Asleep From Day

by Margarita Montimore

  Sally’s in the den, playing Solitaire. I beckon her to my room and bring her up to speed on the cookbook development.

  “You had another lead and didn’t tell me?”

  I stop her potential histrionics short. “Sal, please, please can we not make this about you right now?”

  She folds her arms across her chest and drops on my bed with only a small huff. “Fine. So what does this mean? That he lied?”

  “It could mean that, yeah.”

  “So what? He was trying to impress you and used that as an excuse to keep flirting with you. Big deal.”

  “Not all of us are so comfortable with lying.” The purse of her mouth tells me to tread lightly. If I’m going to be honest with her, now is the time.

  “It’s . . .” I rub my temples. “Sometimes I wonder if all of these memories are real. If maybe I didn’t . . .”

  Spit it out. Say it out loud.

  My lips tremble. Oh god, no, please no, not now.

  Sally’s face is all enthrallment and confusion. “If maybe you didn’t what?”

  I ball my hands into fists and swallow hard. “I mean . . . what if this is all just . . . what if I . . . imagined Theo? Created him in my mind?”

  Airing out my potential lunacy should make me feel better. It doesn’t.

  “Don’t be silly, of course Theo is real.” Sally blinks too fast when she says it.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just do. And you will too, at the club tomorrow. We’re almost there, Astrid. Don’t give up on this now. Tomorrow. You’ll see.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  ..................

  I’M STANDING IN FRONT OF the angel statue in the public garden. Before me, in a horseshoe formation is a group of reporters gripping microphones, accompanied by cameramen and photographers. Continuous flashbulbs go off, and I can barely see anything.

  “Astrid, do you think he’s going to show up?”

  “Astrid, what outcome are you hoping for when you and Theo are reunited?”

  “Astrid, what will you do if Theo doesn’t actually exist?”

  I have no answers.

  I crane my neck, try to see past the crowd.

  “Have any of you seen Oliver?” I ask.

  One of the reporters steps toward me and thrusts a padded microphone in my face. “Astrid, who’s Oliver? You’re supposed to be looking for Theo.”

  “I know,” I answer. “But . . .”

  There he is, way in the back. Oliver leans against the wrought iron fence of the garden’s entrance, arms folded, light glinting off his glasses so I can’t make out his expression.

  Another microphone held up to my face. “Astrid, you need to answer our questions before it rains or nobody will show up. What does this second man have to do with any of this?”

  I try to wave over Oliver but he shakes his head. More blinding flashbulbs go off.

  A man dressed in a white wig, dark glasses and black turtleneck steps forward. “Astrid, what would you say if I told you I’m Theo Collins?”

  The crowd erupts in murmurs and gasps.

  He’s impossible to recognize in the Andy Warhol costume. “Take off your wig and sunglasses,” I say. “Let me see.”

  “No, you have to take my word for it,” he replies.

  A crack of thunder in the distance. I check the spot where Oliver was standing but he’s gone now.

  “Pack it up, everyone,” somebody calls out. “This whole thing is a hoax. There is no Theo.”

  The crowd disperses as a dark cloud moves in, casts a shadow over me.

  The man claiming to be Theo shrugs. “I guess none of it mattered.” He turns to walk away. I can’t speak, can’t move, so I let him.

  Another crack of thunder and the skies open up. White feathers rain down on me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  ..................

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 15, 1999

  I’M TYING THE SCARF OF my Amelia Earhart costume when there’s a knock on my door.

  Sally does a pirouette in the doorway. She doesn’t resemble Marilyn Monroe at all, despite having all the right elements to her visual homage, but she does look sexy as hell.

  “Is it too much?” she asks.

  “Since when does ‘too much’ apply to you? You look amazing. It doesn’t even look like you’re wearing a wig.”

  “I’m not.” She takes my hand and has me fluff her hair, which has been transformed from golden to platinum blonde. “I went to some salon in Davis Square called Judy Jetson, had it cut and dyed. I mean, it’s not a proper traumatic breakup unless you do something major to your hair, right?”

