by CK Dawn
She thrust the parcel into his hands. “Take a look.”
He looked. He saw his own reflection; the reflection he had avoided for hundreds of years. He saw a pale little face with a sharply pointed nose, brown eyes tinged with red, long unkempt brown hair and the beginning of a straggly beard. It was the face of a teenager; a two thousand year old teenager. The mirror sucked in his reflection. As he stared, the reflection faded; gone into the mirror; gone beyond his reach. Gone, just as his freedom was gone.
The pain threatened to tear his heart in two; if only it would. He screamed in wild frustration. “How could you do it?” he asked. “How did you know?”
“How did I know what?”
“The mirror,” he screamed. “I looked into the mirror.”
“I have mirrors everywhere,” she said.
“Yes, I know, but I ain’t looked into them,” he said. “I ain’t even glanced, but now I’ve looked.” He held the mirror up to her, hopping from one foot to the other in anguish. “It’s gone. My reflection’s gone.”
“Gone where?” she asked. “Do please calm down. This is very bad for my heart.”
“It’s the fourth thing,” he said miserably. “I’ve let you catch my reflection.”
He held the mirror out to her imploringly. “Look, Missus, do you think you could just break the mirror and let me go. I mean, you don’t want me to stay here, do you?
“Don’t I?” she asked.
“No, of course not. You don’t need me cluttering up your apartment, making it untidy with my mud and all. If you was to break the mirror, I’d be free again.”
She snatched the mirror from his grasp. “Have I actually caught you?” she asked.
“Yes, but I know you didn’t mean to.”
“No, of course I didn’t,” she agreed. “Well, what’s to stop you from grabbing the mirror from me and breaking it?”
“I couldn’t,” he said. “You’re my mistress now. I have to do what you say.”
“For how long?”
“For the rest of your life,” he said bitterly. “You don’t want me Missus, really you don’t. The baron will be looking for me. You really don’t want me to be here, Missus, not if it brings him looking.”
“No, of course I don’t want you,” she said. “People don’t have slaves these days. It’s immoral.”
“Yes, it is,” he agreed.
“But it would be very useful to have a strong young man around the place to help with the shopping and cleaning.”
“I wouldn’t be any help,” Wally assured her. “I sleep all day.”
“So do I, Wally, so that wouldn’t matter at all. We’d have to get you cleaned up. Water doesn’t make you melt, does it? No, no, that was the Wicked Witch of the West.”
“Please,” he pleaded, “it’s like you said; it would be immoral.”
“But it wouldn’t be for long,” she argued, more to herself than to him. “I mean, compared to your lifetime, Wally dear, it would be no time at all. I’m sure I’m not going to last for more than another thirty years, maybe only twenty. My health is very poor.”
“Please missus, you don’t know how dangerous this is. You don’t understand about the baron.”
She was not even listening.
“I really should let you go. How could I ever explain you to people? They’d think you were my gigolo, my toy boy. That would be kind of fun. No, I think I’ll say that you’re my student; and I’m preparing you for a life on the stage. “
He saw the resolution form on her face. He had nothing else to say. He knew enough about human nature to know that his fate was now sealed. He was no longer free.
She grasped the mirror tightly. “I deserve this,” she said. “I’ll treat you well, Wally, but it seems that fate has delivered you into my hands. Why shouldn’t I have something for myself for once? I never do anything for myself. I’ll get you some new clothes and we’ll make some ... er... eating arrangements for you; mice, rats, that sort of thing. We’ll put your box in the spare bedroom. I have a nice satin coverlet and some throw pillows that will be perfect for it. No one will even know it’s not a bed. This is going to work out really well for both us, Wally.”
“Is it?” he asked dubiously, thinking of the lingering presence of the baron. If the baron were to leave Pittsburgh, perhaps, just perhaps, this might work, but if he knew the baron, the baron had no intention of leaving, not without his favorite slave of all work, and not before he’d found himself a bride.
Miss Phoebe plunked herself down onto the sofa. “I think we’re going to be very happy, Wally,” she said. “You can fix me another drink.”
“Yes, mistress.”
Four
PHOEBE
The carriage clock on the mantelpiece was striking 6:00 when Phoebe emerged from her bedroom. The short January day had already drawn to a close and the apartment was lit by small table lamps and crystal wall lights, all gleaming in the subtle light. She paused to admire her home. The surfaces were free of dust and the rugs lay geometrically straight on the polished hardwood floor. The new blue velvet drapes were closed tightly against the wintry night outside and her Gucci dress, neatly pressed, was hanging beside the kitchen door alongside Wally’s new tuxedo.
“Wally,” she called. No answer.
