Trick of the Mind

by J. S. Chapman

  “I don’t believe you live here.”

  His eyes took in the apartment as if seeing it for the first time. “It belongs to my family.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Four years. Or is it five? I forget.” He palmed her hot cheek with his cool hand. “What are you thinking?”

  “About you. Your family. What your parents do. Where you grew up.”

  “Not far from here.” He took her by the hand and led her deeper into the apartment. In the hallway, he eased her against yellowing wallpaper. “Mother’s an orthopedic surgeon. Don’t call her mummy. Fran will do. Or Dr. Lyndfield, her maiden name.”

  She could barely breathe for his suffocating kisses and exploring hand. “And your father?”

  His eyes traveled over her face as if to memorize it. “Invests in property. Apartment buildings and Laundromats. They divorced years ago but dote on me. What’s that?” He touched a tiny white scar on her forehead.

  “Playground accident. Are you an only child?”

  “No.” He nuzzled his lips along her throat. “Call me one of their weak biological offerings. My brother’s sterile. He has kids, but they’re not his. The girl takes after my sister-in-law and the boy looks like the sperm donor. My parents are counting on me to continue the family line.”

  “Then you don’t have kids of your own.”

  “I was married. For a short time.” He tugged away the wig, afterwards untangling her natural curls and scattering them along her shoulders. “You’re very beautiful.”

  “Am I?”

  “I want you to do something for me. Will you?”

  “It depends.” Her eyes traveled down the hallway. Both walls were lined with antique photos of people long dead. “Who are they?”

  “My forebears. I come from a long line of lunacy.”

  She pushed Hunter to the opposite wall and leaned against him. The hallway smelled of wool and wood smoke and mothballs. Hunter reeked of the same odors as if the house had thrown its arms around. Something told her to run and not look back. But she stayed and pressed her advantage on a man whose past weakened him. He let the wall of his ancestors—and her—keep him erect. He moaned like an animal in pain but said, “Don’t stop.”

  “Do I arouse you? Like this? And this?”

  “Oh, God ....” His groans increased. He panted and threw his head back. The picture frames clattered against the wall.

  “What do you want me to do?” Kendra collapsed against him. His body sizzled beneath the frigidness of hers. She twisted her head against his heaving chest and listened to his breaths subside.

  “Come,” he said at last. “Step into my cathedral.”

  When he showed her into the back room, the stink of oil paint and linseed oil stung her nose. Fifty, sixty, seventy canvases were stacked against the walls, every one of them facing inward. She reached for one, intending to turn it over, but he grabbed her hand. “You won’t like them.”

  “Why not?”

  “You just won’t.”

  Sensing her anxiety, he lightly grasped her chin and lifted it. His face was mellow, perhaps even joyful. It should have reassured her. She smiled tepidly, still unsure of what he wanted from her. He helped her out of her jacket. It settled onto the floor in a whoosh of air. His fingers trembled as he unbuttoned the cardigan and spread it apart. “Now that you have proof your husband is having an affair, what will you do?”

  “I don’t know.” She ran her eyes over the band of windows. Beyond the unobstructed glass lay a city-sized back yard, a mossy cement bench, a neglected garden, a birdhouse, and a tree stump. On the other side of the alley—beyond the garages, telephone poles, and sagging power lines—a row of two-flats touched a slate sky. The southern light was ideal for an artist’s brush even on a wintry day such as this.

  “You’ll leave him. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to go?”

  “Not necessarily.” Hunter’s questions echoed the ones she’d been asking herself for some time. Knowing now that her marriage was likely a sham, wasn’t walking out the logical thing to do? Didn’t normal women salvage what was left of their dignity by filing for divorce? Or did they stick it out and try to make a go of it?

  He led her to an oversized chair. The upholstery was brocaded with a pattern of old. At his urging, she made herself comfortable. He rearranged the sweater and bared a single breast, afterwards fondling the nipple and exciting the areola. Guiding her left arm, he draped it high on the cushioned backrest, palm facing outward. He stood back and assessed. His index finger aimed her eyesight away from the easel and toward the left-most window. He made a final appraisal and liked what he saw. “Why stay?”