  “I didn’t do anything to mine after I left Simon, but then I guess I’ve always had it pretty much the same. Yours looks great, though.”

  “You think so?” She squints at her reflection in the mirror hanging on my closet door. “I thought I should go back to New York somehow different.”

  “Sal, if you want to stay longer—”

  “I do, but I need to go home and deal with things. The police want me to come in for a follow-up interview about Corey. And my boss has been cool about my absence so far, but if I don’t leave soon, I won’t have a job when I get back, and you know how much that sucks.”

  “I sure do.”

  Her eyes are shiny with tears, but she blinks them back. “Anyway, tonight is not about me. For once.” She turns around, appraising my ensemble. “The clothes are decent, but let me help you with the makeup.”

  “I was thinking I’d keep it low key.”

  She puts a finger over my lips. “Shut up and let me make you beautiful.”

  I do and this time, I don’t wipe away the red lipstick.

  “I’m sorry, Sally,” I say.

  “For what?”

  “For not being there for you as much as I should be.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re the best. Always.” She gives me a wink that would’ve done Marilyn proud.

  The four of us head to ManRay, a short walk from The Lab, down the street from TT’s. Zak and Daphne have dressed up as John F. Kennedy and Jackie post-shooting, replete with fake blood spatters (“I was going to get a fake brain and cover that in blood, too, but I didn’t want to carry it around all night,” Daphne says).

  We turn down Brookline Street and on the next corner, our destination: a low building with no windows painted entirely in black.

  A bouncer checks our IDs and lets us in. Sally pays the cover for all of us, waving away any argument.

  “It’s the least I can do for you all putting up with me this long. Now let’s find a bar so I can also buy you drinks.”

  We trail her to a large, barely lit room with a sunken dance floor and red leather banquets lining the walls. There’s a mist of dry ice, which makes dark silhouettes of the five people dancing. Sally was right: they do look like they’re caught in spiderwebs. The song is one I recognize, an upbeat hit from the ‘80s, only it’s a cover done as funeral march, clanging and dirge-like, low vocals growling the lyrics.

  “What’s good to drink here?” Sally asks.

  “The frozen margaritas pack a punch, but we usually start the night with a mind eraser. It’s something of a tradition,” Daphne says.

  Sally’s red mouth opens in a grin of delight. “That sounds completely perfect. What’s in it? Never mind, doesn’t matter.”

  “Get one with four straws,” she instructs.

  The drink is poured, and Daphne has us gather in a small circle. “On the count of three, drink as quickly as possible. One. Two. Three.”

  We suck down mouthfuls of brown fizzy liquid until only ice is left.

  “Welcome to ManRay.” Daphne sets down the glass.

  Sally buys a proper round of drinks, and a new song begins with a woman shrieking. Daphne and Zak recognize it and go off to dance.

  “How are you feeling? Nervous?” Sally shouts over the music.

  My drink glows under the black light, and I take a
long sip before answering.

  Whatever this feeling is, it’s not nervous and it doesn’t look cute on me. It’s more frenetic, and I have to keep tamping down a sense that there’s too much hinging on this. “Yeah. I guess. I’m not really sure what I’m going to say to him.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t mention that you’ve been on this big quest to find him. Hopefully, that Mike guy didn’t tell him about the radio show. Say you’ve been out of town for a while.”

  “I tried that already,” I say. Wait, that didn’t really happen, it was one of my dreams. Which didn’t end well.

  Thankfully she doesn’t hear me over the caterwauling. “What?”

  “I’ll try that. If I even find him.”

  “You will. Now let’s go hunt down Andy Warhol.”

  She takes my hand and pulls me forward. I am brave. You are brave.

  We start in the room across the hall, a lounge area with a phone booth, pool table, and some brocaded couches. It’s quieter in here, a welcome respite from the industrial clanking in the other room, and my fried nerves begin to settle. Until I see the man perched on the armrest of one of the couches. He’s in dark jeans, a black-and-white striped shirt, a shaggy white wig, and opaque sunglasses. I turn so he can’t see my face.