The tickets to the symphony were propped up against the clock with a note saying “Gone to eat.” She considered the note for a moment. Wally’s handwriting was very ornate, the product of some long gone era. Over the past few weeks she had often asked herself where he had learned his many skills. In what century had he learned to write? When did he learn about electricity and vacuum cleaners and steam irons and all the other items he wielded with such skill? He had even unpacked the computer that she had purchased impulsively during one long lonely night of TV shopping. He set it up, somehow tuned it in to the unsecured Wi-Fi connection of another apartment, and before she knew it she was signed onto all kinds of shopping sites. It was as though a door had opened into a wonderland. She didn’t quite understand how it all worked and was constantly calling Wally over to her new baroque desk to help her complete her purchases, but she was at least connected to the wide world of cyber space. The entire world was now her own “dot com” shopping mall; the source of all kinds of wonders purchased by dipping into her ex-husband’s generous allowance. She accepted the generosity as no more than her due; his way of assuaging his guilt about running off with that bimbo.
She shook her head, appreciating the way her new wig remained in place. It had been so perceptive of Wally to show her how to find a wig that would fit properly. He even suggested that he could help her to wash and set her own hair so that the wig was no longer necessary. Perhaps she had been a little unkind in the way she received his suggestion. Perhaps she had overdone it a little in telling him how badly her shoulders hurt and how it was quite impossible for her to comb her own hair or reach the back of her head with a blow dryer. Yes, he had seemed a little unsympathetic about that situation, but polite. Yes, always polite; always willing to say “Yes, Miss Phoebe,” and “No, Miss Phoebe.”
She walked into the kitchen and saw that he had left her a light supper; salad and a small sandwich. It would do for the time being, and then after the symphony she would have something more substantial. This was her first time to take Wally to the symphony. He was going to create a sensation among the season ticketholders at Heinz Hall. They were used to seeing her with elderly female escorts and now she was going to enter on the arm of a handsome young man in a well cut tuxedo. Oh yes, that would set the tongues wagging.
Just as she was about to take the first bite of her sandwich, the intercom buzzed. She dropped the sandwich and began to hyperventilate. Was it him? Had he finally come for Wally? Her heart was racing and she was almost unable to breath. Every time Wally went out he gave her the same reminder.
“Don’t let no one in. The baron’s still looking for me, but he can’t come in here, not unless you invite him in, so don’t
let no one in.”
“You came in uninvited,” she had reminded him.
He shook his head furiously. “Oh no, I didn’t, Miss Phoebe. I most certainly didn’t, in fact I couldn’t. Not even the baron can cross your threshold unless you invite him. You invited me, Miss Phoebe, you know you did.”
“I was inviting my sister in,” she said. “I opened the door and invited her in and in you came, dirty and disgusting. I was terrified.”
“I know you was,” he agreed, “and I shouldn’t have scared you that way but you did say for me to come in. Those was your words. Come in, that’s what you said.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, don’t do it again. Don’t let no one in.”
The intercom buzzed again. Phoebe ignored it and picked up her sandwich. She had to eat. She would never be able to sit through the evening on an empty stomach and surely the doorman would send the intruder away if she simply ignored the buzzer.
After a few minutes, when the sandwich had been demolished and she was looking around for something sweet to eat, someone pounded on the door itself; someone had entered the building and bypassed the doorman! She looked anxiously around the apartment. She would have to hide, but where? How do you hide from a vampire, she asked herself. Can they smell you out?
“Phoebe,” a voice called through the door. “Open the damned door.”
“Who is it?” she quavered.
“Who do you think it is?” asked the impatient voice. “It’s Cat, now open the damned door.”
Phoebe shuffled to the front door. So Catherine had finally decided to pay a call; that explained why the doorman had let her in, but why tonight of all nights and where had she been for the past few weeks? She hadn’t even called. Phoebe thought how satisfying it would be if Catherine came to the apartment and found Phoebe dead on the floor. That would show her!
Phoebe put her lips to the crack of the door frame. “I don’t know anyone named Cat,” she announced loudly.
“Yes, you do,” said the irritated voice outside the door.
“I had a sister once who I used to call Cat, but I don’t know what happened to her. She stopped visiting me.”
“Come on, Phoebe,” said Catherine. “Let me in.”
“Where have you been?” Phoebe asked, enjoying the upper hand.
“Let me in, Phoebe.”
Phoebe looked around at her transformed apartment. She really didn’t want to deal with her sister but it would be satisfying to see the look on Catherine’s face when she realized the changes Phoebe had made. Yes, she would have to show this to Catherine. Catherine would have a hard time finding anything negative to say about the apartment; not now.
“Well, how nice of you to call on me,” Phoebe said as she opened the door. “Come in.”
“Nice to see you too, Phoebe.” Catherine pushed past her sister and into the apartment bringing with her a blast of cold air. Phoebe wondered how that could happen. The interior of the building was heated to tropical greenhouse temperatures, but somehow Catherine’s presence had brought its own chill.
“How have you been?” Catherine asked. She sounded distracted but Phoebe was pleased to see the expression on her face as she looked around the room. Catherine was impressed, no doubt about it.
“I could have been dead for all you cared,” said Phoebe accusingly.
Catherine shook her head. “Don’t be so dramatic. You don’t look dead.”
Phoebe waited for Catherine to react to all the changes she had made. Her sister’s eyes roved down her body from the top of her new blonde wig to the shiny satin pumps on her feet but she said nothing.
