Birdie pulled Arthur out of the chair. She was taller than him.
“Be polite,” she insisted, twisting the earlobe.
“Nighty-night, Miss,” he said, through tears. “Nighty-night, Aphrodite in a nightie ...”
Birdie took the umbrella and dragged her son back through the cabin door. They disappeared into the rain and darkness.
Jayne shut the door.
Her heart was pounding and her face burned. She was more embarrassed than afraid. She would leave early tomorrow.
For where? They’d be after her, by then. Hitch’s agents. Paramount and Universal. Walter.
Think of that later. After sleep.
The door blew open again and Arthur was there, breathing heavily. He had broken free from his mother.
“What’s in the sack?” he asked.
The question knifed into her heart.
Birdie came up behind Arthur, fingers hooked into talons, screeching...
Scree! Scree! Scree!
Jayne backed away and clutched the sack.
“What would you do for what’s in the sack?”
“Nothing. There’s nothing. Nothing. A negative.”
Arthur smiled wickedly as Birdie dragged him away again, kicking the door shut.
Jayne sat down on the big bed and hugged the sack. It was heavy, lumpy, hard. Useless, yet beyond value. A measure of her suffering, but just deadweight. She threw it away and it lay like an extra pillow.
She would sleep on the other bed, the small one.
If she could sleep ...
She went into the bathroom and turned on the light. It was tile-floored. The mirror had a scrollwork border etched into the glass. The claw-foot bathtub bled rust into the cracks between the tiles. There was no shower attachment.
She ran the tap, just to make sure. Icy cold bit her fingers.
At least there were towels.
She breathed mist on the mirror and wrote JANA in it, then watched her name vanish as the exhalation evaporated.
She undressed, not like she did for pictures. Not for show, but to get out of her heavy, sodden clothes. She unpeeled damp, sticky layers - cardigan, skirt, blouse, slip, brassiere, shoes, stockings, panties. She would have to wear most of these again tomorrow, since she’d not thought to bring more than a change of underthings. They wouldn’t dry completely by then.
What was she doing?
The towels weren’t wet but they weren’t warm. The rough nap rubbed her skin the wrong way. She saw herself naked in the mirror. Without moleskin patches. She didn’t look the way she did on film. She looked already dead. Her next make-up artist would be a mortician.
There was a bathrobe. She pulled it on, wrapping it tight over her stabbable breasts, her slashable back, her sliceable limbs.
She turbaned her dried, scraggly hair with another towel.
Turning out the bathroom light, she stepped back into the bedroom.
Arthur was sitting on the big bed, the sack open. He had scratches down one side of his face. His velvet jacket was soaked. His slicker still hung in the cabin.
“What is this?” he asked.
The pie-shaped can lay on the bed, sealed with tape.
“Negative.”
“Answer me,” he insisted, angry. “No word games.”
“Negative,” she said. “Film negative.”
Arthur smiled, the penny dropping.
“Motion pictures,” he said. “Dirty pictures?”
“I’m naked in them,” she admitted. “And dead, like you said. Snatched dead moments. Useless moments.”
He ran his fat fingers over the can. She knew he wanted to see ... but it was hopeless: he’d need to make a positive print, run it on a projector ...
“It’s the thing you’re chasing after, Arthur. A woman, me, being cut up. It’s the only evidence it happened. The only evidence it happened to me ...”
She had stolen weeks from Hitch. Weeks it would take to stage again, with Janet or some other stand-in ... if he could ever get it just so, just the way he wanted, which she doubted was possible, or hoped wasn’t possible.
The studio would pay, if Hitch wouldn’t.
Arthur scratched at the tape seal with his fingernails.
Jayne heard Hitch in her skull, ranting at her, raving at his loss ... swearing vengeance and retribution and blood ... impotent fury. “I shall make sure the chit will never work in this town again!” She’d heard that before ... so had everyone. Sure, she could be blacklisted, but blacklists were broken all the time. Being dead to one producer just bumped you up on another’s books. Plenty would hire her because she’d pissed off High and Mighty Cocky Mr Hitch. Directors without TV shows, who no one would recognize in the street... David Selznick, William Castle, William Wyler ... the giant leech and dragstrip doll guys. She’d do all right.
The tape tore away in Arthur’s fingers and the can popped open. A coil of 35mm negative came loose, like guts spilling from a wound. Arthur tried to grasp it, but the edges scored his palms.
He saw the reverse image of her naked in the shower - a thin black body bleeding white - repeated over and over.
He smiled and she saw Hitch’s slobbering leer imposed briefly over the fat boy’s face.
M-m-m-murder!
She grabbed the film and looped it around and around his fat neck.
Arthur yelped.
She wound it tighter. The edges bit into his soft throat. There was blood, which made the film slick, tough to hold.
Jayne didn’t say anything. She just tried to kill a man. Any Hitch with a cock would have done.
