Tesseracts Fourteen: Strange Canadian Stories

by John Robert Colombo

  √ Two (2) se-tenant postage stamps from the United States of America, valued 5¢ each, bearing the likenesses of Frances Farmer, whose dramatic life and death were particularly affecting (even though Farmer was not an opera singer).

  Sam Fine’s Entrance

  Rudely retrieved from La Bohème and her mental inventory by, of all things, a knock on the window! Lucinda had fallen asleep in such a manner that Moira could see the silhouette of someone at the glass: pale face peering in from utter darkness. Of their third floor window!

  “Lucinda,” Moira hissed, quite terrified. “Someone’s here! Wake up, cover me! There’s an intruder!”

  Rapping again. Out in the night, the indistinct face shifted, trying to see better, cupped hand to brow. In her drunken slumber, Lucinda moaned and rolled. Then lights from a lost vehicle turning around in the cul-de-sac allowed Moira a good, yet brief, look at the intruder and she was taken aback by the face she saw: intelligent eyes, high cheekbones, soft wavy hair. She gazed upon these features as they bloomed and then faded, as if stricken, knowing the peeper could see nothing in the dim room, maybe a few dark shapes against a darker background, at best.

  The knocking came a third time, and Lucinda finally woke up, snorting and thrashing about until she discovered where she was and what had caused the disturbance. Then she was on her feet, staggering groggily toward the window when she realized she was hatless and ran back for her nightcap. (This piece of haberdashery wasn’t so bad because Moira could easily hear through the thin fabric and even see shapes moving about.) So Lucinda knew this peeping Tom? A suspicion began to bloom in Moira: My goodness, she wondered, could this be Sam Fine, from the party? A twinge of something she had long ago tried to forever suppress stirred in her: having resigned herself that she could only ever meet family members (who were all long gone now) and the occasional doctor (the services of whom the sisters could no longer afford), Moira was prepared for a life of solitude, with only the opera for company, and her treasures, yet her heart was racing wildly as the window slid up and the boy said, in a deep, mellifluous voice, “Hey there Luce.”

  “Get in, Sam.”

  It was he! Adonis, beautiful Orestes.

  “Get yer ass in here.” Lucinda’s own voice was crude and breathless and phony.

  “I wanted to see you again,” Sam explained. “Is that all right? I couldn’t sleep or study and I was thinking about what we said. The door downstairs was locked…”

  “Yeah, yeah. Come in, come in.”

  Lucinda stepped aside while Sam clambered through the window. He must have scaled the lilac tree that grew in the front yard. All Moira could see was a gauzy view of Lucinda’s Guns ‘n Roses poster but when she heard Sam’s runners thump to the floor it thrilled her to know he was in the same room as her: under the nightcap, she was as naked as the day she (and her sister) had been born.

  Carl Maria von Weber’s Der Freischütz

  Lucinda sprawled on the messy bed, trying to look enticing, but Sam, thankfully, was not to be enticed. Against the padded headboard, Moira watched as best she could. Even through the hazy gauze of the nightcap, and at such an obscure angle, Sam was truly gorgeous to behold. As he talked, his large hands moved gracefully. Wonderful hands. The hands of a prince. His eyes and teeth sparkled in the dim light.

  Oh, what words he spoke! Yearnings, goals, each phrase reverberating inside Moira, resonating to her very core. The sentiments were familiar, echoing her own or counterpart to them… How these words were wasted on Lucinda, who grunted and uttered her usual stupid contributions. What did Sam Fine see in her? He had already proven to Moira in a short while that he was far from shallow, yet here he was, about to willingly talk through the night with her sister. Moira wanted to shout, I’m back here Sam! It’s me you want to converse with!

  But if she did that, Sam would see her, and then he would run screaming, never to return; Moira bit her tongue.

  Soon, Carl Marie von Weber’s Freeshooter (or Der Freischütz) came on the radio — Moira’s favorite opera of all time. Sam abruptly ceased talking. Those lovely hands leapt at the opening horn overture.

  “Von Weber,” he breathed, pronouncing the name properly. His face became even more angelic. “Listen Lucinda. Hear that? Hear the, um, crescendo. And the, the uh … ascending struggle.”

