The House on Black Lake

by Blackwell, Anastasia

  “Where are you?”

  “Above you,” he says while climbing down a stepladder set against the wall. “I was lighting candles along the upper beams.”

  As he steps out of the shadows, a piece of mirror beneath the table’s centerpiece reflects the overhead light and casts a halo around him, highlighting the preternatural perfection of his facial structure. The only mar is a slight red stain left by Ruth’s hand.

  There is a moment of déjà vu and I am transported back to the moment in time... the memory, long hidden, but never forgotten. Snow falls beneath the canopy of a desert night; Mozart reverberates in the rafters of a dwelling on the cliff-side of eternity, hundreds of candles flicker, a whisper....

  “You may sit at the head of the table, since you are the guest of honor,” he tells me.

  “Thank you, Ramey,” I say and sweep by him to take the offered chair.

  “Well, we’re off.” Amanda bursts into the room followed by Gabrielle. “We are heading into Montreal for the night.”

  “What are your plans?” Ramey asks, and sits in the chair next to me.

  Amanda flashes him a beautiful smile, tosses back her newly curled hair, and leans provocatively over the table. The cleavage bulging from her tight red top expands as she reaches out to pluck a ripe plum from the centerpiece on the table. She bites into the fruit, letting the juice drip down her full lower lip. “Saint Lawrence Street; it’s a pretty hot scene after midnight. The only problem is they let eighteen-year-olds drink in this city, so we have to deal with pimply punks grabbing our asses.”

  “I wouldn’t think you’d mind that so much, Amanda,” Ramey says, then unbuttons his cuffs to roll up his shirt sleeves.

  “Those kids’ spots are horrible. I like the posh places, with comfy seats,” Gabrielle chimes in.

  “Careful driving,” Ruth says walking in from the kitchen. “You need to be back early tomorrow morning. I’m taking Alexandra into the city for a makeover.”

  “Rightio.” Amanda makes a saucy turn on her stilettos and flounces out the door. Gabrielle shuffles behind her, tripping on the hem of her corduroy skirt.

  “Gabrielle is a lesbian, in case you didn’t already know. I don’t suppose it takes radar to spot,” Ruth says.

  “No. I didn’t.” I take the fruit bowl from Ruth and scoop a spoonful onto my plate.

  “Wise choice of her, I don’t know many men who’d want to give that one a poke,” Ramey says, and serves me half a trout.

  “Are you enjoying the house on the island, Alexandra?”

  “Our guests have moved out of the house and are staying in our basement.” Ruth rises from her chair and moves to a corner cabinet.

  “Sammy wanted to be closer to the children,” I tell him.

  Ramey nods, clenches his jaw, and intently focuses on a spot in front of his plate. He reaches out his hand and uses his index finger to squish an ant on its way to the gold-threaded bread-basket, then wipes it away with his napkin.

  “Music, that’s what we need.” Ruth opens the cabinet and plays with the dials of a music system. A mellow violin rises to fill the tense air, and she returns to the table.

  “What’s the latest with the divorce? I thought you and Matt were soul mates,” Ruth asks.

  “I thought so as well—at least in the beginning. But there was only room for one soul in our relationship, and it wasn’t mine. Everything was settled. But Matt recently petitioned for full custody of Sammy and Jonathan, an order to sell the family home, and career counseling. He wants to cut off all my support. He’s remarried now, so he has a wife behind him.”

  “He’s got a new wife... since when?” Ruth asks.

  “He married his former associate’s ex-wife last year.”

  “Figures. They’ve probably been fucking for years.”

  “Ruth...” Ramey casts Ruth a disapproving look, which she meets with an indignant glare.

  “Career counseling? But you’ve worked as a freelance writer for the last two decades.” Ruth sets down her fork and takes a gulp of wine from her crystal goblet.

  “The judge didn’t consider it steady enough to provide for the boys.”

  “Hogwash. What career do they have in mind for you?”

  “Sales.”

  “What kind of sales?” She chokes on the liquid.

  “Water, dear...” Ramey says, while pouring her a glass.

  “A department store.”

