Matching Wits with Venus

by Therese Gilardi

  Dr. Franklin patted Stella on the arm.

  “You know everybody on this floor feels the way you do. Even the ones who seem to have perfect marriages. The…possible outcomes that can follow a stay in this ward have a way of reorganizing our perspectives.”

  She reached into the pocket of her white lab coat and withdrew a tiny kaleidoscope.

  “Here. Take it.”

  Stella held the small toy up to her eye. The pattern reminded her of the stained glass windows of the church where she used to eat a free lunch when she was scrounging for work, right after she moved to Hollywood. She’d been too proud to accept financial help from her parents or let them know she couldn’t afford food. She turned the tiny cylinder and the colors shifted, to a pattern that reminded her of the housedress her grandmother used to wear when she sat under the eucalyptus trees at night and said decade after decade of rosaries.

  “Here.”

  Stella attempted to hand the kaleidoscope back to Dr. Franklin.

  The doctor shook her head.

  “No. You keep it. It’ll remind you that although everything is in flux, change brings about its own new beauty.”

  Stella sighed.

  “I can’t change what a lousy wife and mother I was,” she said as she patted her upper lip with one of the delicate handkerchiefs Amelia bought her at the Rose Bowl flea market. “I’m sorry. I’m treating you like you’re a priest, confessing all my sins.”

  “I think it’s my job to heal the whole person,” Dr. Franklin replied. “And you’re right. You can’t change the past. But Amelia’s baby is going to give you the chance to create a different future. You’re going to be able to really be there for your daughter.”

  Gerard stirred. Stella looked over hopefully, but he remained in the same position, eyes closed. She returned her gaze to Dr. Franklin.

  “What do you really think the odds are of him ever waking up?”

  “Honestly? Pretty good. He’s a passionate man so he’s got a strong will to live. But you know that’s unofficial. All I can recommend is that you try to keep stimulating his brain through conversation. Let him listen to the television when you feel you’ve run out of things to say.”

  Stella nodded. She grabbed the remote control hanging from Gerard’s bed and turned on the set. Instead of Samantha Yolandez and her safari jacket, an older woman in a somber cinnamon suit was standing in front of a map of southern Europe.

  “To repeat, if you’re just joining us, scores of reports are coming in from Italy stating that the entire country has been rocked by a series of earthquakes, most of which seem to be centered beneath fabled Roman ruins.”

  “It’s the gods!” Gerard shouted.

  Stella gasped. Both she and Dr. Franklin turned their attention from the television screen to Gerard. He was lying against the pillows, his granite colored eyes wide open, the veins in his neck protruding.

  “The gods are angry. They’re coming for Amelia.”

  He looked from Dr. Franklin to Stella and nodded.

  “Venus is out to destroy our baby.”

  Stella squealed as Dr. Franklin reached for Gerard’s hand.

  “There, there, Dr. Coillard, Amelia’s going to be just fine.”

  She arched her eyebrows slightly as she pulled her phone from her pocket and raised it to her ear.

  “Please send a sedative in here STAT,” she said quietly.

  “I don’t think a simple sedative’s going to cure what’s ailing this man.”

  The sharp, nasal voice of Clothilde Bonhom, M.S. rang out crisply as she stepped from behind the curtain in the corner of Gerard’s room, to the left of the door.

  Both Stella and Dr. Franklin jumped. Stella took in Clothilde’s thick crepe soled khaki tie shoes, beige suit, brown hair and oatmeal colored clipboard. Clothilde reminded Stella of the extras who were always wandering on film sound stages silently, just waiting to trip up the actors who hadn’t noticed their arrival.

  Gerard remained frozen in his bed, the look of panic still dragging his chin down. Dr. Franklin narrowed her eyes.

  “I believe you’re supposed to announce your presence, Ms. Bonhom,” Dr. Franklin said coldly.

  Clothilde shook her head and smiled broadly. She held her right hand to her face. Stella noticed that her right thumbnail was cracked like the sidewalk in front of Gerard’s home, where the pavement had split after the Northridge earthquake.

  “Not when I suspect fraud or deception, especially on the part of the attending physician,” she replied.

  Stella bit her tongue to keep from speaking out, which she knew would only hurt Gerard and Dr. Franklin. She reached down and rearranged Gerard’s pillows while he looked through her. He appeared to have drifted back into his own world. Gently she patted his arm.

  A plump nurse entered the room bearing a tray carrying a small syringe. Stella watched as Dr. Franklin administered the sedative. Gerard closed his eyes and his head dropped down onto his chest. Clothilde motioned for Stella and Dr. Franklin to follow her out into the hall.

  “It seems clear to me,” she said crisply while writing on her clipboard with one of those cheap pens that come by the dozen, “That Dr. Coillard has obviously suffered some sort of neurological impairment.”

  She looked over at Dr. Franklin, waiting for her to challenge this medical deduction, but the physician remained silent.