  Moira’s own definition, verbatim! Sam’s eyes had closed as he sank back. Trying to stare at him, incredulous, Moira felt her girlish crush turn to pangs of love! The boy was her soulmate. There could be no doubt. Songs filled her, poignant tunes of Eurydice and Dido. (And not that contemporary British tart!) A protective ice broke away from the tight little bulb that was her heart; green shoots reached up toward the light, burgeoning, alive; hopeful shoots, tender shoots. Feelings so intense ravished Moira that tears sprang to her eyes. She was in love!

  And then the unthinkable happened.

  The Unthinkable

  Propped up by pillows, Lucinda had apparently passed out as the opera unfolded — no fan she — and her body now toppled like a felled tree; the nightcap caught on the headboard and was yanked clean from her head! Sam Fine, leaning in quick to catch Lucinda, instead came face to face with Moira, who lay naked and exposed, an ugly boil on the back of her sister’s head.

  They stared at each other for a long time.

  Sam Fine’s eyes, so blue, widened slowly. He did not laugh, or scream, or flee. Quietly, he asked, “Who are you?”

  “Moira,” Moira said, her newly expanded heart pounding. “I’m Lucinda’s older sister.” (Technically, this was true; she had emerged first.)

  Licking his full lips, Sam reached out to move Lucinda’s hair away. He let one finger trail down Moira’s arm. In his eyes was a look that could only be described by Moira as one of, well, of rapture.

  “Please, cover me,” Moira said. “I asked Lucinda, to make me a nightdress, but as you can see … she’s not yet done so.”

  “Sorry, sorry…” Fumbling nervously in the bedclothes to arrange the sheet, so that it covered Moira’s body but left her face exposed, Sam was visibly embarrassed. He worked quickly, eyes averted, cheeks reddening.

  “Thank you,” Moira said, when he was done.

  “You, uh … been back there all night? Of course, what a stupid question. The hats. The hats. That’s why Lucinda always wears those big hats.”

  Moira nodded, but since most of her head and neck and what little spine she possessed was fused to Lucinda’s skull, the movement was imperceptible. She hesitated, then said, “It’s not Lucinda who likes to listen to the opera, Sam. It’s me.” How delicious it had been to say his name!

  Sam Fine smiled. His teeth were big and white and glorious. “Did you like that, uh, von Weber piece?”

  “I love Der Freischütz.”

  They both said, “That romantic setting,” at the same time, and laughed briefly together, and stared again at each other again for a long while, without blinking, searching each other’s gaze.

  Moira was starting to let herself hope that there was a possibility her new and tender love might be requited…

  Lucinda, meanwhile, had begun to snore.

  A Little Later

  Sam lay on the bed, his body next to Lucinda’s, his head tilted so he could whisper to Moira directly. Those lips, inches from her. She could feel the heat of him like a furnace. Never before had Moira felt this alive.

  They spoke of the opera, of course, and of literature, the ballet, philosophies. Moira knew she was soon doing most of the talking but Sam seemed engrossed. It was as if floodgates had opened up inside her, releasing an unstoppable torrent. She had never spoken thusly in her life.

  After listening attentively for what seemed like hours, Sam said to her, almost breathlessly, “What I want to know is, uh, more about you. Tell me … tell me about your family.” A bead of sweat ran down S
am’s forehead, though it was not hot in the room.

  “My family? We were orphaned.” Moira wished she could mop his brow. Was proximity to her making him flush?

  “Did you, uh, know your mom?” Sam asked.

  “I know a bit about her, though we never met.”

  “Could you tell me, tell me about her?”

  The Hopeless Case

  Little Ella Mae Bainbridge, twelve years old, was sent out to the corner store, for a quart of milk, on January 26, 1972. Skinny and pig-tailed, Ella Mae was the only child of Reverend Joe Bainbridge and his wife, Victoria. The neighborhood was white, pristine, quiet; the trip to the store, three short blocks.