  It’s like I just stepped into an elevator only to find an empty shaft.

  “Sally, I think that’s him.”

  “Do you want me to ask for you or do you want to do this yourself?” She peeks over my shoulder conspicuously.

  I should be the one to approach him. Sending Sally in my place would reek of schoolgirl hijinks. But I think back to that nightmare of seeing Theo at Curio City and the way he denied being Theo and wouldn’t talk to me, would barely even look at me.

  “How about this,” Sally suggests, “I’ll ask, ‘Are you Theo?’ If he confirms, I’ll tug on my earlobe. If he denies, I’ll scratch my chin. Got that? Earlobe, yes. Chin, no.”

  “Why don’t you just ask him and wave me over if it’s Theo? I don’t think I can deal with complicated signals.”

  “Well, if you’re going to be all boring about it . . .”

  A few vendors have set up tables on the other side of the room, and I pretend I’m interested in chainmail jewelry while glancing over at Sally and the faux Warhol. I won’t need any signals from her after all, because the shake of his head tells me all I need to know.

  “Sorry, A,” she says when she returns.

  “I thought he might’ve been skinnier than I remember.” I’m a seesaw of disappointment and relief.

  “We still have the rest of the club to explore, and he might not even be here yet.” Sally fingers a large chest piece on a display bust that resembles something you’d wear jousting. The woman behind the table, in a corset that pushes her ample assets nearly to her chin, smiles at us.

  “Excuse me. Do you know what time the performances are?” Sally asks her.

  “The first one’s usually close to midnight, and the second one about an hour after that. They’re not very precise about timekeeping, though.”

  “So he might not even get here for another hour,” she says to me.

  “That’s fine. It’s been a month. What’s another hour?” I take another sip of my frothy drink to level out the seesaw.

  “Let’s see what’s in the next room.” She leads the way once again.

  We pass through a doorway beside the phone booth into the main space of the club. At the four corners of the dance floor are oversized black blocks which, along with the stage, provide some of the more attention-seeking patrons space to show off their moves. There’s a giant cobweb made of chains strung between two columns; a woman in a black vinyl catsuit dancing on the front blocks holds onto it while she writhes to the music.

  Even though I’m halfway done with my drink, I’m already considering a refill, and thankfully there are two bars in here, one along the left wall and a square island by the dance floor. Switching to something nonalcoholic would probably be wise, but tonight I need courage in any form I can get it.

  The crowd is split between those in costumes that fit the theme and those dressed in various degrees of goth, referencing Victoriana (top hats, corsets, bustles), fetish (patent leather, fishnet, dog collars), Tim Burton (striped tights, black veils, shredded-on-purpose fabric) and all the shades of black in between. Some have opted for elaborate getups: there’s a King Henry VIII and two of his wives (one with a bloody slash across her throat to indicate beheading), and a Marie Antoinette (pre-beheading). Others have taken the dead theme literally, including a zombie Elvis, lifeless Abe Lincoln, and a duo dressed as a post-mortem Janis Joplin and Kurt Cobain. There’s a man in tight pants, no shirt and a leather jacket with wavy shoulder length hair but I’m not sure if he’s supposed to be dead Jim Morrison or dead Michael Hutchence.

  And there, standing at the corner of the island bar, is another Andy Warhol. He also has the wig and dark glasses, but is in a black turtleneck instead of a striped shirt.

  Coincidence, right?

  “You ready for this one or should I take him?” Sally asks.

  “I can do it.”

  He’s paying for a beer as I approach him.

  “Um, excuse me,” I say. He tilts his head. It’s disconcerting not to be able to see his eyes and read his expression. “Is your name Theo?”

  “Nope, James. Nice Earhart costume. Buy you a drink?” His eyebrows flicker over the sunglasses.

  “Thanks, but I have to find my friend.”

  I walk back to Sally, shaking my head. “Kind of strange there are two guys dressed as Warhol, don’t you think?”