  “Because I love him. And because ....” She’d been nagged by unspoken questions, the ones she feared to ask even in the back of her mind. Was he seeing other women because he didn’t love her anymore? Or because he didn’t want to live with a madwoman?

  Hunter picked out an unspoiled canvas and set it against the easel. Then he prepared a palette, squeezing out paint colors she remembered from art appreciation class. Alizarin crimson, viridian green, cadmium red, Naples yellow, burnt sienna, cerulean blue. “Because?”

  “Because I want to show him how wrong he is.”

  “About what?”

  “You ask too many questions.”

  “You just don’t want to answer.”

  He was right, of course. Sharing with someone ... anyone ... the deepest, darkest side of her was to admit it might be true. She wanted to show Joel just how wrong he was by proving she wasn’t crazy. But first, she had to prove it to herself.

  He worked feverishly, laying down broad strokes and thick paint, pure on the brush but mixed on the canvas. The sun moved behind cloud cover. The light changed from dove white to purplish gray. Every so often, he stepped forward to kiss her, caress her, and shape her flesh. Color rose high on her cheeks and her chest, the same tints and hues he put down on canvas. With every stroke, he wiped away Kendra and replaced her with oil paint. Minutes stretched into an hour. Her back stiffened. Her legs began to cramp. He set aside the palette and came around to her side of the easel.

  “Can I see?” she asked.

  He reached for her hand. “Not yet.” And escorted her out of the studio.

  Entering the gloomy hallway was like coming in from daylight. Sightless in the dark, she relied on him to steer her. They passed a door and entered a bedroom. Sun-blocking drapes covered the windows. Hunter laid her down on the unmade bed and posed her as before, but this time regarding her with more than a painter’s eye. He reclined beside her. She reached up for a kiss. Picking out a tendril of hair, he twirled it between his fingers before releasing it. When the curl unfurled against her bared shoulder, she screwed her face away to hide unstoppable tears.

  Sometime later, the radiator pipes cracked to the rush of boiling water. Hunter stirred in his dreams, aroused by unseen sights and distant sensations. Kendra moved beneath him. He shifted with her but didn’t awaken. After she rolled away, he repositioned himself in sleep.

  She tiptoed back to the studio.

  The artist had caught her spirit in the confident rise of her cheekbones, the sour poutiness of her mouth, the patrician curve of her throat, and the saddened depths of her eyes. The ocean blue of the chair contrasted her cinnamon skin. The saffron wall haloed her mahogany hair. Her coral sweater matched the faraway glint in her eyes.

  Never before had Kendra seen herself reduced to geometric simplicity.

  She went to the nearest wall, took up a canvas, and flipped it over to see what lay on the other side. Wide swaths of ivory black coated the surface from edge to edge. She took up another. And another. On canvas after canvas, black paint obliterated everything beneath.

  “Now you know,” Hunter said from the doorway, “how you’re different from the others.”

  Chapter 18

  COLLEGE SWEETHEARTS RELUCTANTLY parted in a public display of shameless love. They cooed and pecked, laced ha
nds and leaned close, petted and whispered endearments. Behind them, elevator doors opened. Pouring into the lobby, the hotel guests didn’t see the young couple. Even if they had, they certainly wouldn’t have wondered what the future held for them, much less cared.

  Whitewashed by a mud-colored club chair set in a far corner of the hotel lobby, Kendra blended in with the setting. Subdued lamplight veiled her face. A hand splayed across her temple shielded her features. The shiny wig, whooshing like a feather duster whenever she turned her head, concealed her crowning glory. Anonymity was her every day wear, but on this day, her disguise perfected the metaphor.

  She had formulated three theories about the young lovers. The first was pessimistic: after today, they would never see each other again, never pick up the phone, and never arrange another rendezvous in a ritzy hotel suite. The second was more promising: they would take their relationship through the proscribed steps of living together and starting a family, only to choose sides in a bitter divorce battle fifteen years later. The third was the most optimistic: marriage, children, and growing old together. But if someone were to wave a wand and give them three scenarios, three paths, and three outcomes, each an improvement over the last, in each case they would probably arrive at the same state of disenchantment, wondering where and when the magic ended, or worse, doubting whether it ever existed.