  Skipping along the sidewalk, money clenched in her right fist and singing a merry tune, Ella Mae was pulverized by a huge gold Cadillac that had jumped the curb. The car, driven by fourteen-year-old Sam “Deep Purple” Painscott, who had just stolen it minutes before from the parking lot of the first strip mall to be built in the area, had been found with the keys inside, engine running. The Caddy belonged to old boy Frankish, who was doddering around in the sporting goods retail outlet, searching out a lure for winter pickerel. Just as Frankish paid for his purchase, and addressed complaints concerning inflationary times to the very air about him, his car was coming to rest in a great cloud of brick dust, metal, oil, dirt, and Ella Mae’s blood. Pinned somewhere in that mess, bones broken, body sundered, yet miraculously alive, the child had been plunged into a coma from which she would never emerge.

  Prone on a cheap hospital bed, in a ward no patient had ever left under his or her own power, Ella Mae lived out the rest of her life. A host of machines kept her body going. Bleeding eventually stopped, and the fractures knitted, and that inert body grew, changed, and entered puberty. Over time, Ella Mae metamorphosed into an adult, albeit atrophied, woman. She would have been an attractive woman — if she were capable of a smile, or even a twitch, any sign of life at all besides those you could read on monitors.

  Devices next to her bed beeped. Cylinders hissed up and down in their glass housings. Lights mimicked the patterns of her heart. And years went by.

  Over a decade she lay there before a doctor noted a change in Ella Mae’s condition — an inexplicable change: the patient appeared to be swelling. This doctor, who was new on the ward and had not yet succumbed to the futility of his assignment, speculated that there might be gas trapped in Ella Mae’s lower intestines. Subsequent examination later revealed the unsettling fact that a certain visitor to Ella Mae’s room, aside from her grieving parents (who had not come by in many months, by this point) had also found the patient attractive. An orderly, perhaps, or a night cleaner. Maybe even a security guard.

  It goes without saying that the good Rev. Bainbridge and his wife were Christians, and that they believed in God, and in the wisdom of His ways. This, despite the fact that their only child, their sweet young girl, now needed machines to keep her breathing and had to be flipped on a regular basis to stop bedsores from rotting the flesh from her bones. They would not hear of terminating this new life growing inside their child; they were appalled at the suggestion. This pregnancy, they said, is God’s way of giving us back our daughter. A new chance.

  But the eager young doctor pleaded: Ella Mae has had a steady stream of drugs administered to her over the past ten years. For her to give birth is madness!

  The Reverend and his wife answered: We won’t hear of it. What you are suggesting is murder in God’s eyes.

  So, five months later, after a messy delivery in which their daughter lost a lot of blood but still did not die, the pious couple remained adamant, stoic; they would not even consider the proposed operation to separate the newborn twins, for it was obvious that the tiny one — caught by a ring of bone, as if pulling herself out of the larger girl’s head with one little arm, legs hidden under the surface of her sister’s skull — would surely die.

  Two souls, the parents said. But they sounded less convinced now. The Reverend was tired, stubbled. On Victoria’s breath was the faintest scent of Bombay Gin. Two gifts?

  Anyhow, heartbreak soon killed them, Vic and Joe. Ground them down. Too much grief piled up, crushing even their strong beliefs. They went to confront their God.

  There followed a series of foster homes, a series of towns. Some rudimentary tutoring, since regular schooling turned out to be an impossibility. Upon reaching sixteen, a government pension. Set up, in a small apartment, on the outskirts of the outskirts of town.

  Which brings us up to date.

  Sweetest Sorrow

  The sun was beginning to rise when Sam finally said he had to leave. It seemed as if the story had made him weepy; his eyes were glazed and unfocused. Moira could feel the tenderness established between them like a palpable tether.

  Sam promised, in a strained voice, to return the following night, at eight. They would get Lucinda drunk, and when she fell asleep, he and Moira could talk, and lie next to each other once more.

  Sam Fine pulled Lucinda’s nightcap back on.

  Listening to him clamber over the sill, Moira knew that the prince she had always dreamed of had finally arrived in her life. She imagined the two of them galloping off into the sunset, heading toward a place far from her sister, or perhaps a place from which her sister had vanished altogether.

