She peered around the corner of the booth. Except for that boy, no one in this stuffy, unwholesome room had even seemed to notice them, or in any way to validate the preposterous transaction that was – maybe? – going to happen here. She had learned the house rules now.
“Okay,” she said.
She was sitting so close to Randi now that she could smell her tomato juice-lipstick breath and it sickened her a little. “I just have to get pregnant within the one-year time frame. I can give birth after?”
Her companion nodded amicably. “Good choice,” she agreed, like some solicitous waiter.
‘So let’s just do this, then.”
Dumbfounded, Frannie looked up to see a piece of loosely rolled, mottled parchment unspool line after line of sepia script upon the tabletop in front of her. From someplace beside her on the bench, Randi had retrieved a miniature bottle of hair color, carefully labeled in an inky Gothic font, Flaming Bosch, and NOW, with three long fingers, she was unscrewing its jewel-encrusted cap. Opening Frannie’s pocketbook once again, she extracted an elegantly worked gold pen along with what looked like a packet of vintage Lady Gillette razor-blade refills.
“If you’re ready then, Mrs. T …”
Flattening the aged vellum against the table with her forearm, Randi dipped the pen’s iridescent nib into the tiny bottle and began to write.
It took her several seconds to fill in the blanks at the top of what appeared to be a boilerplate document, and then she turned to Frannie expectantly.
“Both, or either?”
She needed to think, to consider the question, and yet the roulette wheel’s whicker was so distracting she had to cover her ears till it stopped.
So … she’d much rather have her child with her soulmate, of course. But that might mean having to spend too much time finding him first. And in the real world, a person could easily wait years for the perfect man to come along. If he ever did. But then, let’s say she did find him, then she’d have to get pregnant. But what if she didn’t find Mr. Right until the last four months, say? She’d need to get pregnant right away.
So, if she were to tell Randi she wanted both, she could miss the deadline.
And she wouldn’t risk it. A year felt like too little time to soulmate-shop.
The thing was, in order to conceive with no Mr. Right, she’d have to sleep with more than one man, maybe even two. Or several. A terrifying thought, although thrilling, too. And if she did it that way, even if none of the more-than-two turned out to be her soulmate, she could still have her child.
“I think I won’t be greedy, Randi. I’ll settle for either. If the one doesn’t happen, the other will have to be enough. ”
“Soulmate or child,” the gatekeeper wrote. “Okay. And pregnancy-only within the specified time limit? Not birth?”
Frannie nodded. “Write that down.”
Randi smiled.
“And one year, then?”
A year had been feeling like two weeks lately. She nodded once again nevertheless.
Randi filled in the expiry blank:
“Twelve months,” she breathed the words aloud.
Then she blew lightly on the parchment to dry the ink and passed it to Frannie to read. Frannie smoothed it flat upon the tabletop and read it slowly through.
It seemed straightforward and simple enough. “Young: beautiful”; “Twelve months from this date (March 6) at 8:22 pm”;
Was it only 8:22?
“Non-revocable damnation (eternal).” And then a section of smallish, yet readable print:
Upon default, body, soul and mind of said signatory become the property of Satan, otherwise known as.…
There followed a long list of names.
Could it really be this easy?
But Frannie was struck by a brilliant idea. There would be lawyers in this casino, she thought. She could find and talk to one right now.
“Now,” Randi broke in briskly. “Give me your hand.”
Frannie clasped her hands together in her lap.
“What’s the matter?” Randi asked. “Cold feet all of a sudden? Second thoughts? Other clichés?”
She snapped her fine-boned fingers, and above the booth where they sat, moving slowly through the smoky air, Frannie saw what looked to be a Chippendale mirror, its wavy old glass pocked and rippled like a silvered stream. It settled itself about a foot away from her, and when she looked into its depths, she saw the sag, the lines, the bloat, once again: the loss and disappointment, the emptiness, the ache.
She turned from her own reflection to the razor blade in Randi’s hand.
“That’s not rusty, is it?”
