Rise of the Goddess (****All proceeds from the Rise of the Goddess anthology will go to benefit the Elliott Public Library**** Book 1)

by Catherine Stovall

  He tried to maintain his stoic veneer, but he still shuddered at the memories. He had been nearly killed by many things over the years, including women and pachyderms. Some things were destined to give him night terrors forever.

  ****

  Even with the setting sun backlighting incoming customers, he could still make out the silhouette of Mary Cannon, a regular at the pub, and his mouth relaxed into what was nearly a smile. She always put him at ease. Her broad, flat Asian features were the perfect canvas for her usual sincere hundred-watt smile, never failing to lend light and warmth to all. Willow-slender and unimposing, she always dressed in colors that were bright but never gaudy. Her straight jet-black hair was cut short into a chic modern disheveled pageboy cut.

  For all of her rather unorthodox quips, Mary was one of the few regulars that really seemed grounded. Unlike most, who treated him as if he were a cross between their therapist and their priest at confession, the cheerful woman never once tried to burden him; in fact, she always seemed to genuinely want to know how his life was going. He recalled hearing from someone that she worked as a therapist, but somehow hearing the woes of clients all day didn’t seem to sap her kindness when she was off the clock.

  She settled herself up at the bar, at once poised and relaxed. He questioningly indicated the Sapporo sign with his eyes. She nodded in reply, and he proceeded to dig into the cooler for a bottle of her usual favorite.

  Frank caught a slight movement in the woman’s lapel pocket, like the flutter of a heartbeat. Mary offered a few sunflower seeds to the tiny creature that emerged. He was normally not crazy about birds, but the white parrotlet she often kept with her was quiet and rather cute. The smallest breed of parrot in the world, her “pocket parrot,” as its kind was often called, certainly lived up to its name. She gently crooned to the bird in a picture-perfect image of tenderness.

  He heaved a sigh and dipped his head, allowing his guardedness a brief repose. His temple flared as he clenched his jaw. Like a thousand times before, he felt that he bore the weight of the world on his shoulders. A modern day Atlas. He shrugged, reaching for another cigarette. Too soon there would be a flood of loud, ignorant people who treated him as little more than a vending machine. He could already hear them asking about the layers of grimy dollar bills stapled to the walls and ceiling that framed the bar, resembling a moth-eaten stage curtain, an offertory plate to the god of sleaze.

  They would be sporting their strands of baseball-sized Mardi Gras beads, despite the fact that Mardi Gras was still six months away. They would recognize the Irish memorabilia and begin to shoot off their mouths about their own heritages, asking him questions such as, “Are you Irish?” As if a hardworking Czech-descended guy wasn’t entitled to work anywhere he damn well wanted to. And the incessant stream of even more stupid questions: “When’s the next jazz funeral scheduled?”, “When is Saint Patrick’s Day this year?”, and “When are all the women supposed to get here?”

  When he looked up, the parrotlet was sitting on her finger, head cocked thoughtfully. She said, “That kind of day, hmm?”

  “No, not yet...just the same old shit, plus my shoulders are really tight. Everyone tells me that I should look into acupuncture, but who has time or money for that?”

  “Maybe you haven’t stretched your wings in a while.”

  Anyone else would have come across to him as crazy, but Mary’s presence was soothing, and he knew her well enough to know that she often spoke in metaphors. She often had a couple of books in her purse at all times. Bookish people often liked to wax poetic, he thought.

  “Wings, huh? What? Don’t tell me that you’re another one of those people who’ve jumped on that rumor that I’m a vampire? This so-called big city is just one small town, everyone knows everyone, and they all love gossip, no matter how ridiculous it is.”

  The loveliness of her features suddenly increased as laugh lines blossomed across her face. “Vampire? Frank, what on earth are you talking about?”