The murder weapon was a murder. A negative murder.
Good eeeev-ning, Jay-y-ne ... do you swallow? Do you, do you?”
Shootable? Poisonable?Throttlable? Bludgeonable?
Dump-da-dumpity-dump-da-dump ...
Stabbable? Slashable? Beheadable? Deadable?
She made a noise in the back of her throat. More a croak than a screech.
Scree! Scree! Scree!
His fat hands flapped against the sleeves of her bathrobe. His sausage fingers couldn’t get a grip on the flannel.
Dump-da-dumpity-dump-da-dump...
It was like wrestling a marionette, strangling it with its own strings.
Doo-doo-doo ... Doo-doo-doo ...
The door opened again and Birdie came in - wig gone, showing a mummy-like scalp, scaled with the last wisps of white hair - an umbrella raised like a dagger.
“Get your hands off my boy,” she screamed. “My precious, precious boy ...”
“Mummy,” Arthur gargled, tears flowing freely, “Mummy! She’s hurting me.”
The umbrella blows were feeble, hurt less than a prop knife, but the words - the panic, the love, the desperation! - cut through Jayne’s hot fury, dashed cold water over her homicidal impulse.
She let go of the film. She let go of her rage.
The old woman hugged her son and stroked his wounds. The fat young man shoved his face against his mother’s shrunken breast. They held each other, locked together in an embrace tighter than death. They rocked together, crone and baby, crying away the pain, all the pain ...
“I didn’t mean any harm,” Jayne said ...
... she wouldn’t kill, after all... she wouldn’t hurt a fly.
This was it, she realized, looking at mother and son, monsters both, bound by a ferocious love that seemed so much like murderous hate it was hard to recognize until the last moment.
This was it. The only ending they had.
<
~ * ~
RICHARD CHRISTIAN MATHESON
Kriss Kross Applesauce
DR MARTIN ZIESLING
Private Notes: 23-29 April
EVALUATION / UPDATE OF JANET HARRIS
Ms Harris (38), despite chronic, lifetime depression, eats and sleeps normally. She remains resilient and listens to Christmas Carols as often as possible. At
tached herein is her most current letter:
20 December
Dearest Family and Friends,
Well, it’s that time of year, again!! Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the mailbox!
Ready or not, here’s the official HARRIS FAMILY Annual Christmas (and almost New Years!!) Newsletter for all our family members and friends, far and wide, we never see enough and always think about! We miss you guys!!
Mister Jack Frost himself is nipping at our noses, the Christmas Carols are on the stereo out here in scenic Ohio and the kids are all begging Mom (yours truly) to make my world-famous Walnut Fudge. I’m still on that diet I’ve been on my entire life so, I said what the heck! I’ll somehow manage to get it done in-between sewing thirty (you read right!) costumes for the Christmas Show at the school for our spectacular twins Elena and Emma’s class and ALSO making sure the rest of our little hoodlums do their homework. How about a round of sympathetic applause for Mom? At this rate, it’ll be Easter soon and I’ll be sewing all the Pageant’s bunny and carrot costumes. No sleep for the weary!
Since we moved to this little slice of heaven, four months ago, we’ve been loving having such a BIG yard where the kids and critters can play. Of course, I still miss our old house and good friends in my beloved Simi Valley, California where as many of you will remember, I went to high school and attended my prom which was a dream come true, never to be matched by real, life! I’M NOT KIDDING!!! Simi is still my home, in my heart, no matter where Bob’s consulting work takes us. But we’re making a go of it out here and we’ve fallen in love with this part of the country! The quiet and the nature everywhere is the kind of solitude poets talk about. It gives you time to think and feel and be who you really are deep down because it nurtures the soul. And it’s so quiet at night. You feel like you’re completely alone. But down the road we have super neighbours, and there are lots of new friends the kids are making at school and every weekend there’s lots of fun events! Last week we went to the local Farmers’ Market and I even got to judge a contest for the perfect goat, which might sound a little strange but you have obviously never gotten to know a beautiful goat (unless you count my ex!). AND NOT JUST THAT! My delicious fudge recipe took second prize. It should have gotten first prize but you can’t have everything.
Our angel Molly is turning twelve tomorrow and ready for Junior High School next term and finally starting to get the knack of that violin! Can you hear our ears saying THANK YOU?! She’s also starting to get asked for dates at a much younger age than I ever was but she’s a lot prettier than I was!
Remember my acne and leg braces? OUCH! So, Bob and I have agreed if we meet the boy she wants to dale first she can go out to a movie, but I told her to be a lady and if any of the boys want more, “KRISS KROSS APPLESAUCE”- or, in plain English, keep your legs together, young lady! Take my word for it!