“You’re adorable!” Randi laughed and plucking one hand from her lap, she swiftly and painlessly slit Frannie’s thumb across the ball. For a split second, Frannie imagined she saw her lick up an oozing bubble of blood. But no, as her thumb turned down to the parchment, she glimpsed one crimson bead.
Incredibly, then, it all fell away – the croupiers’ patter, the miasma of cigarettes, the roulette wheel’s tick, the seductive clang of the slots – and within Frannie’s head, a faint susurration – it had begun only moments ago – crescendoed within seconds to a nearly intolerable roar. Her hands flew to her ears. The cut on her thumb pulsed with fiery, close to unbearable, pain. She heard herself screaming.
Abruptly, the noise and pain subsided, and she opened watery eyes to find the room around her … hadn’t changed. She was sitting in a corner booth alone. No one was looking her way.
Randi was gone.
Fearfully, now, she lifted one hand to her eyes and turned it, front to back, back to front. And yes, there was a small dab of blood on the knuckle of her thumb, so something, indeed, had happened. But even within the booth’s dark enclosure, even in this feeble, evil light, she could still see the alligatored texture of her thinning skin, the ridges on her nails.
Frannie clawed at the seat beside her for her purse, grabbed at her compact and held its powder-filmed mirror in front of her face. After swiveling her head left and right, she shakily arose to find a better light.
For there she was. Frannie Turner.
Still old.
Dear God, still old.
CHAPTER 4
Frannie stumbled to a chair.
What had just happened?
Was Randi in the ladies’ room, laughing at her? Had that finger been just sleight of hand? Hairdressers, she thought, as a tiny light bulb flared: hairdressers have more than their share of manual dexterity, don’t they? But how could she be so naive, or so drunk, to have been taken in like this?
She was grateful for her anonymity. She twisted her gold wedding ring.
But was she disappointed?
Oh my God, she was, she was! She’d been completely ready to give up everything for this shining second chance. Her very soul. She’d offered that Randi her soul. What a vile, despicable trick to play on an old woman.
But wait. Perhaps she was lucky it hadn’t been real?
Well, maybe.
And had anyone seen … whatever it was that she’d just experienced? She looked around, but no, no one was paying the slightest attention to her, which must mean that no one had seen a thing. So she walked back through the half-light to the booth, clicked her compact softly closed and dropped it in her purse. How gullible she seemed to herself right now. She probably was. But was she really that desperate?
Or maybe this was all something she’d imagined.
And had the same thing happened to Arlene? She would call her tomorrow. No, she wouldn’t. It would be too humiliating, even if it had.
So, here she was. Good old Frannie Turner once again. Not always good, maybe, but most definitely old. And nothing was any different. Nothing had changed. Which wasn’t so bad.
Really. It wasn’t.
And then, despite the mysteriousness and peculiarity of the events of this day, Frannie brightened.
And so. And so, since nothing she’d bargained for had happe
ned – not even beauty tips – she might as well go home. She was still trembling, though, and steadying herself (her legs felt terribly weak) Frannie headed in the direction of the stairs, detouring to set her empty glass on the bar.
But as she passed the roulette wheel, she stopped and checked her watch. It was early yet. Not even 9:00. And here she was, in a gambling casino with money in her purse and – given that she’d just been ready to take a huge, inconceivable, risk – why not just, well … risk a little something? Even though she didn’t usually gamble. Even though Stanley said gambling was throwing your money in the toilet. Even though, basically, she agreed, but still … five minutes, maybe. Just for the Hell of it?
“The Hell of it?” Frannie smiled lopsidedly.
So. Roulette? Blackjack? Craps?
She thought she’d choose some game that looked particularly busy and watch for a minute or two. That way, she wouldn’t be noticed if she chose not to play right away. Spotting a tall empty chair at the far end of a horseshoe-shaped table and, squeezing through, she bumped an adjacent chair hard. Its occupant was so engrossed he didn’t even seem to hear Frannie’s overly profuse apologies, or to notice her at all. She, on the other hand, noticed him.
