Out of Breath

by Blair Richmond

  “But these don’t belong to me. I’m not going to steal a costume.”

  “You’re not stealing. You’re borrowing. I’ll return it myself.”

  “What if they catch you? Won’t you get in trouble?”

  “I suppose I might. But as a lead actor, I’m willing to take that chance. Now, stop making excuses. Let’s find you a costume.”

  “Well…” Still not convinced, I begin to wander through the rows of costumes. I have to admit I’m tempted by the idea of dressing up, of being someone else, even if it’s only for one night.

  I find a pair of overalls, large enough to slip on over my clothes. I pair it with a cowboy hat and boots.

  Roman shakes his head. “We can do better than that.”

  “I like it. It’s simple. Easy.”

  Roman holds up a long, slinky black dress. “You should wear something to show off your feminine side.”

  I laugh. “I don’t have much of a feminine side,” I say. “I’ve always been more of a tomboy.”

  “A very beautiful tomboy,” he says, which makes me blush. He holds up a wide-brimmed, pointed black hat. “This was from a sexy production of Macbeth we did a few years back. The witches were stunning.”

  “I don’t want to be a witch,” I say. I don’t add that I feel dark and evil enough inside already, that I want to be something different for a change. Something more innocent.

  I look through the clothes, amazed at the range of costumes, from bell-bottom jeans to nuns’ habits to Victorian dressing gowns. The shoes and accessories are on the other side of the room, so as I try things on, I’m running from one end of the room to the other, feeling breathless the whole time. And having fun.

  Finally, I find the costume I’ve been looking for. I hold up an Elizabethan dress that is so heavy my arm tires after only a minute or two, and I have to lay it across the rack in front of me. It’s full-length, a rich dark blue with puffy capped sleeves. Underneath the capped sleeves are long, light-blue sleeves in a soft sheer fabric running down to the wrists. The neckline is low and square, and the dress cinches in at the waist. I take it into a dressing room to try it on. It fits almost perfectly, except that the skirt is too long and drags on the ground. I’ll never be able to wear it like this, and I can’t exactly have it tailored. I’m disappointed, but I decide to show Roman anyway.

  When I emerge from the dressing room, Roman is standing there, holding some sort of device that looks like an animal trap. “This is what they call a farthingale,” he says. “It goes under the skirt.”

  “Oh.” I take it and step back into the dressing room. It takes me a few minutes to figure it out, but once I put it on and lower the skirt again, it puffs out wide, fitting perfectly, floating just above my ankles.

  I open the door to show Roman.

  “You are a vision of beauty,” he says. “But you won’t be able to wear your Brooks with this.”

  We cross the room to find a pair of shoes—pointy little heeled boots that lace up to the ankles. They squeeze my feet a bit, but they look perfect with the dress.

  Roman leads me to the mirror and turns me toward it so I can see myself. The blue brings out the color in my eyes, and even with my hair pulled back in my usual sloppy ponytail, in the dress I somehow manage to come across as elegant. Standing behind me, he says, “You look—timeless.”

  I meet his eyes in the mirror. I find myself wondering whether it’s true that vampires have no reflections, that they can’t be seen in mirrors. If it’s true, this means Roman isn’t a vampire. It means he’s human, and that these eyes now looking into mine are showing me something real.

  Then I remember what Alex said. Vampires are a lot more adaptable than you think…most people really don’t know anything about them at all. So maybe seeing Roman in the mirror proves nothing. Maybe Roman really is a vampire after all; maybe he’s adapted somehow to make himself visible to me in this mirror.

  It seems to me that there should be some hard-and-fast rules here. I need something to make it easy for me to know what to do. I need to know whether I should flee this room, run for my life. Or whether I should turn around, let myself fall into Roman’s arms. Let him kiss me, which his eyes are telling me he wants to do. Let myself surrender.

  But there are no rules—only the ones I make up as I go along.

  I decide to turn around, into Roman’s waiting arms.

