by Tim Marquitz
“Are you enjoying the Masquerade?”
“Yeah, I love all this. I was hoping for jazz but this is okay.”
As Harold wondered how to get Sandy outside, he was helped by someone who bumped her arm, sending her drink flying onto Harold’s coat.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said as she tried to help Harold wipe off the liquid.
Harold privately fumed that his jacket was now covered with liquor. He stilled the anger. “Mademoiselle, a lady such as you—it must have been my fault. Perhaps I could offer you a fresh beverage?”
Sandy giggled. “You are most accommodating sir,” Sandy said getting into the spirit of the exchange. “A drink would be wonderful.”
“It is easy to be chivalrous with one such as yourself. Are you always so agreeable?”
Sandy smiled. “No. But it’s easy when one so handsome and well-mannered is attending to me.”
“Perhaps you would allow me to make a suggestion then. A quieter place? There’s a jazz club down the street. A friend is playing and I’m sure we could sit at the musicians’ table. It’s a better place to converse.”
Harold wasn’t sure if he’d pushed too quickly. It didn’t matter if she said yes or no. If she said no, he’d wait and catch her as she left. He clenched his fists and then forced himself to relax them. He didn’t want to wait. He was ready. All she had to do was come with him.
“It’s just music and drinks,” Harold said. “What’s the harm?”
I don’t think so,” Sandy said. “I’m gonna hang out with my friends.”
“Well, I thought I was a new friend. But perhaps it is too soon. A drink here instead?”
Sandy nodded. They pushed their way through the crowd and stood in line, making small talk. Harold hated small talk, and especially the small talk that kept his guise of a 19th century royal. He’d learned to be a bit glib since women required it and he needed it at the shop. He thought he was pretty accomplished at it.
“Gin and tonic,” Sandy said.
Harold paid for the drinks and they began the trek back to where Sandy’s friends had been. When they returned, a different crowd partied.
“Your friends seem to have abandoned you. Are you sure you don’t want to try the jazz bar? We can always come back a bit later. Or not,” Harold said.
Sandy stared into his eyes. “Thanks but I’d better find my boyfriend. But nice try Harold. I thought I told you I had a boyfriend. And I thought you were going to be a rodeo cowboy.”
“Whaaaa?” Harold stumbled over the words. The room started to swim and Harold tried to focus. “I…uhhh…changed my mind. How’d you know it was me?”
Harold’s heart had sunk. She knew him. But how?
“I’m very auditory. I always recognize voices—just like yours. I knew it was you as soon as you started to speak. Talk to you next week.”
Harold’s shoulders dropped. All his preparation. All his planning. All for nothing. He realized he’d never get her alone now. Inside, his stomach swirled and bubbled. He thought he might explode. The cacophony of the many voices surrounding him grew in his head. She knew him. If somehow he found her later, if she got away, she’d know who he was. His anonymity was gone. He breathed in and out—slowly, trying to control that which wanted so badly to escape. He stared around the room. Why was it so bright? He felt exposed. Dare he find someone else? Did he even want to try? Should he just wait and try to take her? He didn’t like the odds. He breathed deeply again. Who was Sandy anyway? How dare she? He had to control the rage that threatened to burst out of him. He looked down at his vest, realizing the irony of wearing a dark non-assuming vest—all for naught since his voice had given him away. He straightened—no one else knew. He was still Jack to everyone else—or at least a fellow from a prior century.
Sandy turned and headed into the crowd, laughing. Harold wasn’t sure if the laughter was at him but he again saw red. He slammed his fists into his pockets. His stomach roiled and he forced himself to take deep breaths.
He looked around. No one was paying him any attention. Sandy was gone but he could find her again. He knew her schedule, where she lived. She was his for the taking another time, on his own terms. For now, he needed a new plan. He was, after all, Jack the Ripper, tonight. Women roamed the streets, especially this week. He could still have his revenge but he’d have to seek another out.