Because he was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man she’d ever been this close to.
He was tapping his fingers as he studied his cards. From the corner of her eye, she watched. He’s a dancer, Frannie felt sure. Even seated, he held himself like a dancer: his back arrow-straight, his neck long, his shoulders thrown back, his head … was “noble” the word? She caught just a whiff of a citrusy aftershave. He seemed to be dressed all in black, too. Interestingly his jacket was black; his sweater was black with slices of white at the neck and wrists. No wedding ring she noted (stupid old woman, she thought, but couldn’t help smiling), and … unhappily, the rest of him was blocked by a meaty young woman to her left who’d pushed herself between them. As casually as she was able, Frannie leaned forward. The prince was absorbed in his cards (what were they playing here?). And his face, in profile, was beautiful-rough, though his eyes were invisible.
Stolidly, the woman next to her obscured her view, and defeated, finally, Frannie sat back to watch the game. Oh – blackjack. Right.
She didn’t actually know how to play blackjack, but based on the other players there – a touchy-feely couple (the girl was obviously not wearing a bra and Frannie was envious); a pair of unshaven, swarthy men arguing heatedly about every bet; a boyish, three-donuts-away-from-obese young man in a short-sleeved, too-tight plaid shirt. If this miscellaneous group could play it, the game couldn’t be all that hard, she concluded. Which meant that she could pick it up. But Frannie wasn’t able to concentrate. Citrus.
Eventually, the woman beside her left and risking a full-on look, she found herself in instantaneous love with the man’s high cheekbones and the line of his short straight nose, a little broader than it was fine. He had fair, smooth skin and something a little slack – something cruel? – about his mouth. The single most striking thing about him, however, was his remarkable hair. It was as white as a summer cloud: white and abundant and worn unfashionably long. George Washington-style, he’d gathered it low on his neck in a narrow black cord. He couldn’t be more than thirty-five, Frannie estimated. If that.
How would it feel to be young enough for a man like that right now? A spasm of loss cut her in half and she gasped.
Randi. Randi, that self-styled gatekeeper. Had anyone even seen Randi in this place, actually? Except for her? She’d find one of those men from the bar and ask. Or maybe the “headband” boy. And she actually half-rose from her chair. But then she’d lose her place beside her … prince. She subsided back onto the stool.
All right. If there had actually been some spectacular vanishing act, or even just the terrible accompanying sounds she thought she’d heard, people would have noticed. And, obviously, no one had. So there couldn’t have been a scroll or a pact. No gatekeeping Randi at all. But had she imagined The Hair House.
No. That was real.
And overwhelmed by loss once again, she brushed away unwelcome tears for … what … the fourth time that day?
No, she’d concentrate on this blackjack. She was good at self-distraction. A minor perk and inadvertent side effect of the passage of years.
She’d need to buy some chips.
From her wallet, Frannie withdrew her hundred-dollar bills. It wasn’t often she carried this much money around, but without Stanley there she’d felt unsure of things like parking charges and entry fees. And nothing should be left to chance tonight, she’d decided before she’d left. Well, some joke! She handed the dealer her folded bills. Tonight had been all about chance.
The blackjack dealer, a sad, stringy blonde, accepted Frannie’s money and, with one fabulous, pink-taloned hand, slid a small stack of chips smoothly across the felt. After arranging the chips in mini-stacks – a kind of enjoyable thing to do, Frannie thought – she sat there, pretending to be pondering, but actually ill at ease. She had absolutely no idea what to do next.
The man to her left, however, the prince, had somehow noted her uncertainty, however, and rode to the rescue. With a lovely warm smile (as she planned to report to Arlene), he plucked a single chip from his diminished pile and tapping its edge on the table between them, caught her eye to silently indicate he would help. That was when she saw his mouth and saw it wasn’t cruel at all. It was sensual. Like Brando’s.
A card sailed onto the felt in front of her – a ten. She scanned the horseshoe to see what everyone else was doing and noted most players placing chips in front of them – some more, some less. Hopeful, she turned to her left.