  “What in the hell are they talking about? You’ve got all those fancy degrees. You’ve been published and won awards, and they want you to fuckin’ sell perfume? Matthew Brighton is one of the most successful and powerful maritime lawyers in San Francisco. He’s worth millions. How can that be possible?” Her face is flushed and she is beginning to slur her words.

  “I know, but the judge, she—”

  “She? The judge is a she? Some fucking dyke is telling you to work as a shop girl? Ramey, could you please open another bottle of wine?”

  “You’ve had enough vino, dear.”

  “I’ll decide when I’ve had enough.”

  “I’m expecting an order from the judge when I return home,” I say, and lower a forkful of fish flesh to my plate.

  Ramey takes Ruth’s glass and carefully pours a quarter glass. “I think you are the one who needs more wine, Alexandra,” he says, and fills my glass.

  “What a bitch. I’d kill her, that’s what I’d do.”

  Ruth takes the goblet from Ramey and knocks back the liquid. “Dear, could you please check on the blackberry pie? And bring Alexandra more wine.”

  “Sure, Baby.”

  Ramey grabs the empty decanter and leaves the room.

  “Honestly, Alex, I would chop Ramey’s balls off if he tried that shit with me.”

  “Most of the old friends have disappeared. I was surprised to hear from you; it’s been a long time.”

  “Our old friend Chantal Dupuis told me about your split.”

  “Do you still hear from her?”

  “Occasionally.” Ruth clears her throat, her eyes dart about the room and she fidgets with the napkin in her lap.

  “Listen to me.”

  She shoves aside the candelabra on the centerpiece.

  “I’ll tell you what you need. You need a man with a shitload of money. See how old Matt likes it when he finds a new daddy waiting at the door when he picks up his kids at your palatial mansion.”

  “If I had known it would turn out like this, I wouldn’t have made the same choices,” I say and finish off my wine.

  “No one would.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nature fools us into it. If we truly believed our babies would grow up and leave us and our spouses turn into monsters, none of us would make the same choices, but we do, because we’ve been tricked.”

  “I long for the simplicity of the past.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Why?”

  “Because someday you will long for today.

  “I wonder what’s taking Ramey so long. He probably snuck out for a cigarette. I think he has a death wish, like his mother’s side of the clan. Let’s face it, dear, all men are babies searching for their mommy... RAMEY.”

  “Yes dear.”

  The sweet aroma of hot berries fills the room as he walks into the dining room carrying a bubbling pie.

  “Smells delicious,” I say, as he cuts into the steaming dessert.

  “You’ve hardly eaten anything on your plate. Are you finished?” he asks.

  “The dinner was wonderful, but I don’t have much of an appetite. I have a bit of an upset stomach.”

  “I was just telling Alex she needs to find herself a man who’s loaded. See how Matt likes it when another man’s fucking his wife and taking his kids to school.”

  “It seems to me you’re pissing drunk and need to get your sweet ass to bed, dear.”

  “You’re not my father. Save your orders for your children and your French maids.”

  He takes
a tentative bite of hot pie, leans back in his chair, and pulls blackberry stained lips into a smile.

  “Why don’t you take your present back to our bedroom. I’ll clean up.”

  “Now I get it. I wore you out last night, so you bring me home a do-it-yourselfer.”

  “Excuse me, I need to...” I say, and stand up from my chair. The pattern in the brocade wallpaper undulates and I feel that I’m about to faint.

  “Sorry...” I lean forward and grasp onto the edge of the table to regain my equilibrium.

  Ramey pulls back my chair and draws the sleeves of my blouse up to my elbows. “Here, this will help,” he says, and dips a linen napkin into a water canister. He cuffs my hands together and binds my wrists with the cold wet napkin.

  “Is that better?” he asks.

  “Yes. Much better,” I reply, and for a moment am lost inside his hypnotic eyes.

  Ruth’s head is propped between her hands, her eyes droop and her mouth hangs open with a string of saliva drooling down her chin. “If any of the children are still up...” she pauses for a long moment. “Tell them to get their sweet asses to bed!” Her head bobs softly, then falls between her elbows, and she passes out on the table.

