Brides Of The Impaler

by Edward Lee

“My career’s fine.” Cristina leveled her eyes. “Don’t repeat this, but I made more money than Paul last quarter.”

  Britt’s brow fluttered, as if surprised. “All the more reason for you to live in the country’s artistic nerve center. Successful artists don’t live in Connecticut, darling. They live here. And we’ll get to see each other all the time now. It’ll be great!”

  “I know,” Cristina agreed. In her life of semi-seclusion, Britt was her only confidante. “I am happy about that. The thing about my job—and Paul commuting—is I never had anyone to talk to.”

  Britt waved her hand. “Well we’ll be regular Manhattan chatterboxes from now on. But, seriously, when you live in New York City, you have to dress New York City. That stuff you’ve got on now?” She scrinched her nose. “It ain’t gonna cut it.”

  “I do look a little bummy.”

  “You look like you slept in a cement mixer, Cristina. Look. This weekend I’ll take you clothes shopping. We’ll have a ball!” Britt hesitated for some arcane reason, then leaned over her drink. “Did you really make more than Paul last quarter?”

  “Yeah. The new line was a big success and my contract for the next one was huge. I don’t really care about that, though—the money, I mean.”

  “After a couple months in this town? You will. And that’s really impressive, too, you know? Paul’s a managing partner of a big-time law firm and you’re out-earning him, which means you’re out-earning Jess, too, because they’re both managing partners. That’s serious moolah, Cristina. And you’re only twenty-nine.”

  The compliment seemed jaded. Another thing Cristina didn’t like about New York City mentality was the whole rat-race for money. That’s what it’s all about here. Who’s making what, who drives what, who gets reservations at such and such restaurant and who doesn’t. Cristina just wanted to ply her craft and be happy with Paul.

  As appetizers were being placed, Cristina’s gaze drifted back and forth to the window. Throngs of well-dressed businesspeople hurried this way and that; buses roared. Cristina felt a chill.

  “Don’t you want a drink?” Britt asked.

  “No, thanks. I hate drinking during the day.”

  “Then at least have some stuffed squid—” Britt pointed to a plate on which sat a pile of tiny deep-fried squid mantles stuffed with some crabmeat concoction. Cristina just smiled and shook her head.

  “It’s going to take you a while to get in the Big Apple’s groove,” Britt laughed. She kept finnicking with the corner of an eye. “Damn. My eyelash is all screwed up. I’ll be right back.” She rose, pointing to another plate. “If you don’t want any squid, try a cuttlefish fritter,” she said, then sauntered to the ladies’ room.

  Cristina watched after her. Yeah, she sure fits in all right, she noted of her sister’s poise and attire. Tan leather pants by Dolce & Gabbana, Tod’s heels, and a gorgeous silk Ombre wrap-blouse, the color of a margarita. The thing is I DON’T fit in, and am perfectly happy with that. Cristina’s last line of macabre figurines—Cadaverettes—had been a roaring success on the collector’s market, and the next line promised to be even bigger. It was strange, though, how different she and Britt were, considering the sameness of their upbringings. They called themselves sisters but weren’t really; they’d been raised in the same foster house, and were subject to the same influences during their formative and adolescent years. Yet, Britt was a psychologist for social services and Cristina was—

  A creepy-doll designer. It was almost funny, but she did understand that the darkness of their mutual childhoods was probably the guiding force in the careers they later pursued, however different.

  Without much forethought, she began to doodle on a napkin, sketching a frolicky caricature of a nun. The nun held a bowl of some sort, and possessed a great comic-bookish grin highlighted by long, thin vampiric fangs.

  “So which one is that?” Britt asked, noticing the sketch. She sat back down, inspecting her nails.

  “It’s called the Noxious Nun,” Cristina related. “It’s the first figure in the next line. The line is called the Evil Church Creepies collection. First, the nun, then there’ll be a priest, a deaconess, an altar boy, a choir girl, parishioners, of course, and Sunday school teachers. The last figure will be the Putrefactive Pope.”

  Britt daintily crunched on a fried squid. “That’s some imagination you have.”

  “So you’ve told me. I know, I’m a cliché. Gloomy Insecure Artist.”

  “You’re not that insecure,” Britt laughed, chopsticking a slice of seared hamachi. “And don’t worry. No psychology today, I promise.”