“Basically,” the prince had a whispery, smoky baritone “basically, you want your own cards to get you as close as they can to twenty-one. You’re playing against the dealer’s cards,” he pointed to the face-up card the dealer had dealt to herself, “and the trick is to get as near twenty-one as possible without going over. Over twenty-one, you lose.”
He was so close she might have stroked his cheek. Instead, she inhaled his lovely scent.
He pointed to the card in front of her.
“You have a ten, for instance, so you’re going make your bet on the likelihood of getting another ten, or better yet, an ace.
“You mean,” Frannie asked, “I just have to add up the cards that are dealt to me and bet?”
“That’s it,” he answered, laughing easily. Sexily. Why did she keep doing this younger-man thing? It was humiliating. She knew how she must look to him.
“It’s really pretty simple. If you can add, you can play.” He flicked his own card, a four. “Now, the really great thing would be to be able to keep count in your head. To count every played card, basically. That would help a lot.”
He grinned at the unlikelihood of such a thing and, in the process, exposed the kind of teeth that – if everyone had had them forty years ago – she and Stanley would be homeless today.
At that, Frannie had to laugh aloud at herself, which made her, suddenly, decide to have one more Bloody Mary. How exhilarating to have this unbelievably attractive man helping her, to be taking any kind of interest at all in her; a woman who – in every respect – just wasn’t a player.
He had wonderful manners, too.
So I’ll just sit next to him here for a while, Frannie decided, having given her order to one of the waitresses. Play a few hands and lose whatever I lose. She pushed two chips toward the center and awaited her first card: a seven. The dealer turned up a four. Frannie’s next card was a five and when her mentor whispered, “Don’t take another card – stand,” she did just that. And she won. What a delight! On the next hand, though, she had an ace and then a six, and was certain she had lost, but the dealer had a ten and a five, and on the next card, went over twenty-one. So Frannie won again. Now she began to leave her chips on the table, as she’d seen others do. Because she was feeling invincible, all at once. Her new hair, maybe. Or h
er too-close-for-comfort close call. More likely, she concluded, it was her white-haired accomplice. Half-listening to the dealer’s patter as she expertly dealt out the cards, Frannie understood – with a strange and exhilarating certainty – that tonight she was going to win.
What a rollercoaster tonight had been! First, terrified and humiliated by a pranking hairdresser and now, the ally of this drop-dead young man, and risking serious sums, for her, on this game she’d never played before.
Which was why, perhaps, when the winning began in earnest, when the good cards kept coming her way, when the bright-colored chips piled up, fell over, then piled up again, she wasn’t surprised. Not even when she’d accumulated so many chips that she built a little house with them – then, a mansion – then a palace. Not even when the other players began making grudging jokes about her luck, or even when, out of nowhere, groups of kibitzers pressed around her and her prince, applauding every card. Every so often she’d lean to her left to whisper “Bet.” And while her ally seemed doubtful at first, as the hours flew by, he was asking her advice. Eventually, it was just the two of them at the table, winning and laughing and bantering with their groupies, and Frannie was delightedly reckless and lightheaded. And maybe, still, a little drunk. But unbelievably full of some nameless and magical bliss.
At length, her seatmate stood to stretch, then bent to whisper in her ear.
“I don’t know what I can do to thank you. If the drinks weren’t already free, I’d buy you a drink.” He saw the dealer watching them suspiciously and hurriedly resumed his seat, continuing aloud:
“You’re my lucky charm tonight, but what’s your name? Lady Luck? Whatever you’re doing, you’re doing it right. I’ve never won at cards like this. Never.”
Even his breath was fragrant, thought Frannie. He slid his arm along the back of her stool and squeezed her shoulders. A hug, if she wasn’t mistaken. And then he turned her face to his and kissed her full on the mouth. Blushing and shaken, Frannie looked hurriedly down. It had been so long.
Kiss me again, she silently prayed.
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