  “Therefore it is my recommendation that he be moved to the psychiatric ward where his needs can be better met.”

  Clothilde looked at the two women, awaiting a response. When they failed to argue her cheeks grew red.

  “Do you understand what I’ve just said?”

  “It’s my professional opinion as a physician that this man has suffered no neurological impairment,” Dr. Franklin replied.

  “You’ll be sorry,” Clothilde replied as she hugged her clipboard to her body and turned on her heel.

  “Don’t worry,” Dr. Franklin said after she’d disappeared around the corner. “I’ve been dealing with her for years.”

  Stella turned to the doctor.

  “Do you think there’s any possibility to what she said, that Gerard could be sent to the psych ward?”

  “Not if I have anything to do with it,” Dr. Franklin replied.

  Stella bit her lip.

  “Don’t worry just yet,” Dr. Franklin said, her brows creased.

  Chapter Thirty

  “Welcome, my dear. Please join us for a drink.”

  Amelia closed her eyes and rubbed their lids. Surely she must be dreaming. She’d walked for what felt like days until she’d come upon this terraced villa. The massive home and grounds were reminiscent of Venus’s palace in the Hollywood Hills. As soon as she’d arrived at the house she had been greeted by a rotund man in a toga who looked like he should be performing in a summer stock production of Shakespeare’s “Twelfth Night”.

  She opened her eyes. The portly man was still in front of her, offering his stubby hand. Behind him sat a group of similarly dressed, longhaired men with white beards. They were all reclining on wrought iron chaise lounges, tea tables piled high with goblets and dessert plates at their sides, an army of beautiful women waiting attentively over their shoulders.

  The yeasty smell of wine in the air made her feel slightly nauseated, though the sight of figs, nuts and dates reminded her she had no idea how long it had been since she’d last eaten. The sun remained somewhere above the hazy horizon, so at least it was still day. Although perhaps a day lasted a year or more in the underworld.

  Amelia eyed the food. Bacchus lifted his finger and pointed in the direction of the wet bar. Grissella nodded slightly and disappeared. He stepped forward and bowed awkwardly. When he stood, he offered Amelia his hand.

  “Please.”

  Amelia shook his flabby flesh.

  “I’m Amelia.”

  “Welcome, my dear. I am Bacchus. Please,” he gestured toward an empty chair.

  “Have a seat. We’ve been expecting
you.”

  Amelia’s hazel eyes grew large. She gasped then tried to cover her mouth, but she wasn’t quite quick enough.

  “Nothing to be frightened of. It’s just,” Bacchus said as he pointed toward the hillside rolling out from his terrain, “my spectacular vantage point allows me an unfettered view of all approaching strangers.”

  “Who somehow seem to become guests that morph into friends,” said a deep voice from one of the chaise lounges.

  Bacchus laughed and held up his hands.

  “What can I say, pleasure should be taken when it is offered.”

  Amelia smiled. She stepped to the proffered place and gradually eased herself onto the plump seat cushion.

  “Now,” Bacchus grinned at Grissella as she approached, bearing a tray of figs cheeses and juices in small carafes, “Help yourself. You must be famished after your long journey.”

  “Thank you.”

  Amelia poured herself a large glass of pomegranate and orange juice. She scooped some mozzarella onto a fig then sat back and began to eat. She sighed happily as the food and drink entered her bloodstream, quieting the nausea that had been her constant companion over the last several weeks.

  “I grow my own fruits,” Bacchus announced as Grissella appeared with a bowl of grapes.

  “I can tell,” Amelia replied. “These juices taste like they were just strained today.”

  Bacchus puffed out his enormous chest.

  “It took me over a thousand years to get the right conditions for my foods,” he said. “Try some dates. I’m sure you’ll like them as well.”

  Amelia bit into the date he offered.

  “Fabulous. This tastes like the sun.”

  As Amelia worked her way around the hand-painted plate, nibbling at all of the finger foods, Bacchus motioned for the other gods to resume eating. Soon the fresh air was filled with the sounds of clinking glasses, forks scraping pottery, and satisfied groans.

  “So tell me, my dear, what brings you? People don’t just stumble into the underworld by accident. In fact, from what I’ve seen, your upper world security personnel could take a lesson or two from us.”

  Bacchus chuckled, as did several of the other gods.

  Amelia dabbed at the corners of her mouth with the Belgian lace napkin Grissella had set next to her plate. She wondered how to begin. Should she plunge headlong into a detailed explanation? Or should she give in to her usual cautious urges and play coy?

  “Amelia?”

  “I’m pregnant,” she blurted out. “I’m expecting a god’s child, and I don’t know what that means.”

  Bacchus whistled.

  “That’s pretty serious.”

  Amelia twisted the napkin in her hands.

  “Mind if I ask who the father is?”

  “Cupid.”