Harold straightened and began to walk towards an outside door. He was as smart if not smarter than Jack. He just needed to find the right woman. He left the building and looked up and down the street, before turning to his right where the lights were a bit dimmer and the crowds smaller.
He walked two blocks and turned right again. This was more like it, he thought. A few prostitutes selling their wares. Who would miss one? He guessed that was why Jack chose them. He’d done almost everything else Jack had, so maybe it was time to emulate him in all aspects. Harold walked by two hookers who winked at him. Too old. Too hardened. He was looking for something less worn. He walked past another but her black frizzy hair didn’t fit with his needs.
Harold’s eye caught the slight swaying of hips ahead of him. The girl was young with long straight hair. Not chocolate brown like Sandy’s and his mother’s but close enough. She stood alone, waiting for a trick. He approached her.
“Looking for a date?” she asked with a slow smile.
Harold nodded. Her voice still had a bit of silk to it, unlike the more street hardened prostitutes.
“Not much of a talker, are you? That’s okay,” she said.
After negotiating the services, she turned to walk down the street towards an alley.
“No,” Harold said, inclining his head in the direction of the side street. “In there.”
She looked down the back street and shrugged her shoulders. “Whatever.”
Halfway down the street, she turned and reached for his fly. Harold looked both ways to make sure they were alone. He batted her hand away. He could feel his erection growing stronger by the minute. He realized the spontaneity of this was even more exciting than the planning for Sandy had been. Both thrilling but in different ways.
“Turn around. Closer to the wall.”
The girl turned and began to hike her skirt up. The world seemed to slow. Harold stepped closer, took a deep breath, reached for the sheath and fingered the knife. He drew the blade, reached under her neck and slit her throat. With the other hand he pushed her against the wall to control her struggles. He wanted the blood to flow flowed away from him. He could hear her gurgling, and then it lessened. As time began to speed up again, he wiped the knife on her skirt, and replaced it in the sheath. Harold let go of the breath he’d been holding. He tightened his stomach muscles, feeling the pain of holding onto his erection. He would have loved to climax but that would leave his semen for the police to find. He knew he might leave behind a hair or two but that was easily explained away. Something like his seed wasn’t.
He grabbed both of the girl’s arms and pulled her deeper into the shadows. He laid her face side down to keep the blood flow away from him. He knelt beside her and carefully rolled her over. He laid her arms by her sides, palms up. If he was going to fully embody Jack, then he needed to cut her open. He pushed the mask to his forehead so he could see more clearly.
He’d done a few cuts before to simulate Jack but this time, he decided to do more. He began hacking at the skin between her breasts and belly button. It was much harder than he expected and he had to bear down. Liquid spurted here and there, landing on his gloves and coat.
The rib cage was in his way. He concentrated on the softer stomach area. He pulled the skin apart and gagged on the smells. He turned his head away. Drawing in a deep breath, he held it as he cut out some of the insides and tossed them to the side. He heard the rats scurry.
His senses seemed to expand as he worked. Rats feasted in the dark and he could almost taste the metallic nature of her blood. At the sound of footsteps, he stopped and waited but they passed by
. He breathed. He wanted to cut the upside down Vs in her face below her eyes but the light was too dim. Harold looked down at his work. It would have to be enough.
He removed his gloves, placing them in his pockets. Lowering the mask again, he stood up and checked the area again. No one. He took off his coat and turned it inside out. He removed the sheath and added it to a pocket. Then rolled the coat into a ball. If there was any blood, it was most likely on his coat or dark pants.
Moving down the back street, Harold retraced his steps, stopping at the end. A few women loitered. He turned left and forced himself to walk casually, his hardness chaffing at the cotton drawers with every step.
He avoided the crowded areas, taking lesser used streets towards his apartment.
Harold wondered if he’d make the front page of the newspaper. The thought made him even harder. There was still Sandy. He had time to decide how to deal with her. And why should he limit himself to once a year? Jack hadn’t and there was no shortage of prostitutes around. He couldn’t wait to get home to relive the night as he got off. Afterwards, he’d have time to think and plan.