Phoebe pivoted. Surely Catherine would notice that she had lost a few pounds.
“So what’s been going on here?” Catherine asked.
“I’ve turned over a new leaf?” Phoebe replied.
“All by yourself?” Catherine’s tone was as chilly as the blast of air she had brought in through the door. Had something happened to the building’s heating system?
Catherine stood in the center of the room obviously assessing the changes that Phoebe had made from the new drapes to the gilt picture frame that now contained a picture of Queen Victoria (Wally’s request).
Phoebe tore her mind away from the box of chocolates that stood open on the kitchen counter, she would have to move them before Wally came home, and studied her sister. Catherine was dressed as usual in a dark overcoat but everything else about her seemed to have undergone a subtle change. Her smooth blonde hair, always so shiny and neat, looked untidy, as though she were overdue for a haircut. Underneath the coat she seemed to be wearing a white dress with the skirt hanging untidily beneath the hem of her coat. She looked tired and pale and her manner was distracted. The whole effect was, Phoebe thought, unnervingly sensual; and the one thing that Catherine had never been was sensual.
Phoebe permitted herself a moment of worry on her sister’s behalf. “What’s happened to you? You don’t look like yourself at all.”
“I’m trying something new,” Catherine said. “I’m really bored with my old look. I wanted something more feminine. What do you think?”
“I think it’s a little creepy,” Phoebe said, and immediately wondered where that thought had come from. Of all the things she could have said about her sister’s appearance, why had she chosen to call her creepy?
“I like it,” said Catherine.
Phoebe could think of only one reason for Catherine’s change of appearance; she had finally grown tired of the Church of the Womb of God and its militantly feminist congregation, and decided to find herself a man.
“You found yourself a man, didn’t you?” she asked. “You’re doing all this for some man you’ve met. What do you call your new look; slutty priest; naughty nun?”
Catherine’s blow took Phoebe by surprise. In all the years that they had bitched and argued with each other; in all the name calling, and denigration, and truth spoken in love, or spoken with temporary lack of love, Catherine had never actually slapped her. But this time she did. Phoebe’s hand flew up to her cheek and touched the place where the stinging blow had landed.
Catherine glared at her fiercely. “Don’t ever question my priesthood,” she said. “Never, ever.”
Phoebe raised her hands in surrender. “Sorry.”
“You should be.”
Phoebe was silent for a moment but she had to know. “I’m right, aren’t I? It’s a man.”
Catherine nodded her head. “Yes, I’ve met a man.”
“I knew it. Where did you meet him?”
“Right here in this apartment building the last time I came to see you.”
Phoebe sighed and resigned herself to hearing about Catherine’s new romance. “How did you manage to meet a man in this building?” she asked. “I know every man who lives here and they’re all either gay or senile.”
“He doesn’t live here,” Catherine replied. “He was visiting. I met him when I was leaving you the last time.”
“Which was more than a month ago,” Phoebe reminded her.
Catherine ignored the implied complaint. “He was outside the lobby, looking for something he’d lost.”
A shiver ran down Phoebe’s spine. Surely not.
She forced herself to ask the question. “What sort of something?”
Catherine smiled without warmth. “Do you have a new housekeeper? Why does everything look so clean and tidy, and what did you do with the box?”
Phoebe’s heart skipped a beat and suddenly she was terrified of her sister.
“I don’t remember a box.”
“That’s not true, Phoebe. You remember the box. I’m sure you even remember the delivery man.”
“What delivery man?”
“The old one with the muscles,” said Catherine. “You were all over him.”
Phoebe shook her head denying that she had hidden that memory away to be reviewed any time she felt fat and unattractive. Bill, that was his name, and he had been
kind to her; in fact he had been more than kind. He had actually looked at her in the way a man looks at an attractive woman. Those few minutes were minutes that she would treasure and they were not anything that she would care to share with her sister.
“I don’t remember anything about it.”
“Yes you do. He delivered a big box of earth.”
“It wasn’t earth; it was mushroom compost.”
“Oh, so you do remember,” Catherine said.
Phoebe looked up at the mantelpiece where the tickets to the symphony were proudly displayed. She had to get Catherine out of the way before Wally returned. He wouldn’t use the front door; he would come in from the balcony. He could come at any moment.
She took hold of her sister’s arm and tried to force her toward the door. “I don’t mean to rush you, now that you’ve finally chosen to come and see me,” she said, “but I’m really not interested in discussing anything with you. I don’t know what’s the matter with you, or why you have suddenly decided that you are free to slap me any time you want to, but now I think you should go.”
“Sorry about the slap.” Catherine’s apology had a tinge of sincerity.
“I’m not interested in your apologies,” Phoebe said. “I would like you to leave. I’m getting ready for the symphony and I don’t have any time to spare on you and your new boyfriend. Go, just go.”
Catherine broke free of Phoebe’s grasp and walked across to the mantelpiece. She picked up the tickets.
“Two tickets,” she said. “Are you going with someone?”
“I always go with someone. I never go without an escort.”
Catherine returned the tickets to the mantelpiece. “Where’s the box?”