And a huge Hooray to Bobby Junior who went out for Varsity Football and got a first-string position which is amazing given his size and shyness. He still hardly talks and his therapist back home says it will probably change. I hope so! Trying to get a word out of him is like pulling a rusty nail! Well, we’re not big talkers in this family anyway about personal stuff unless you consider the Super Bowl personal! HIKE! We know he’ll get over all that stuff at the old house between me and Bob. And it’s almost spooky how much Bobby and I are so close, like we read each other’s thoughts!
The Twins are growing up so fast it’s making our heads spin twice and we can barely keep up with them growing out of their clothes! They can’t stop playing with our new puppies who adore them and it’s cuter than a pink tush to see them all rolling around next to the Christmas tree. Of course, when they knock ornaments down, during Christmas, Mom has to be the disciplinarian since Dad doesn’t have the heart, the big softie! Speaking of my world’s greatest husband, Bob may be getting a verrrry big promotion now that the other guy in the department passed-on in a car accident last month. We feel terrible for his wife and family. You just don’t know what tomorrow will bring. That’s probably why we all keep showing up the next day! With this promotion, we’ll be able to re-do the kitchen and (if they’re all nice and stop acting like rabid badgers!) take the family to DISNEYWORLD in Orlando which they are pretty much obsessed with. I’ve always loved Mickey Mouse!
ALIEN ALERT!!! We have a snail invasion in my new garden and even if those little guys are slowwww they’re smarter than I am! They’re eating my plants and vegetables like it’s their own private salad bar and even though I hate to moosh them, sometimes you just have to moosh them! ICK! I’ve also discovered the other snails eat the dead ones. Talk about, low dietary standards!
I’ve been teaching the kids in my Sunday School class about the miracle of life and brought in Miss Tigg who just had kittens and they are the cutest things you ever saw. Our kids wanted to keep them but we just couldn’t do it. So, I gave them to other families. They were sad but it won’t last! Get ready for some BIG automotive news! We took the plunge and bought a PRIUS because everyone is thinking green these days and we are, too! Either we love this planet or it will throw us off! Hey, that’s life, as Frank Sinatra pointed out!
Well, that’s about it from planet HARRIS! We all miss you like CRAZY and I have to get back to wrapping a million presents and getting the walnut fudge out of the fridge. We hope everything is great with you all and we send MERRY XMAS wishes to you and yours and everyone in between! Hope Santa doesn’t get stuck in your chimney and hope no Elves make trouble!
Much love from the HARRIS FAMILY: Bob, Janet, Bobby Junior, Molly, Elena & Emma, the puppies (and the snails!!)
HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!!
xoxoxo
Janet
EVALUATION/ UPDATE OF JANET HARRIS (continued)
Photographs of Ms Harris’s family remain displayed on her walls and she still has no apparent memory of the tragedy twelve years ago. She continues to wear a red and green vest as she did when Police discovered her family’s poisoned bodies on Christmas Day.
As she has every day, for the past eleven years, she continues to hand-write “Christmas Family Letters” to friends and relatives. These letters (per above), as previously documented, are always precisely the same and Ms Harris composes one hundred per day. As of today’s date, she has written over forty thousand of them.
<
~ * ~
JOHN LLEWELLYN PROBERT
Epilogue: A Little Piece of Sanity
WOULD YOU LIKE to meet some of the patients now?” Dr Lionel Parrish replaced the yellowing clinical notes he had been reading from into a black box file shiny with age. The file went back on to one of the lower shelves, and then he turned to his companion.
“What I want,” said Robert Stanhope, with the weariness of a man who had spent many hours sitting in Parrish’s office and listening to the seemingly never-ending series of cases described to him, “is my interview.”
“And I have told you,” said the doctor, moving back to his desk, “you’ll get it. Now, that last story - true or false?”
“It’s certainly believable,” said Stanhope, rubbing his eyes. “The world is full of people in denial, and the greater the atrocity they feel they have committed, I imagine the deeper they would push it into their subconscious. Janet Harris is just another example of that. I suspect what you’ve read me about her killing her own family probably is true, unless of course it’s a trick?”
“Oh, that’s not the intention of this, Mr Stanhope,” said Parrish, uncapping his fountain pen for the last time and preparing to make a mark in his notebook, “that’s not the intention at all.” He gave the reporter a piercing look. “You’re saying ‘true’, then?”
“Yes, all right, whatever,” said Stanhope, not really caring one way or the other any more.
“Good!” Dr Parrish wrote in his notebook and then closed it. “Now to the other question I asked you - would you like to see some of the patients?”
“I want my interview, Dr Parrish,” said Stanhope, tired and annoyed. “I’ve done what you asked. I’ve given you my opinion on whether or not every case you’ve described to me is real or imagined, by you or whoever else might have wanted to add to the casebook of horrors you’ve been recounting to me. Now all I want is what you promised.”
“Don’t you want to know how many times you were right?” said Parrish, putting away his pen and regarding the man opposite with a gleam in his eyes.
Psychomania: Killer Stories Page 59
