song in his soul for decades, and still, every time he heard it, it was new. As a kid he played it ad nauseam on a cassingle he’d stolen from the Rite Aid. He’d had to steal because he’d borrowed against his allowance and was still in debt, but he couldn’t depend on the radio; he needed access to this song whenever he wanted. This song that people talked about on TV as though it were important, it was a song that was news, and the news was about Pepsi and black Jesus and Madonna “acting like a fucken whore,” his father said, so Dex hid the stolen tape at the back of his desk drawer, where he hid the picture of Michael J. Fox that he sometimes slipped under his pillow.

  This song had been haunting his entire life. What had given it that kind of power? First, surely, the music itself: it was many-headed, a pop song and a spiritual. It built and pleaded, downshifting into the minor and then bursting, triumphantly, major. Its power was ecstatic, a direct product of the tension of being one complicated whole, and a release – the release, of refusing to be contained and simple and static.

  “Like a Prayer” had been trying to tell Dex for years, if only he’d listened, that he didn’t have to solidify. All he had to do was recognize and celebrate the pain and the mystery of life, the mystery of being not what one seemed, and not one thing only, but being, being nonetheless. And what he was meant to
be was an artist, and what he was meant to do was to sing, and to move in the spaces surrounding the definite, between the sacred and the profane, the body and the spirit, the silent and the spoken, the living and the dead. That was his gift. That was what he could give to others.

  The practice of this art was the transmutation of love.

  Dex thought, like an arrow to his heart: Yes. That was how it worked. Love lasted by becoming art. The art made yesterday haunted him today. The art he could make today would haunt the future. There was still time to be who he’d always been, again. As a kid, dreaming, it had seemed impossible to be satisfied with only one life. As an adult, indebted, afraid that what he loved and whom he loved would one day cost him more than he could afford, it had seemed impossible not to protect himself with money.

  But he didn’t have to be all one thing or all another. He didn’t have to live only one life at a time. And a living wasn’t something you made but something you did. Again and again, over and over, always, always becoming.

  Dex belonged here after all. He was far, far too hard on himself. And even though life was a mystery, and everyone must stand alone – he was everything. He was everything he needed already, in himself.

  His voice filled the great hall. His heart caught fire. He came home, at last, to himself.

  When the ceiling fell, Archie was looking up. It had been shivering for a while, shedding dust and plaster like snow. Verena Parkman, wisely, had already removed herself to a position of safety beneath the balcony, which didn’t appear to be in danger of collapsing. Mario and Luigi, the contractor brothers, seemed certain of that.

  Archie had been trying not to stare at the brothers. He couldn’t help it. They were obviously brothers; they looked as alike as he and Nat, but they just as obviously liked one another. As if it were an easy thing for one brother to like the other. He understood it was possible not to live in mortal dread of your sibling; he knew his life wasn’t, for a host of reasons, remotely normal. But still, it hurt to see evidence of what might have been simple.