  Fifteen

  David is in the back room of the store, staring at a computer screen. I watch him from the doorway. I can tell his mind is wandering; he’s been spending more and more time these days staring at nothing, lost within himself. But he has plenty to keep him busy: working, seeing friends, being invited over for dinner. He’s got a lot of support, but I still hate to see him so lost. I know it will pass, eventually, but it makes me feel sad, and guilty. And I know we have to keep him going, to keep pulling him out of the darkness.

  I tap softly on the doorjamb, and he turns around. “Are you coming to the parade?” I ask.

  He turns back to his computer. “Stacey used to drag me to it. She always made me wear a costume. I didn’t have a chance to get one this year.”

  “Let me drag you this time. I don’t have a costume either.”

  I haven’t told him about Roman’s party. I’m still not sure I’m going myself, even though I said I would. I feel strange about going to a party so soon after Stacey’s death, and I’m not sure about the costume either, though it’s the only thing I have to wear. I’m definitely not wearing it now, for the parade, when half of Lithia will probably recognize it from one of the plays.

  David’s still sitting there, but he’s looking less uncertain than before. “No one’s going to buy shoes today,” I say. “It might be nice to get out for a while.”

  He finally stands and shuts off the computer. I’ve already locked up the back, and we exit out the front. The parade is in full swing, moving down Main Street, past the store. We blend into the masses on the sidewalk, then find a little island near the square where we can stand and watch.

  I can’t help but smile at all the girls in their princess dresses, pink and sparkling, waving magic wands in the air. They’re still at that age where they believe all their dreams can come true. I miss that age. You never get it back once it’s gone.

  I look over at David, and he’s watching a group of boys in their Power Ranger suits. I’m guessing he’s thinking the same thing.

  ~

  Because I don’t have a car and can’t afford a cab. Because when David invited me along for dinner with some friends after the parade, I told him I just wanted to take it easy tonight. Because I waited until the last minute to decide whether I was even going to go to this party—these are the reasons I find myself walking up the hill to Roman’s house on Highview. Hills, I should say. Very steep hills.

  I can hear the party even before I crest the final hill and see the glow of lights from the castle. The deep bass of a song I’ve never heard rumbles through the neighborhood. I hope he’s invited all his neighbors or that they’re all out of town.

  I’m wearing my Brooks because there’s no way I could’ve made it up the hill in those tiny little boots. I stand on the porch to change shoes, then sit down on the large porch swing to lace up the boots. After my feet are properly squeezed in, I sit here swinging for a moment, enjoying being just beyond the life of the party. On the outside, where I’ve always been.

  I try the front door, which is open, and walk into a crowd of priests, dead presidents, devils, knights, and superheroes. I don’t recognize a single face. Actually, I can hardly see a single face; everyone seems to be masked, or hiding under very heavy makeup. I wish I’d thought to do the same.

  I make my way through the crowd, feeling eyes upon me from behind the masks, from under the fake eyelashes. I’m self-conscious about my dress all over again—what was I thinking, that I’d be safer here than in downtown Lithia? Most of these guests are probably Roman’s colleagues—actors, prop managers,
stage directors. They’ll recognize the dress and call the police. I’ll get arrested, jailed, then sent out of town.

  Which makes me realize that I should’ve left town in the first place, as I’d planned. Why hadn’t I told Roman to take me to Seattle? Or had I, and he ignored me? That night is still a blur.

  I duck into a shadow, a place where two walls meet, and lean back into the corner. I’m hoping no one will see me in my costume, or at least that Roman will see me first so he can give me something else to wear. People swish and clack past me, drinking and laughing. Having fun.

  A man whose face is a ghostly shade of violet-white approaches, and I lean deeper into the wall and hold my breath, waiting for him to pass. But he doesn’t—he stops. He’s dressed in black and wears a black cape with a high collar and a deep, rich red on its underside. I squint at him in the dim light, trying to see if it’s Roman underneath all that makeup.