  “Don’t tell me that you haven’t heard! I can barely get through my other bartending job over in Mid City because of this stupid shit people are saying. I have a high metabolism and I work some nocturnal shifts, and the next thing you know, folks are saying that I’m a goddamned vampire! That crazy bitch Maxilla started it all. People love a good story so much; they’d rather believe this nut job who’s read too many of those damn bloodsucker novels that take place in New Orleans. She looks like a Goth version of that girl in the car insurance commercials, she wears those stupid glue-on vampire fangs, and last month she even bit me! Got me right on the hand because I wasn’t attracted to her. Stupid bitch drew blood. Then she set out to try to convince people that I’m a fucking vampire! She would rather believe that I’m some sort of freak than face the fact that I don’t want her skanky ass around...”

  Her eyes were infinitely patient. “The myths about vampires are entirely misconstrued. They don’t live glamorous lives, and they certainly aren’t doomed forever, in spite of what the novels say. They can lift the so-called ‘curse’ if they realize that they have everything they need within them.”

  “Okay, so we’re not talking about actual bloodsuckers, but these drama vampires need to find some other place to drink...take their goddamned agendas and their goddamned schemes elsewhere...” He realized that he was venting, just like the other sad sacks who came into the bar. He took a deep breath. “Sorry...”

  She shook her head dismissively. “You’ve got to get it off your chest, Frank. Who hears the confessions of the listeners? You need to take a day off from giving out so many absolutions.”

  A tired smile flowed across one high cheekbone, a cheekbone that, like the rest of his body, had been dealt many blows over the years but still defied all of the mishaps that life had dealt him. “Absolutions,” he chuckled ruefully. “Who’s going to give me mine?”

  As she paid her tab and left, he couldn’t help but wonder what she was trying to tell him.

  ****

  September 29th: I really don’t want to get out of bed. I just want some relief. I have to go to work in a couple of hours, which means that I have to get into banking mode, and I somehow have to get all of the new graffiti off my walls before anyone comes by and sees it. Probably Maxilla or one of the others did it. I don’t mind it so much when Sunshine shows up, but I wish they would all move out. I don’t even know all of them, which scares me. Only Eve does, and she’s not telling me anything. I’m seldom the one in control, and I’d give anything for my life to be my own.

  I don’t know what I’ll do if Mara shows up at the Irish pub. It’s bad enough that Maxilla can’t stay away. Away from Frank, away from the few friends I have, and away from me, too. Those bitches have doomed me to a life of ignominy and shame. I don’t want to make friends with them. I want them gone.

  ****

  The night shifts were sometimes brutal. During times like this, he often wondered if the tips were worth the onerous routine.

  He was grateful for people like Mary, who was sitting in her usual spot off to the farthest corner of the bar under a nocturnal shadow cover. She never took it personally when he was crazy-busy with delivering as many drinks as possible, all the while trying to make certain that the ring was accurate. He had never once made a mistake with the books, and he didn’t intend to start.

  And as if to rub salt into the proverbial wound, in came Maxilla, cherry red lips parted in the usual rictus, accompanied by a gaggle of her Goth friends. He stiffened. He really should have banned her the day she bit him. She made a huge ceremony of procuring a table, in hopes that every eye would be upon her, feeding her the life-blood that she so desperately craved.

  And then a split second changed everything. Another of her vociferous friends coming to join the table sneaked up behind her and firmly clapped his hands over her eyes in a “guess who?” gesture.

  The ensuing scream that pierced the air was not one seeking an audience.

  Maxilla shot out
from the table, curled up into a tight ball with her back to the wall, cradled her head in a protective manner and sobbed hysterically. Her posse was suddenly defensive against her. “Shit, bitch, what is your problem?” “Dang, lighten up, girl!” One of the girls rapidly slithered toward the crumpled mass of wig, makeup and black leather in an attempt to scold Maxilla for ruining the gang’s vibe.

  Mary Cannon intercepted her in one smooth movement. “I’ve got this, sweetie,” the older woman said calmly.

  Maxilla’s painted companion didn’t budge. “Who the fuck are you, gook?”

  Mary didn’t even flinch. “Someone who is trying to keep all of you from getting tossed out of here more roughly than you’d like. I can assure you, woman-to-woman, no harm will come to your friend. If you’ll give me your cell number, I can even call you...”