  Love: Day One (1)

  At around ten the next morning, Lucinda awoke, hung-over. Moira had not slept. Complaining and holding her head, one hand on either side of Moira (who never sympathized with her sister’s suffering one whit), Lucinda made a big production of her headache and dehydration. As she drank her coffee, she wanted to know what had happened after she’d passed out. Moira told her that Sam had merely gotten bored watching her sleep and had left. Lucinda grew angry at hearing this and half-heartedly threw a few things around the room. Eventually, though, after a bloody Caesar — hair o’ the dog, Lucinda’s hangover cure — and listening to a terrible combo called AC/DC, she mellowed out somewhat.

  For Moira, that day of waiting was bittersweet torture. The paradox was that she wanted to savor every moment of anticipation yet time could not go fast enough. How could these disparate, delicious feelings be sustained?

  Just before supper, Lucinda showered. Though her body and face were too close to the source of the spray itself, and when Lucinda washed her hair it was a somewhat uncomfortable, showers were refreshing for Moira. It was also a relief to know that they would smell clean this evening, fresh, for Sam’s return. With her tiny arm, Moira rubbed at her body.

  Ablutions complete, Lucinda wrapped her head — Moira included — in a towel. Possibly to drown out Moira’s humming. Then Lucinda made a telephone call. Moira knew this because she was hit twice by the handset while Lucinda had a rather animated conversation, trying to keep her voice down, which she succeeded in doing, since Moira heard nary a word.

  She did, however, feel urgency up her backbone.

  When Lucinda took the towel off, an hour or so later, Moira asked whom she’d been talking to; Lucinda denied being on the phone at all.

  “Whatever,” Moira said, buoyed beyond such vagaries as her sister’s bald-faced lies.

  Eight o’clock finally arrived and so did Sam, punctual, knocking on the door this time. Lucinda pulled on her puffy Rasta hat. This piece of apparel, though ridiculous, was not too stuffy. It afforded fuzzy visuals yet minimal acoustics.

  From what Moira could gather, Sam had brought a bottle with him, the contents of which Lucinda promptly drank. Before long, Lucinda was out cold and Sam was lifting up the Rastafarian hat like he was lifting the lid off a frying pan, smiling down at the hash cooking there.

  “Hi there,” Moira whispered.

  “Hi there.”

  Lucinda was slumped face down at their kitchen table, which meant that Moira lay on her back, face up. An ideal position, really. Empty bottle of
Dewar’s whiskey on the table, one glass. It was a little odd, even for Lucinda, to drink so much, so fast, by herself. But fates were clearly pulling strings to achieve Moira’s happy ending.

  Where was Sam walking off to? He was over by the bed, quickly changing the radio station:

  “…that goes out to our two new listeners who called last night and concludes the request part of our aria program…”

  The Second Conversation

  Moira began by asking rather boldly what Sam thought of Rossini’s La Cenerentola, which was the story of Angelina — better known by her nickname, Cinderella — and was a story that Moira associated very strongly with, but Sam didn’t seem to know that particular opera seria. Bit of a blank look, in fact, on his pretty face, which was a little surprising since the piece was a foundation block of early opera. But never mind.

  Then Sam Fine mentioned the Three Tenors; Moira did not know what to say about this pedestrian offering.

  After a brief, nearly awkward pause, Sam changed the subject altogether, telling Moira a little about his own family, all of whom sounded like good, if somewhat simple, people. Sam seemed a little nervous. Maybe he wasn’t feeling well.

  And, since he and Moira felt so close already (Sam explained), he asked if it was okay to inquire how Moira stayed healthy under the hats, if she was comfortable in there, what she ate (indeed, if she ate), and other such questions about her make-up, “because your sister doesn’t know any of this stuff,” he concluded.

  “Lucinda?” Moira was confused (though Sam’s piercing gaze may have been the cause). “You’ve, you’ve talked with her about this? About me?”

  “I, uh, no. I mean, it’s obvious. I mean, she wouldn’t know about this kind of stuff, would she? About science and all that? If I did ask her.” Smiling somewhat shakily. “That’s all I meant.”

  “No,” Moira said slowly, curious about the reddening of Sam’s face but not willing to let the evening slip out of her grasp. And since she had listened to the doctors while Lucinda flirted with them, Moira actually was able to explain to Sam, without feeling self-conscious at all, about her biology, and about what it was, precisely, that made her tick.