  A security guard—his uniform fitting snugly over a rotund midsection—marched out of the back offices. He spoke to one of the clerks at the reservations desk. Afterwards, he stationed himself like a storefront Indian, hands folded over groin. He glared at a suspicious-looking character. The doorman, though flirting with the ponytailed concierge, took time out to throw the guard a reassuring gesture. Hunter went on loitering near the front entrance. The guard settled down and directed his eyesight straight down his nose. The concierge giggled. And the young lovers left by separate exits, but not before taking final glimpses of each other on longing sighs.

  Kendra stayed where she was, watching everything. The guard moved off. The doorman rushed forward to assist an arriving guest. The concierge dashed across the lobby, hailed a middle-aged couple, and passed along an envelope. The couple expressed their gratitude with smiles just as a group of tourists rolled past, jabbering German.

  An elevator bell rang, and the door opened. The car was full. Joel was the last to get off. He was alone. He walked past Hunter, acknowledged him with an unthinking nod, and stepped into the cold. The doorman signaled for a taxi. Directions to the cabbie followed. The vehicle pulled away in a cloud of exhaust.

  Another elevator arrived. Juliana Morrissey Santana was the sole passenger onboard. Without giving Hunter a second glance, she walked past him and exited through the revolving doors. The doorman signaled for the next taxi in line. Arranging the folds of her coat, Eddie Santana’s widow clambered inside. The taxi took off.

  Kendra joined Hunter outside. The minivan was parked curbside. Hunter paid off the doorman with a ten-spot.

  “Him or her?” Hunter asked.

  “Her,” Kendra answered, and climbed behind the wheel.

  The boulevards were congested. Stop-offs included a boutique and an electronics store. The cabbie doubled back and parked in front of a Michigan Avenue mall. A short wait followed as Santana settled her fare. She climbed out of the cab and stepped onto the sidewalk. Gusty winds whipped her coiffed locks, but before running for cover, she surveyed the street. Kendra observed the widow’s behavior from the traffic signal at Chicago Avenue. Since the stoplights were out of order, a cop was directing traffic. When at last he waved Kendra through, she proceeded at a cautious speed.

  Despite cold winter weather, holiday shoppers crowded the causeways while Salvation Army bells rang like carillons. Santana glanced at the minivan as it drove past but didn’t recognize the car or its driver.

  Kendra parked around the corner. The engine hummed and the tailpipe discharged billows of exhaust. The widow shrugged off her suspicions and sought shelter inside the mall.

  “I don’t think she spotted us,” Hunter said, opening the door.

  Kendra left the keys in the ignition. She met him halfway around, and he immediately took her into his arms. “She came back out,” he murmured against her lips. “She’s looking this way.” The kiss was a tender hello. Street noise dissipated while Kendra lost herself in clashing emotions. The honk of a horn brought her back to the present. “She’s gone,” he whispered. When they separated, Hunter was smiling. Was he thankful? Was she besotted? Had something just passed between them, something approaching love? “Watch for me,” he said. “I won’t be far away.”

  “You’re a dangerous man to know, Hunter Steele.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.” They stretched for a goodbye kiss. He climbed into the minivan and drove east.

  Kendra hurried into the mall and rode the escalator to the mezzanine level. The widow had stopped off to purchase a blood-red carnation from a kiosk vendor. After sniffing the blossom and poking the flower into a buttonhole of her coat, she strutted into the hub of the shopping mall.

  At the shoe store, she settled on red pumps and presented a credit card.

  In the bookstore, she purchased a romance novel and slid the package into her shopping bag.

  In the department store, she found a shirt in the men’s department, a shirt Joel would have liked, in his size, and again held out a credit card. The sales clerk addressed the widow by a name different from Morrissey or Santana.

  In the boutique, she decided on a designer cocktail dress after trying on several others. The proprietress thanked her by name, but again the moniker wasn’t accurate. “And oh, Mrs. Swain. Would you like us to put you on our mailing list?”