Lessons from a Victory Garden
Jason Andrew
The heels of Milena’s sleek black Manolo Blahnik shoes clicked haphazardly onto the sidewalk like an engine misfiring. The right one snapped during the fight, but she refused to let it deter her poised demeanor. She glanced over her large, oval Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s style sunglasses to the sidewalk. The tiny hand prints of her youth were forever captured in concrete. Seeing them brought back memories of endless summer vacations on this street as a girl. She could hardly believe that her hands had ever been so small.
Milena continued forward until she stopped at the stoop of the freshly painted brownstone and dropped her suitcase. How long had it been since she had visited Nonni Marie? The house had been perfectly preserved over the years. If she listened carefully and ignored the sounds of traffic, children, and birds, Milena imagined that she could hear the practiced chopping sound of her grandmother preparing a meal as she passed by the kitchen window.
She rang the doorbell. A petite woman with curly black hair and a white set of pearls around her neck answered the door with a wide-dentured smile. “Ciao bellissima!” Nonni Marie hugged her closely, reaching up to pat her back. “There, there! Dry your tears.”
Milena sniffed and rubbed her eyes under the protective shield of her sunglasses. “I didn’t want to be a bother, Nonni. I wouldn’t have called you, but Mom moved to Florida.”
The old woman waved away her concern and quickly ushered Milena into the house. She led her to the kitchen and gestured for her to sit at the breakfast nook. Milena glanced up at a painting of a weeping Jesus and the infamous framed plenary indulgence granted by Catholic Church signed by Pope John Paul II. No one in the family seemed to know how she received it or why she felt the need to frame it in her kitchen. “What? You are no bother! What good is a Nonni except to spoil grandchildren? Please, sit down. I’ve made Chamomile tea.”
She sighed wearily. “I don’t drink tea,” Milena protested.
“You’re shaking like a leaf.” Nonni Marie carried a polished silver tea set to the table and gingerly placed an antique cup and saucer in front of Milena. She added a spoonful of honey to the steaming hot liquid. Milena remained reluctant until Nonni Marie gently pressed it into her granddaughter’s hands with a knowing smile. “Drink it! It will calm your nerves, before our cooking lessons.”
Milena did as ordered more from not wanting to argue than interest in the tea and then was surprised how much better she felt after tasting it. “This is quite good. How did you know I was coming?
“Your mother told me that you would come. I’ve been getting ready for your lessons.” Noni gestured to the kitchen counter where she had prepared a veritable feast of vegetables and ingredients for cooking a grand meal. “Everything that we’ll need to resolve your little problem is laid out on the counter.”
“Nonni Marie, I’m not in the mood for a cooking lesson just now.” Her voice faltered a bit. Milena steeled herself refusing to cry in front of her Nonni. “I don’t think you understand just what’s been going on.”
Nonni Marie nodded patiently and patted her on the shoulder gently. “Yes, I know you are a big liberated woman working with computers and television with a position of power and importance. You live in a beautiful brownstone in the upper-east side where the Italian girls of my decade could only exist as maids. What could I know that you would need to learn? The kitchen isn’t a place of power for a modern woman such as you. It didn’t stop him from hitting you, did it?”
Her fingers felt numb. Milena gasped as the silver teacup slipped out of her hand and clattered upon the spotless tile floor. “How?”
Nonni Marie continued nonplussed. “A woman that cannot control her kitchen will never have dominion over her house.” She bent over and wiped up the spill. Then refilled the silver teacup with more almond and honey scented tea.
“Do you know what he did?”
She bolted up out of her seat, angry that her own grandmother would take his side. “Do you know what he did?”
“Don’t be angry, Little One. I think you’ll come to appreciate these lessons in time. I had this very same talk with your mother once. I’ve buried three husbands; believe me when I say that I know of what I speak,” the old woman stated coldly.
Milena tilted her head confused. She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t think of what to say to that.