  Cristina was grateful, at least usually. Given Britt’s profession as a therapist—and their horrendous upbringing—it was too easy for her to psychoanalyze Cristina. But at least Britt was fair enough to psychoanalyze herself at the same time.

  “But something is bothering you. I could see it when you walked in.”

  Cristina seemed surprised. “Really?”

  “And don’t tell me it’s the shock of moving to New York.”

  Cristina reflected. “I guess you’re right.” She severed eye contact. “I thought I saw Goldfarb the other day. And he even looked older, like he would now.”

  “Where? Here?”

  “I was walking near the Julliard School, and there he was—Andre Goldfarb.”

  Britt’s eyes turned stern. “You know that’s impossible, right?”

  “Oh, yes, yes—don’t worry, I’m not seeing things.”

  “Our dear old foster daddy and his wife won’t even be up for parole for another ten years. I monitor that very carefully.”

  Cristina nodded, and even felt pretty good about her ability to raise the issue. “It was just weird. He’d be in his mid-fifties now, and this guy I saw was a dead ringer.”

  “There’s eight million people here, Cristina. Every now and then you’re going to see someone who looks just like someone else. Last week I saw a woman who looked just like me.”

  “Really?”

  Britt toned down to a whisper. “Yeah, and it really pissed me off—because her boobs were three times bigger than mine.”

  Cristina was amused by her sister’s vanity. Actually, her body looked magnificent, like a runway model’s. But she always complained about her petite breasts.

  A moment stretched by, then Cristina had to ask: “You never told Jess the whole story, did you?”

  “About the Goldfarbs?” She seemed shocked. “No way—just bits and pieces. I didn’t tell him about the porn thing or the drugs.”

  “I told Paul everything,” Cristina admitted.

  “And so you should have. Paul’s a lot more real-world than Jess—Jess couldn’t have handled it. I’ll probably never tell him everything, and not because I’m uncomfortable about what happened. He simply wouldn’t know how to deal with it.”

  Cristina doodled augmentations over her sketch. “I guess the amazing thing is that we both could.”

  “You’re right, and that’s all that matters,” Britt augmented. “We had gross, shitty childhoods but we overcame it all. We’re fine. Lots of girls don’t turn out so well. You wouldn’t believe what’s happened to a lot of the women who come through my office. Stuff that makes our experiences look like patty-cake.” Britt speared another piece of squid. “But you’re still not telling me what’s wrong, and it’s got nothing to do with Goldfarb or his scumbag wife.”

  “I’m just tired,” Cristina said, rubbing her eyes. “I haven’t slept well in the last month. Oh, I know it’s part worrying about the new line of figures, and it’s part shock from moving from Stamford to the middle of the Upper West Side.”

  Britt cast her an angled glance. “Any other parts?”

  “Yeah, one, I guess.” Now she reglanced at the Noxious Nun doodle. “Since Paul first showed me the house over a month ago, I have this recurring nightmare.”

  “About what?”

  “About this.” Cristina held up the doodle, then shrugged. “It’s jus
t a…bizarre dream.”

  “Well, you’re an artist, and you’re obviously using some image from the dream in your work. Catharsis, right? Isn’t that what artists do?”

  “I guess. At least that’s what my shrink said.”

  “So. You dream about that kooky nun-sketch. That’s it?”

  Cristina briefly closed her eyes…and saw the flowing swirls. “The dream’s set before a swirling background of black, green, and red. A naked woman is holding a crude clay bowl, like a halved coconut. And the bowl has three gemstones on it—one black, one green, one red.”

  Britt chuckled a sigh. “A naked girl holding a bowl. That’s a nightmare?”

  Cristina shared the chuckle. “Don’t even go there, sister. No Freud today. See, in the dream, the woman’s wearing a wimple.”

  “A what?”

  “A wimple. It’s that thing nuns wear on their heads. Like a white sock with an oval cut out for the face, and a black hatlike thing over it.”

  “All right. I’m following you now. Nude nun, in a wimple, holding a coconut.”

  “A bowl, really. Like a clay bowl or something. But here’s the nightmare part. In the dream, she shows me the bowl, and it’s got blood in it. Ad then the weird lines of color in the background get more intense, and then—”

  Britt seemed bored. “Yeah?”