  CHAPTER TEN

  MONTREAL

  “I EXPERIENCED A MIRACLE THE LAST TIME I VISITED MONTREAL, AT the Oratory of St. Joseph on Mount Royal,” I say, while opening the car window to let in the fragrant morning air. “It seems so long ago, like another lifetime. My face was paralyzed after the birth of Jonathan. I had Bell’s palsy, remember.”

  “We moved before you gave birth,” Ruth says. Chantal told me you looked pretty ghastly. How long did it last?”

  “I was a freak for nearly a year. They told me after six months the disability is usually permanent.”

  “Our home is nearby, but I haven’t entered the sacred spot. Ramey has an aversion to organized religion.” Ruth says and reaches inside the compartment to retrieve a make-up pouch.

  “There was a heavy aroma of hundreds of votive candles mixed with old wood. One of the walls was covered with the canes and crutches pilgrims left behind after being cured. A statue of Joseph stood at the entrance of the oratory and there was an altar in the interior of the sanctuary, with a statue of the Virgin Mother. The founding brother’s heart is preserved in a black marble sepulcher in the back of the shrine.”

  “That is absolutely macabre.”

  “I made a deal in the sanctuary.”

  “Oh, my. One must watch what one says in the presence of saints,” she says as she applies mascara to her lashes.

  “I vowed that if I was given back my unblemished face I would seek my true self, my manifest destiny ordained by God.”

  “That’s a lot to offer.”

  “I had no choice. The doctors gave me impossible odds.”

  “Did your face unthaw then and there?

  “When I placed my hands on the blessed sepulcher, an exquisite heat radiated through my body. The sensation was breathtaking and indescribable. It was unlike any experience I have had before or since. Only childbirth rivals the intensity. When I passed through the church’s exit, I saw my face reflected in a stained-glass window, against a depiction of the nativity scene. My grotesque mask had begun to thaw. Nearly eleven years have passed since that fateful morning. I have succeeded in dismantling my old life, but my destiny remains a mystery.”

  The countryside passes outside the car window with lovely old farm houses under a deep blue sky.

  “Well, dear, you look more beautiful now than ever. Maybe I should take a trip to the oratory. It couldn’t hurt.” She closes her make-up kit and shifts the rearview mirror again to examine her face.

  “We’re almost in Sin City. It got the name back in the time of prohibition, but it’s still pretty decadent. Witchcraft, paganism, devil worship, any deviant activity you can imagine exists somewhere in the city or the underground. Ramey and I made a recent visit to Le Maison de Mystere, a private sex club in the former mansion of the archbishop. It has a tower and dungeon where clients pay to receive medieval torture, prisoner of war scenarios, slave training and even feigned execution by a replica of a guillotine from the French Revolution.”

  “People actually pay for those services?

  “A lot of money. Look, there’s the Big O, the Olympic tower.” She points to where skyscrapers take shape in the distance. “Did you know Montreal is an island? You can see remnants of the fortress the French built to keep out invaders. They haven’t changed much, the French.” Ruth is quiet for a moment, while seeming to brood over a dark thought, and then her eyes brighten and she turns to me with a big enthusiastic grin.

  “I’ve got a great idea.”

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “Alexandra, what do think about seeing a psychic? I know a guy who’s terrific. He lives on the Isle of Mann, but he spends his summers here and works out of an office hidden deep in the underground city. He channels spirits. Through the eyes of the dead he can see into your past and predict your future.”

  “I’ve never visited one, but I’m up for anything.”

  “I’ll give him a call. You have a full day ahead of you; I’ve booked quite a schedule. I’ll drop you off in the old town and have a driver pick you up to join me later. I have a few appointments of my own,” she says with a dreamy smile.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  LE PETIT JARDIN

  “THIS IS MY FAVORITE BOUTIQUE IN MONTREAL. RAMEY BROUGHT ME here for a make-over when I first moved to the city,” Ruth says, as we approach the lacquered door of a tiny storefront. Le Petit Jardin is hand painted on a window accented with swags of burnished silk. A remarkably lifelike mannequin stands inside the alcove. The model wears a fur draped T-shirt, short denim skirt, red garters with ripped fishnet stockings, and satin platforms set on roller-skates.