  “Not as strange as three.” Sally points with her chin at a couple dancing.

  This Warhol is also in a turtleneck, but taller than the one I just spoke to. The woman he’s with has on heavy eye make-up, chandelier earrings and a leopard coat, presumably his Edie Sedgwick. They dance to a Gary Numan song and make awkward geometric shapes with their bodies. When the song ends, he puts an arm around her waist and kisses the side of her neck as he leads her to a nearby sofa.

  “I need another drink.” I turn away.

  “We have to find out for sure.” Sally’s mouth forms a grim line. “I’ll ask him.”

  We agree to meet by the pool table in a few minutes.

  I return to the front room with the sunken dance floor and take small comfort in the dim lighting and dry ice obscuring forms. This time it’s male shrieking over the sound system, a song that thumps and pounds as his gravelly voice begs for a drink. He has the right idea. I get another frozen margarita, cold and sweet and a little tart as it goes down. I walk a few feet and—

  No. This can’t . . .

  I stop so abruptly someone bumps into me from behind.

  A visibly peeved dead Brandon Lee in full Crow regalia steps around me, but I’m still locked in place. A few feet away, sitting at the end of a banquette, is yet another Andy Warhol. This one has a Polaroid camera suspended around his neck. He slouches back, ankle draped over knee, and looks around at the crowd.

  What the hell is going on here?

  I take one step toward him, then another. When I stand right in front of him, he lifts the camera, takes aim, and a light flashes in my face. He pats the seat beside him. I take it.

  The script is obvious, but stage fright has a hand around my throat and I can’t say my lines.

  “Um . . . Can I see the picture?” I finally ask.

  “You can see it, but you can’t keep it.”

  I hold it by the bottom white border and flap it back and forth to develop it faster.

  “That’s a myth, you know.” The music is too loud to tell whether his voice is familiar.

  “What is?”

  “That shaking a Polaroid speeds up the development. It doesn’t. Doing so can actually damage the picture.”

  “Oh.” I stop waving the photo. “Sorry. I had no idea. Are you a photographer?”

  “Tonight I am.”

  An image of m
e emerges in the white square, eyes uncertain and a little scared, a novice pilot about to fly treacherous skies.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Andy.”

  “Haha, and I’m Amelia. But seriously . . .”

  “It’s Andy.”

  “And your last name?”

  “Warhol. I would think you’d know who I am.”

  I cannot believe this guy.

  “Would you mind taking off your sunglasses for a second?”

  “I would mind, yes.” His smile is smug, final.

  Okayyyy. Time for a different tactic. “I’m looking for someone dressed as Andy Warhol.”

  “And so you have found him.”

  “I mean someone I know. Kind of know.”

  “We’ve been chatting for a few minutes now so you could say you ‘kind of know’ me.”

  I want to rip the wig right off his head. Instead, I hand him back the Polaroid.

  “Have we met before?” I ask.

  “Have we?” he echoes.

  “Okay, you obviously don’t want to be straight with me here.”

  “’Give a man a mask and he’ll tell you the truth.’”

  I raise my voice over the music. “I thought you were Andy Warhol, not Oscar Wilde. Way to butcher that quote, by the way.”

  “I like to think I would’ve gotten along quite well with Wilde. In some ways we’re cut from the same cloth.”

  “So if a mask will make you honest, why don’t you tell me the truth?”

  “I don’t think I need to tell you the truth when this photo does it for me.” He holds it out for me to see again.

  “And what does this photo tell you?”

  “Isn’t it rather obvious?” An exaggerated sigh, so put-upon. “If you need it spelled out, the image says, here is a scared girl who does not know what she is seeking.”

  “I do know.” I stand. “I know it’s not this.”

  I walk off and return to the lounge across the way.

  Sally is at a vendor display, examining riding crops, ball gags, and various other BDSM toys.

  “Something’s not right here,” I say.

  She turns and tickles me with a feather attached to a rod. “It’s not my scene, but if people want to bring these into the bedroom, who am I to judge?”