  “Then the nun grins—and she’s got fangs.”

  “And that’s why you’re losing sleep? Jeez, Cristina. You ought to have one of my tidal-wave nightmares. I wish I had dreams about nude women.”

  “With fangs?”

  “Maybe I’d have fangs, too.” Now Britt ate a crab puff. “You know what you’re problem is, sister? You’re just a worrywart. You’re a successful artist, with a successful fiancé who wants you to move into his new house with him. These are very positive things but, yeah, they represent change, and the prospect of change can be stressful. It’s this stress that’s triggering the nutty nightmare, along with your natural-born…worrywartdom.” Britt almost seemed berating now. “You’re not traumatized, you’re not suffering from some delayed reactive disorder, and you’re not having flashbacks from the drugs the Goldfarbs used on us. Neither of us are having any of that crap.”

  Cristina squeezed her sister’s hand and smiled. She always felt better after talking to her, even when she didn’t incite the conversation. “You’re a gem, you know that?”

  “Actually, I’m a vain label-whore and an absolute bitch when I see someone like that prissy woman over there with a Gianni dress that looks better than mine,” Britt said, and then scowled past Cristina’s shoulder.

  Cristina took a quick glance and shook her head. “You’re a gem and a nut.”

  “Yeah, and thank God I’m engaged to a New York City attorney who’s head over heels for me. I couldn’t afford to shop at Salvation Army on what social services pays me.”

  “But that’s proof of your character, isn’t it?”

  Britt gaped. “What, that I’m engaged to a rich lawyer?”

  “Well, yeah. On what he makes, you wouldn’t have to work at all, and neither would a lot of women. But you do. You work your butt off for low pay helping the abused and the victimized when you could be sitting in a lounge chair all day sipping Dom Perignon and fanning yourself in a Bill Blass bikini.”

  “Since you put it that way…yes! You’re absolutely right!” Britt pushed some plates over to Cristina. “Now would you please eat some of this? If you don’t, I’ll eat it all myself, then I’ll get fat, Jess’ll get sick of me and kick me out for a skinny girl—probably that one over there in the Gianni dress—and then I will have to shop at Salvation Army.”

  “All right,” Cristina conceded. “I’ll have some.”

  “Good.” Britt got up. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Britt whispered. “I just have to ask that floozy where she got that dress.”

  “You’re not serious!”

  “Oh yes I am.” Britt bit her lower lip. “Pretty sick, isn’t it?”

  Cristina chuckled, then started on the appetizers.

  The bus-roar and heel-tapping clamor of the sidewalk didn’t bother her when she left. Cristina declined a ride home from Britt; she liked to walk, and she wanted to get used to the city. The skyscrapers on either side of the street loomed so high, it seemed impossible for them to have even been built. Lunch hour was winding down, and the street was even getting a bit more sane.

  “Hot dog, miss?” a gruff voice asked aside.

  She looked to see a rugged street vendor in a Yankees hat and a Jets shirt. “Cheese, mustard, mayo?”

  “Mayo?” Cristina exclaimed. “On hot dogs?”

  “Don’t knock it, toots.” He had a chewed-down cigar between his teeth as he presumed to sell food. “It’s New York deli mayo, from Artie’s.”

  “Maybe next time…”

  “You sure? Only two bucks. They’re Sabrett’s—the genuine New York dog.”

  “Actually, I’m full of cuttlefish, but thanks just the same,” she said, and then slipped away.

  What a pain in the …

  She eyed the divergent crowd, which seemed to beat along the sidewalks like blood in arteries. It was the ultimate cross-culture here: every nationality mixed with every economic status, all pulsing together in tandem. Maybe I could get used to this, she considered. Or did the sudden tolerance stem more from feeling better after her talk with Britt?

  She slowed by a comic/novelty shop, noticing several of her competitor’s products in the window. Living Dead Dolls, Gurl-Goyles, Fantasmic Fishies. But no Cadaverettes! she fumed. She edged into the store, at once hesitant. I’ve got to stand up for my product, she knew, but she also knew she was 100 percent nonassertive. When her well-done burger came to the table medium, she never sent it back. Passivity was as much a part of her as her blonde hair.