  Two looks were locked, and the Goth girl stared searchingly, and then suddenly exhaled with a visible slump. Like a frightened child she threw her arms around Mary Cannon’s neck, murmuring a barely-audible “Thank you,” in her ear and stepping back quickly into the shadowy corner.

  The abashed young man who had startled Maxilla paid the tab for the entire group, adding an exorbitant tip for Frank. In an instant, they dissipated like bats in the night.

  Maxilla unfolded slowly, suddenly angry with the patrons-turned-spectators who were powerless to look away as if drawn to a bad car crash. “Stop looking at me!” she screeched. The display only proved to be counterproductive. Mary was at her side, murmuring something to the disoriented girl. Maxilla cocked her head in dim recognition. Suddenly her face went white. In a completely different voice she rasped, “Oh, my God, Dr. Kwan?” She collapsed into the woman’s arms, sobbing.

  Mary’s face was calm, but her eyes were serious. “Frank, call a cab.”

  Somehow his fingers knew what to do across the phone’s buttons, and he was certain that he’d automatically rattled off the pub’s address to the dispatcher, although he later had no recollection of doing so. Mary and Maxilla remained crouched on the floor, speaking to each other in tones inaudible to the rest of the room. The Goth girl finally nodded, licked her lips, and let Mary help her to her feet just as the cab honked outside.

  As Frank ushered the pair out of the door to the black and white United taxi, he just had time to mumble through the shock, “Who’s Dr. Kwan? What was that all about?”

  Mary smiled sadly. “We all have multiple identities in some way, Frank.” The cab door swung shut with the sound of a guillotine, and the women were borne away to some safe unknown harbor over the sea of lights and roiling traffic waves of the French Quarter.

  ****

  October 5th: Worst-case scenario comes to life. Maybe Maxilla can convince her friends that she just had a bad scare. I don’t even want to speculate on the rumors that would fly if they knew that the Maxilla they think they know has no social security number, no separate address, no unique fingerprint—there is only me with DID. This town is too small for me to show up at their doorsteps and explain that Maxilla is only one part of me. That I have memory blackouts, and there are many other personalities that plague my existence.

  Dissociative Identity Disorder...the new fancy-schmancy name for multiple personalities. Every few years the experts keep changing the name, but it never gets any less hellish for those of us who have to experience it. And then all those ignorant folks out there still brand it as “schizophrenia,” which is a whole different demon. They don’t know that being splintered into parts is something that can happen to anyone who’s been through enough shit. It could have happened to any one of them.

  It isn’t fair. I managed to survive my parents’ fucked-up schemes. My parents—the very people who were supposed to tuck me in at night, protect me, treat me kindly on my birthday, or whatever other things that parents are supposed to do—enslaved me and forced me into servitude of their fucked-up friends. They say that this condition is the psyche’s way of protecting itself. But what if you don’t want to survive? What if it’s easier to just die and no longer be at the mercy of parts of you that you can’t control? The humiliation, the shame, the constant bewilderment as I try to figure out who came out to play and how much damage control I have to do.

  I don’t know what Dr. Kwan was doing at the bar that night. On one hand, I’m grateful for the coincidence, and on the other hand, I’m mortified. But she’s the only person in the world that I can trust, and if anyone can find a way to keep my secret safe, it is she.

  ****

  He couldn’t believe he was doing this.

  He didn’t trust anyone, so why had he agreed to go to the house of a patron? Even if the person was someone as sane as Mary. But that tumultuous night had left him baffled, and she had told him that there were things that he needed to know.

  He had been through so much already. She was a beautiful woman, but he didn’t want to deal with the hassle if she tried to seduce him. He hoped that this wouldn’t turn into anything awkward.

  At least she didn’t seem to be some sort of lush. When he had asked if he could bring anything, she had just shrugged and said, “Oh, I dunno...maybe some fresh fruit.” Although he had seen her sipping her usual two or three bottles of Sapporo at the bar, he had actually never even seen her tipsy. This was clearly not a woman who wanted to lose control.