  “I vant to suck your blood,” he says, with a thick European accent.

  Definitely not Roman. I try to turn away, but then I realize that I truly have backed myself into a corner here.

  “I am Victor,” he says.

  “That’s nice,” I say, my eyes flicking past him, at the other partygoers. “I’m looking for Roman.”

  “You must be Katherine.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  He laughs, his red lips twisting up his face. “Roman told me you were high-spirited.”

  “Really? Well, he hasn’t told me anything about you.”

  “Perhaps you’ll allow me to fill in the blanks?” He gestures toward the balcony. “Somewhere less deafening?”

  I look him over. He’s taller than Roman, and his dark hair has streaks of white in it, though this is probably part of his costume. He certainly plays the part well, with his formal manner, so much like Roman’s, combined with that ancient-sounding accent. Something about Victor seems a lot older, but I’m guessing he’s Roman’s age. At any rate, I’m not eager to step out on a very high balcony with this very strange man.

  “We can talk here,” I tell him.

  He looks amused. “You’re afraid of me?”

  “No,” I say. “I just want to keep an eye out for Roman, that’s all.”

  He takes my arm. “Roman will find you, my dear Katherine. I am certain of that.”

  And the next thing I know, he is propelling me out onto a narrow balcony—quickly, but somehow gently; I don’t feel pulled or forced.

  “This is much better,” he says, “isn’t it?”

  The balcony overlooks the mountains, and the fresh cool air does feel good after being immersed in the noise and heat of the party.

  “For now, I guess.” I stand near the open doorway. “So are you an actor, too?”

  “We are all actors in our own way.”

  “I mean, are you an actor at the theater?”

  “I know what you meant. I am, like you, a civilian. I am in town briefly, for the theater, to take in the plays, the culture, to see how Roman is treating my home.”

  “So you’re the friend who owns this place?”

  He nods. “Would you like a tour?”

  “I’ve seen enough of it already.” I realize right after saying it that I probably shouldn’t have. This Victor doesn’t need to know that I’ve been here before, though he does seem to know a lot about me for someone he’s never met before now. He’s creepy, and not just because of the costume. It’s the way he looks at me, or through me. I glance over my shoulder, into the pulsing beat of the party, and Victor doesn’t seem to notice that I’m nervous. And he doesn’t seem to mind that I have my escape route all planned out.

  He’s probably harmless, probably just one of those odd, socially awkward guys who never grew out of it. I can relate to that, as the tomboy who never grew out of it.

  So I decide to give him a chance, and to find some things out about Roman while I’m at it. “So how do you know Roman?” I ask.

  “We met in Europe. A long time ago. I took him under my wing. He was—how shall I put this?—lost. Figuratively and literally. It was I who encouraged him to pursue acting. And it suits him, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Where does his family live?”

  “He is an only child. Like you.”

  How did he know that? I don’t remember ever telling Roman anything about my family.

  “So he’s from Europe?” I ask. “Where? Are his parents still there?”

  Victor looks amused. “He hasn’t told you?” He smirks. “I thought you two were close.”

  “He isn’t exactly the chatty type.”

  “I didn’t think you were, either.”

  “Only when I’m curious,” I say. “So, where is he from?”

  “You should ask him that yourself.” Victor nods toward something behind me. I turn, and there’s Roman. He, too, is dressed like a vampire, and I’m startled to realize that he’s not wearing any makeup, that his skin is naturally so pale that he doesn’t need it.

  “What are you doing, Victor?” Roman doesn’t look very happy with his friend.

  “Having a lovely conversation with your girlfriend.”

  Roman looks at me, and we share an awkward moment, navigating around the word girlfriend. I can feel myself blushing as I remember our kiss from the other night. How I wanted to stay in Roman’s arms forever. I remember thinking that maybe there was something special about Halloween after all, or at least the costume—I’d felt completely unlike myself in that dress, even more so than I do now, around all these other dressed-up people. In the costume shop, alone with Roman, wearing someone else’s clothes, I’d felt free from all my worries. And beautiful.