“Here! Apply this slice of cucumber under your eye.” Nonni Marie plucked two slices of cucumbers from the cutting board and offered them to the girl on a small plate. Milena removed her glasses revealing a large black eye that had turned a deep purple. “It will soothe the swelling and heal the bruise. I might not have gone to school to be a doctor, but I learned the subtle arts of herbs and home remedies. Our family has been famous in the neighborhood for the healing touch for generations. Did you know that my mother can trace her linage all the way to the second daughter of Lucretia Borgia?”
She rubbed the cucumbers under the eye sighing from the almost instant relief. “Lucretia Borgia? The poisoner?”
“She knew a great many things thought to be silly by the learned men of the day. Did you know that Socrates allegedly committed suicide by consuming hemlock-laced wine? I’m told that hemlock tastes of almonds and the effect of euphoria is quite pleasant.” Nonni Marie smiled and filled a new cup and offered it to her. “You seem surprised? The weight of history is in our blood. We come from proud sons and daughters that brought light into the world during the Dark Ages. Our sons fought in the battlefields, but our daughters served as the midwives of the Renaissance. We brought knowledge and faith to the world. It is whispered that Lucretia knew the family secret of canteralla and savagely struck down Her Holy Father’s enemies. Did I mention that two of our sons served our Holy Church as Pope?”
Milena almost spat out her tea. “I don’t understand. Why are you telling me all of this? You can’t mean for me to cook dinner for him after he hit me?”
“I was very proud of you the day you graduated college. You took a step forward that many mothers and daughters had dreamed of for many generations. You live in that world of silicone and numbers, but do not forget where you’ve come from.” Nonni Marie turned away from her and stood over the kitchen sink. “Never let a man think that he can break you.”
“Then why cook him dinner?”
“My first husband, Alfanso, struck me once when he returned from the War,” Nonni Marie said quietly. “It is such a pity that he died so young and in his prime of manhood. The young girls in the neighborhood were quite jealous when he asked permission from my father to court me. Alfanso was the closest thing we had to royalty in the neighborhood then. He was the young man that the others aspired to be. Naturally, he was the first to enlist to service his country after Pearl Harbor, but before he left he wanted to marry.”
“What ha
ppened?”
“We were married quietly in a church. I was a blushing bride, hidden under a veil, proud that I could wear white before God. It seems so strange now that veils are only worn at weddings and funerals. What does that say about marriage?” Nonni Marie continued preparation of the ingredients. “During the war we were all expected to do our part, even the women. To supplement our rations we grew our own vegetables in Victory Gardens. After a while, it became a passion to grow my own vegetables. I harvested these ingredients from the garden just for your husband’s dinner.”
“Why would you want me to cook for that man?” Milena asked, horrified. “I’d sooner cut him with that knife.”
The old woman stopped her chopping suddenly and looked up to her coldly. “You should never say such a thing. Once spoken, your intent is forever suspect. You are asking the wrong question.”
What was Nonni Marie trying to tell her? “Why are you telling me all of this?”
“Alfanso returned from the war broken. He was shot in the leg while in France, but my brave husband continued to serve until the pain became too severe and he was finally discharged. He returned to me as a war hero and finally we could start our lives together. We lived quite happily for almost a year after he was wounded. It was romantic. We ate by candle light. There were no children, but we were content with each other. The leg where he was shot never properly healed.”
“Did he lose the leg?” Milena asked.
“The stench of it woke me late at night, but I loved my husband. Love can force you to tolerate almost anything. Rot had settled in the flesh. The doctors could do little in those days. The pain become too much and Alfanso took to drinking. He never lost his temper. It remained with him night and day. Sickness led to slothful days where the hours whittled away. One evening he returned home drunk, limping, barely able to stand. Alcohol mixed with the medicines the doctor gave him to fight the infection turned his blood toxic. I lost my job, he said. It was a lie. We both knew where his job had gone. The bottom of the bottle.”