  All comic shops seemed to possess the same musty smell, and usually only a quarter of the floor space existed for comic books and graphic novels. Novelties comprised the rest: toys, action figures and figurines, T-shirts, etc. Cristina checked the shelves and found no trace of Cadaverettes there, either.

  Bastards!

  A long line congregated at the checkout. One man in a pricey suit waited to buy an armload of some comic called Hell Tramp, while an obese girl with multiple facial piercings sputtered as she held a copy of something called Mr. Torso Part VII. A man with spiked blond hair and a leather vest hypertensively manned the register. He looked like Billy Idol’s grandfather.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Cristina peeped over the line. “I have a question if it’s not too much inconvenience…”

  The blond man sneered at her. “I’m a little busy here, if ya couldn’t tell. Got no time for chitchat.”

  Cristina felt stultified. “Well…I’ve noticed that you carry Living Dead Dolls and Gurl-Goyles but no Cadaverettes. Do you not like Cadaverettes?”

  The man shook his head as he frantically rang the next customer. “I like ’em fine, honey!” he snapped. “Reason we ain’t got ’em is ’cos they sell out faster than I can put ’em on the shelves! Now gimme a break! I’m busy!”

  Cristina stood wavering. What should I do? “Well…excuse me again, sorry, but would it be possible, do you think, if you could maybe reorder them?”

  His glare struck her like an arrow in the face. “I’m busy! Have some fuckin’ courtesy! Come back later, will ya?”

  Cristina shivered but managed to mutter, “This isn’t a very nice store,” and then hurried away.

  “Hey, bonehead,” the suited man addressed the spiked clerk. “That was Cristina Nichols. She created Cadaverettes.”

  Alarm. “Hey—uh, I mean, Ms. Nichols?” the cashier pleaded after her. “Sorry! Don’t leave! Can I book you for a signing?”

  Cristina slipped back onto the street. Why can’t people just be nice? Everyone seemed so manic here, so type A. But ultimately she left satisfied. They hadn’t neglected her line at all;
they’d simply sold it out, which was terrific. It means I’m still selling.

  An alley tangented the corner of 67th and Dessorio Avenue. “Never cut through alleys, Cristina,” Paul had emphasized the first day. “Never. This is New York, not Petticoat Junction. You can never be too careful.” Cristina was touched by the tenor of his concern, but she saw no harm. The alley was only fifty or so yards long, and she could see it was clear save for a few garbage cans.

  Which was why she jumped, when a scratchy voice drifted toward her from one side.

  “Hey, lady?”

  Cristina had only proceeded fifty feet. A homeless girl in pink sweatpants, a men’s white T-shirt, and mismatched flip-flops stood right behind her.

  Where did she come from? Cristina thought.

  Scrubby tendrils of hair hung over her face like black spaghetti. Some ghost of youth struggled beneath wasted features. These homeless people always look so much older than they really are. But at least Cristina didn’t feel threatened now.

  “Can I have, like, two dollars so I can buy a hot dog from the guy you didn’t buy one from?”

  Cristina couldn’t calculate how the girl could’ve witnessed her encounter with the vendor. “I think so…” She reached in her pocket.

  The girl sniffled and rubbed her nose. “And like maybe another one or two dollars so I can buy a soda?”

  “Sure.” Cristina gave the girl a twenty-dollar bill. “You can use the rest to go to the shelter on Henry Street. I read they added a lot of beds.”

  “Oh, I ain’t homeless.”

  “That’s good. Where do you live?”

  “Here.” The girl twitched. “We even have a TV. It doesn’t work but we watch it anyway.”

  Cristina could think of nothing to say.

  “And-and, like, I saw on the TV today that you were cutting your throat but then you blinked and it wasn’t your own throat you were cutting, it was the man’s.”

  She’s probably delusional from drugs, Cristina realized. And that’s what she’s going to buy with the money I just gave her …

  Then she winced when she saw scars on the girl’s wrist.

  The girl giggled, staring at the alley’s brick wall. “That sounds kooky, doesn’t it, but that’s what I saw on the TV when the nun turned it on. Thanks for the money, and don’t worry, I ain’t gonna buy any rock with it. I’m gonna get some hot dogs.’ Bye.” Then the girl oddly shuffled backward several steps, turned, and headed out of the alley.