  “I apologize for Victor,” Roman says to me. “He tends to feel proprietary over everything that crosses the threshold of this house, even when he has a tenant.”

  “And you, Roman, tend to feel proprietary over everything that crosses the border into Lithia.”

  Roman and Victor exchange looks that I can’t interpret, and then Victor turns toward me and bows. “Until we meet again, which I’m quite certain will happen.” He kisses my hand, then exits the balcony.

  I watch him go. “So this is Victor’s house?”

  Roman nods. “He inherited it. Family money.”

  “He mentioned that you met in Europe.”

  Roman pretends not to hear my implied question and instead extends an arm. “Would you like to dance?”

  “Dance?” I peek into the house, packed with people. “I don’t see anyone dancing.”

  “Not there. In the ballroom.”

  “You have a ballroom?”

  Roman takes my hand and leads me through the crowd to a spacious room with an enormous dance floor, flowing with dancers in costume. A string quartet is playing on a balcony overlooking the room. The violins are electric, the music amplified and distorted into some gothic mixture.

  I’ve never danced before. There were dances at my high school in Houston, but I was never invited to one. Besides, we were poor, and even if I’d been able to squeeze money from my father for a dress, I had no mother to help me shop for one, to show me how to apply my makeup, to teach me to dance. My father was useless, and I didn’t fit in with most of the girls in my school—not the ones who went to dances anyway. I did have two friends, Kristy and Janelle, and we stuck together. Like me, they didn’t fit in anywhere, and we would go to the movies on dance nights, hiding ourselves in the darkness of the theater, eating popcorn with fake oily butter and trying to remind ourselves that high school is nothing more than a blip in time, that we’d all move on. And we did, maybe too well; we’re scattered far enough apart that I don’t know where either of them are now. Sometimes I miss them. Like now.

  I’m not sure what to do, exactly, when Roman holds up his right hand—but I take it. Then he puts his left hand on my shoulder, and I follow his lead. Not very well. I step on his foot. Twice. Then he stops.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, looking down at my Elizabethan shoes. “I�
�m just not used to these shoes.”

  He smiles, as if he knows very well that’s not the reason. “Don’t look down,” he says, putting his hand under my chin to lift my face. “Focus on my hands.” He moves his left hand down my back and holds me firmly. “Don’t try too hard. Let me lead you. In fact, close your eyes.”

  Reluctantly, I do. He starts moving again, more slowly this time, and I can envision his hand on my back, guiding me. I grip his other hand in mine and focus on the music. As soon as I stop trying so hard to control my movements, to do it right, I begin to feel as though I really am dancing. No tripping, no stutter steps, just fluid motion.

  I open my eyes to see him watching me. There is a glitter to his eyes, as though he is happy, as though he has me right where he wants me to be. And I feel that I’m right where I want to be, too.

  But as much as I’m enjoying this, I wish Roman wasn’t still such a mystery to me. “Why do I have to talk to Victor to find out anything about you?” I ask him.

  “I suspect for the same reason,” he says, “that I know very little about you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means we’re alike. We don’t like to dwell on the past.”

  “But we can’t ignore it,” I say, though I often try to do just that. “It’s part of who we are.”

  “I’m an actor. I get to be many people inhabiting many different worlds.”

  “Is this why you became an actor?” I ask. “To escape your life?”

  “When I play Hamlet,” he says, “I become Hamlet. For those three hours, I am a man in a different country in a different century. My father has been murdered by my uncle, who then marries my mother, and I am coming to terms with the grief and the anger and, ultimately, I am following an irreversible path toward a tragic destiny. And as painful as Hamlet’s life is, I welcome the brief respite from my own life. In the end, it is someone else’s pain, not mine.”

  “What is your pain, then? Your life seems so perfect.”