  “Why yes, that would be nice.” She wore the name well, taking up a haughty posture and assuming a condescending air of privilege.

  Small successes led to reckless power. Dressing rooms became her haven. Hats were her fetish. Jewelry, an obsession. She laughed with sales clerks and traded jokes with perfume hawkers. This was Christmas morning beneath the tree. But instead of packages being unwrapped to reveal glittery trinkets, the trinkets were folded inside tissue paper and deposited into boxes. The boxes were stuffed inside small plastic bags. The plastic bags were clustered into larger shopping bags. And the shopping bags became nested like eggshells.

  Santana was shopping for more merchandise than appeared to the casual eye. Shopping bags that entered dressing rooms came out plumper and weightier. Trying on hats turned into a shell game where one wound up on her head and the other was stuffed into a bag. Jewelry admired in oval mirrors linked up with her own bracelets and rings. Shoes grew legs. Scarves developed wings. Gloves magically disappeared. There was no end to her greed or daring.

  Taking a break in a coffee shop, she occupied a table for two. Kendra entered the same shop, ordered a latte, and carried the cup to an identical table. Several minutes later, Santana left the drained coffee cup behind and went back to work. Kendra did the same.

  On the third floor, a young man stood in front of a storefront, one foot hooked behind an anchoring leg and thumbs plunged into jeans pockets. His lazy eyes admired Santana. She was flattered. At first. But when his slacks bulged with excitement, she slowed her step and stared. His grin invited her to play. She declined the invitation with an unregenerate smile and strutted off, head held high.

  Kendra trailed her by several yards. Upon reaching the flasher, she threw a possessive arm around his waist. He accepted her advances. Together they tracked a path of holiday lights. At one point, they lost sight of Mrs. Santana but relocated her by the scratching sound of her cumbersome baggage.

  The widow had one more stop to make, a chic boutique stocked with seductive lingerie. She settled on a camisole and matching panties. Kendra grabbed a fetching lilac negligee and took her selection to the checkout counter. Two clerks waited on the women as they stood side to side. The overpowering fumes of Black Orchid surrounded Mrs. Santana like a fog.


  The blonde salesperson was the first to say, “Thank you, Mrs. Swain.”

  The brunette salesperson was the second to say, “Thank you Mrs. ...” She broke off, took a second look at the name on the credit card, and finished with, “Mrs. Swain?” She glanced from one Mrs. Swain to the other. “Are you sisters or something?”

  “Sisters-in-law,” Kendra said. “So to speak. We share the same husband.”

  The store employee smiled thinly. She wasn’t supposed to appreciate the irony, but the first Mrs. Swain did. Being confronted by the bona fide Mrs. Swain didn’t anger her so much as discovering she had been duped by a cheap disguise.

  Mrs. Santana lifted an arrogant shoulder and preceded her lover’s wife into the mall. Putting urgency into her pace, she failed to notice Hunter heading straight for her. He punched out his hands and thumped her shoulders. She stumbled backwards, regained her balance, and sidestepped him. He tripped her at the shins, and she went flying. Her shrill lament ricocheted against a thousand glass-plate windows. The loot scattered. Hunter gathered up the shopping bags and transferred ownership to their rightful owner. Santana clambered to her feet, hurling accusations along with a shoe with a broken heel.

  The projectile caught Kendra on the temple. White zigzags distorted her vision. Her legs buckled. She sank but had the presence of mind to hang on to much of the plunder.

  Feet scrambled. Shouting and gasps of terror arrived from several directions. Someone squealed a one-sided argument. Bodies clashed. Men grunted. Barked orders cracked like gunfire. A high-pitched voice rambled on about a mistaken identity, a mix-up, a misunderstanding. A metallic ratcheting clicked once, then twice.

  Pandemonium took a break. The commotion receded. Voices withdrew.

  “Are you all right?” At the sound of a familiar voice, Kendra knew she was in safe hands. When Ethan Wakeman helped her to her feet, she brought along the spoils of war and peered into his milk chocolate eyes. Referring to the packages, he said, “I’ll relieve you of those.”