  Bells tinkle and the scent of ripe roses envelops us as we enter the salon. The bleached brick walls are decorated with a series of portraits of a curvaceous dark-haired woman reclining on a bed with mussed sheets. As I circle the room she undresses, and redresses as I turn the other way around. Diaphanous clouds of yellow silk pouf out from a bulbous ceiling fixture above, drawn to the corners by claw hooks.

  “It’s absolutely charming,” I say and move to gaze through a bay window opening into a lovely courtyard garden.

  “Welcome to Le Petit Jardin.” A short woman, with a big bosom and buttocks and a tiny waist in between, bustles into the room with arms spread wide. Her bushy dark hair is tied into a bow that protrudes beyond prominent ears. Multicolored reading glasses perch at the edge of her nose, connected to a rosary chain that swings to the curve of her stooped shoulders. The woman’s manner of dress is simple—a black skirt falling precisely above the curve of her ample calves and a starched long sleeve white cotton blouse with cuffs turned up at the wrist.

  “Alexandra, Madame Debussey. We call her Mimi,” Ruth says, and then to the shopkeeper, “my friend has been through a nasty divorce and needs a sexy new image. Hell, she needs a sexy new life. I’ve got an appointment at Oscar’s for a wax, so I’ll leave her in your care.”

  “I will take good care of her, my dear. You go now.” She takes Ruth firmly by the forearm and guides her out of the salon.

  Mimi purses her carefully lined lips and furrows her brow as she sweeps back into the shop. “There is much work to be done. Follow me, dear.” Her voice has the exotic quality of the French accent, but there is an undercurrent of something else that is far more remote, a dialect I cannot quite place.

  “Come.” She reaches out a hand ornamented with numerous bejeweled rings and leads me to the back of the store. I follow her through curtains into a spacious dressing room centered with a settee.

  “Let me have a look at you.” Mimi looks me over thoroughly, like a farmer sizing up a prize steer at an auction. “You have a well proportioned body: strong shoulders, large breasts, flat stomach, small hips, long legs, and a nice round derriere. This is quite go
od. My designs are made for your body. Remove your clothes and I will bring you what you need.” She turns and shuffles out of the room.

  “But—” she has left before I can finish. Reluctantly, I undress and fold my clothes into a pile on the divan.

  Mimi reenters the dressing room carrying an armful of garments.

  “I have been married five times. No more marriage for me. I take them as lovers and kick them away when I am done.” She sets the stack on the foot of the settee. “You are a beautiful girl; you have a different man every night, eh?”

  “I have two sons. I don’t have time to date.”

  “No dear, that is not the way. You have sex and go home. No dates. Dates are for young girls. Try on these pieces. I will dispose of your old things—the underwear too. You must have new lingerie. What you wear beneath is seen in your eyes. A man knows when a woman is ready for an assignation. I will be back with items for you to wear on the street.” She takes a step away, then stops and turns.

  “Would you like something to drink, a liqueur perhaps?”

  “No thank you. I don’t drink during the day.”

  I lower myself onto the velvet settee and look at my reflection in the mirror. The hag staring back at me looks like a whore left unclaimed in the parlor of love. From every angle the witch looks wretched and undesirable. In utter despair at the sight of my image, I drop my head between my thighs, circle my arms around my legs and direct my eyes into the carpet.

  “My dear,” exclaims Mimi, “you must always sit up straight. Hunching is very unattractive, and bad for the spine. Why are you rolled up like that?” she asks with a sweet earnestness in her voice.

  “I don’t like what I see in the mirror.”

  “Such an American,” she chuckles and hands me a pair of jeans in a lovely shade of indigo.

  “Without underwear?”

  “This goes on top.” She lays out a sheer peach camisole and an emerald jacket. “I also have a cami that matches the jacket that will bring out the color in your lovely eyes.” One moment, I will return,” Mimi says and departs the room.