  There was a crash in the dining room behind the terrace as Grissella dropped the tray of wine glasses she’d been about to bring outside. Amelia saw her out of the corner of her eye. Grissella’s cheeks were a deep burgundy as she knelt among the shards. She stood.

  “I’ll just go help her.”

  Bacchus put his hand on her arm.

  “Not to worry my dear, she can clean up after herself. Tell me though; are you here to find Cupid?”

  Amelia’s gray eyes widened.

  “Oh no, absolutely not! I don’t want him to even know. It’s clear how he feels about me….”

  “Don’t you think he has a right to know he has fathered a child?”

  Amelia frowned.

  “Well, don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with us,” Bacchus said as he looked around at the other gods, who nodded. “It’s your decision. But I think you should let him know he will have a baby.”

  Amelia looked at Bacchus and smiled weakly.

  “Thank you. I’ll think about what you said.”

  Amelia ran her fingers through her hair, twirling the ends.

  “For now, I just have to know what’s going to happen to my baby and to me. Will I be pregnant for years? Will I give birth to a god?”

  Bacchus nodded his enormous head.

  “There’s someone I will arrange for you to meet. Carmenta is the goddess of childbirth and prophecy. She should be able to answer your questions.”

  “Thank you,” Amelia said quietly.

  “Grissella,” Bacchus called out. “Fix up a meeting for Amelia with Carmenta will you?”

  ****

  “What do you think she’s doing down here?” Cupid asked, his brow furrowed.

  Cupid and Concordia stepped out of the elevator and into the underworld.

  “Do you really think Mother put a spell on her?”

  Concordia chewed her lower lip.

  “I can’t imagine that, not after all those pacts with the Celts, the Druids and the Greeks. But I guess you never know.”

  As Cupid looked down some of his curly hair fell into his eyes. “It’s all my fault.”

  “No. Mother played you like a Stradivarius. How were you to know that her annual invitation to the cherry blossom festival was anything other than what it seemed? Cut yourself a break; you two have been attending ever since she befriended that empress all those centuries ago. Think of how guilty you’d have felt if you’d have said no.”

  Concordia pursed her lips.

  “Mother took advantage of you and traded on your sense of obligation. The only thing you did wrong was to try to be a good son.”

  “But if I hadn’t failed with the arrows….”

  “Cupid, stop it! And don’t forget - Mother still would’ve been out to get Amelia because she’s threatened by a successful matchmaker.”

  Cupid laughed bitterly.

  “I even ruined that for Amelia. I’m the worst thing that ever happened to her.”

  “Look at me. I saw her face that night in L.A. That woman loves you. I don’t know why, but she does. Now come on. You’ve got to think, Cupid. Assuming Mother didn’t put a spell on her, where would Amelia go?”

  Cupid looked around the walled garden where Amelia had spent so many hours. He cleared his mind and willed himself to try to think in her deliberate, methodical way. Enrique had said she’d headed into the garden, so that meant she hadn’t attempted to return to the upper world. As he cast his eyes over the horizon, the wind shifted. He smiled as he caught it, ever so slightly hanging on the breeze in the garden: the scent of Amelia, a mixture of gardenia perfume and sandalwood body lotion.

  “I’m beginning to resemble you, turning into a veritable bloodhound. Come on,” Cupid called out, as he began sprinting toward the green wooden door.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “I spoke with Inuus and he and some of the messengers are going to scatter the arrows for you.”

  Venus opened her eyes and smiled. She’d allowed herself to drift off for a moment, her head against the plump pillow, the sun on her face. She looked over at Mercury. He picked her hand up and kissed it before running it along his cheek.

  “Venus. Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you? How much I want you?”

  “I’ll bet you say that to all your lovers,” she replied in a sultry voice.

  Mercury closed his hand around her fingers and leaned back on the settee.

  “The longer you’ve been gone, the more I realize what a mistake I made. After all, how many women would love me enough to move heaven and earth?”

  Venus laughed.

  “I’m serious! Remember that incident in the Pyrenees? They didn’t used to stand between France and Spain.”

  Venus laughed once more.

  “You’ve always brought out my wildest instincts.”

  “I’d like to do that again.”

  Venus studied her ex-husband. She envisioned herself lying in his bed, running her hands over his wide shoulders, feeling that frisson of excitement that came from being with the temperamental man for whom the adjective ‘mercurial’ had been invented. She thought about the arrogant yacht captain in Marina Del Rey, who’d acted
like she, the goddess of love, was lucky to be propositioned by him. Her cheeks flushed as she remembered the cabin boys Aphrodite preferred to seduce and the air of discomfort and desperation she’d felt surrounded such pairings.

  She sighed. It was true. Nobody had ever desired her the way Mercury had, and no one else ever would. His had been a pure lust; he’d fancied her even before Jupiter had anointed her the goddess of love, let alone endowed her with her magical golden arrows. And no one had ever come close to measuring up to him in her eyes.