  At least the heavy rain that had been pummeling the Marigny had finally abated, and a soft rainbow arced across the sodden sky like the raised eyebrow of a trustworthy friend. He only hesitated for a moment before pressing the buzzer next to the carved street address sign. The heavy wooden gate silently opened up into a peaceful-looking courtyard. On the surface of a man-made pond floated dozens of large-petaled pink flowers, far more exotic then the water lilies they appeared to be at first. He took a closer look. Lotuses, he marveled. A winding footpath zigzagged its way up to a heavy wooden doorframe adorned with tiny chimes.

  Any misgivings he had had about going to this woman’s house dissipated as she opened the door, releasing the wonderful smells of incense and cooking food. There were no shadows anywhere. Friendly music and the cheery flickering of a dozen candles somehow put into his mind that this was not going to be awkward. And Mary Cannon—or Dr. Kwan, or whoever she was—wasn’t exactly dressed to kill, either. Barefoot and dressed in casual silk loungers, she greeted him with a short bow, palms pressed together. “Namaste! C’mon in.”

  He placed his offering on the kitchen counter and stole a furtive glance into the living room, the decor of which seemed to be a delicate pattern of museum elegance and raw, playful informality. Jade vases lived in harmony with children’s finger paintings. Chinese calligraphy seemed to fit perfectly with the comfy throw pillows and blankets in outrageous arrays of colors. A framed photo of a boy and a girl flanked an ornate paper lantern. A shamanic mask offset a plaque that read ANGELS CAN FLY BECAUSE THEY TAKE THEMSELVES LIGHTLY. The faithful white parrotlet was sitting demurely on an ornately carved teak perch in the corner. It bobbed its tiny head up and down a few times at him and softly uttered something that sounded like “anahata”.

  She tilted her head, indicating the living room. “Please, make yourself at home. My trappings consist mainly of artwork and gifts from clients, but they’re all precious to me. Places are set at the table in there...you can pour yourself anything you like. Juice and wine are on the mantel, but you’d prefer a plain old Budweiser, wouldn’t you? There are six cold ones in the fridge.”

  Frank froze. How did she know that? He never drank on the job, and he’d never seen her outside of the bar.

  She had nearly finished preparing the food, and had chosen to do away with formalities or idle chitchat in favor of feeding the hardworking man first. She piled fragrant sticky rice and aromatic vegetables onto his plate. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was, and it wasn’t until his second helping that he felt human again.

  “So...what is this stuff? It’s great.”

  “This is a vegetarian curry. Northern Thai styl
e and not exactly the stuff you find in restaurants. This is an old family recipe. It’s extremely hot, much hotter than most Westerners like, but it ought to be good for your sinuses.”

  “So you’re of Thai origin? And how did you know about my sinuses?”

  She handed him a cup of aromatic tea, which he drank without questioning. “You didn’t have to tell me about your sinuses. I can tell that you’re in pain, even if you don’t talk about it. And as for my origin, I’m from all over, really. Some might say I’m from China or Japan, others from India, Korea, Cambodia, Vietnam, or Indonesia. It doesn’t really matter...everywhere is home to me.”

  “Sounds like you’re pretty popular out there, almost like one of those Hindu gods or something. Why did you come to New Orleans if you’re such a rock star in Asia? You could be the next, I don’t know, Cambodian Idol or something!” He grinned and relaxed even more as she suddenly struggled to refrain from spitting out her tea in amusement.

  “So, whatever it is you do...I thought you were a shrink, a therapist, or a social worker or something... Is that what you mean?”

  “I do many things. Kind of a jack-of-all-trades, you know? Sometimes I try to help people who want to adopt or conceive children. Sometimes I try to give some comfort when people are scared, lonely, or confused. Sometimes abusers seek me out for help with self-forgiveness and breaking the toxic cycles in which they have felt entrapped. I do my best to hear out everyone who comes to me, no matter whom they are or what they need. I can’t intervene and solve people’s problems—only they can do that for themselves—but most people just need someone to listen. And maybe if they listen back, they will find the answer within themselves. Maybe I’m a bit of a workaholic, but I don’t mind. I feel that it justifies my existence somewhat.” She grinned wryly, lost in thought for a moment, and took another sip of her tea.