Flickers

by Arthur Slade

  “When did you talk to him?”

  “He needed my help with the editing. And he needed to eat.”

  “You dined with him?”

  “No, I never dine with him. No one dines with him. Anyway, he figures Izzy has grown a lot in the last six months. We’re changing the marks on the set—the angles for our shots. The cameraman noticed first. Remember when we had to have her stand on a box for most of her films? Not anymore. She’s a young woman.” He rubbed his chin. “All this work has tired her out and so has the growth spurt. And she hasn’t had anything to eat on the set. Maybe a slice of pear and a cracker. She needs her rest. That’s what Mr. Cecil says.”

  “He nearly worked her to death,” Beatrice said. “Maybe she’s just his meal ticket.”

  “Don’t say that, Beets,” Uncle Wayne said. He sniffed in a breath of air, wheezed a bit, and reached out to touch her shoulder. His palms were sweaty. “I know you’re upset. But we owe him for everything. These walls around us. My career. Izzy becoming the biggest star in the whole wide world. And me becoming big, too. Really big. And Betty, too. All of us. Big. So don’t speak about him like that.” He tightened his hand on her shoulder, his fingers digging into her flesh. She tried to shrug his grip off.

  Uncle Wayne patted her head with his other hand but kept a tight grip on her shoulder. “You’re a smart one, Beets. You’ve got that going for you. We just came here to tell you that we’re heading into town for a late lunch.”

  “It’s nine at night. That’s a very late lunch.”

  “It’s fashionably late,” Betty said. “We’re meeting up with my publicist. She’s a bit of a lush. But fun!”

  “Is there anything you need?” Uncle Wayne asked. “Spritzer water? Soda pop? A plate of french fries?”

  Beatrice shook her head. If she opened her mouth she’d scream.

  “You’re a good sister.” Uncle Wayne took his hands away, and started to tuck his shirt in. She resisted the urge to wipe her shoulder. “Izzy’s lucky to have you. We’re lucky to have you. You’re all grown-up.”

  They left, their footsteps and their voices echoing as they stumbled down the hallway and along the spiral staircase. The front doors opened, and then Uncle Wayne’s loud, raucous laughter and Aunt Betty’s high-pitched giggle were cut off as the doors closed.

  Wayne and Aunt Betty’s room was in the east wing of the mansion. They’d never stayed that close to the girls’ room, preferring to let the servants comfort the children when they had nightmares. We’re playthings to them. It wasn’t the first time Beatrice had had that thought. Toys to be taken out when they were in the mood to pretend to be Mother and Father. But when something bad happens, they’re off for a late lunch.

  Mr. Cecil was the closest thing they had to a real parent. Though he’d never said I love you, he had shown it in the ways he’d patiently dealt with them. He’d taught her so many scientific principles and had always been willing to talk about intellectual things.

  But he was willing to work Isabelle to the bone for his stupid movies! She let that thought burn for a moment.

  She wondered if word had already gotten out to the press about Isabelle fainting on-set. If so, it would be in the papers tomorrow. Robert Russel would write something clever about it. No: she corrected herself. He wouldn’t write about it. He hadn’t shown up since the party. Maybe he’d moved to Mexico and was trying to write another novel. Or back to Paris.

  She lifted a book from her bedside table. “I’m going to read one of your favourites, Isabelle,” she said. “It’s The Wizard of Oz.”

  She read aloud, each word falling from her lips. The sound of her own voice helped her focus on the story. How she wished a cyclone would pick up their room and carry them away. Maybe the wizard in Oz could fix all of their problems.

  “‘Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies,’” Beatrice read, “‘with Uncle Henry, who was a farmer, and Aunt Em, who was the farmer’s wife. Their house was small, for the lumber to build it had to be carried by wagon many miles—’”

  A creaking noise interrupted her.

  It came again. Creak. Followed by scrape. She immediately looked to the door, expecting Mr. Cecil to swing it open. He’s here. But the door remained closed.

  There was a movement in the corner of her vision. A shadow was an inch away from the windowpane. Another persistent knock followed. A hand wiped the fogged glass and a face became clear.

  20

  Raul. Grinning like mad and waving just as madly.

  Beatrice got out of bed, limped over, and unlatched the window. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  He was clinging to the lattice, moonlight making the sweat on his forehead glisten. “I needed to check up on you. To see you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Cook Zhen said you and Isabelle were on your deathbeds. Because you’re twins. The grounds staff were taking bets you’d both die before sunrise. The guards, too.”

  “Bets? But I’m not sick. And neither of us is going to die!”

  “I see that. It was gossip—that’s what the help does—we natter on about you important people.”

  “I’m not important!”

  “Yes,” he said, “you are.” He was wearing a red neckerchief. A white bandage, stained with a smattering of orange and bits of red, was peeking over the cloth.

  “What if you got caught climbing up to my room?”

  “I’m trimming the vine.” He held up a strand of Virginia creeper and then dropped it on the windowsill. “Besides, Mr. Cecil is in his cottage. And Humpty and Dumpty have gone to town.” Raul thrust his hand toward her. “Pull me in.”

  She did so. The hours of helping his father with the cutting and digging were written on his callused hands.

  “How’s your sting?” she asked.

  “My head should fall off any moment now.”

  “At least you still have your sense of humour.” Beatrice went to punch him in the shoulder, but instead gave it a gentle squeeze. Then she limped back to her sister’s side. “What would you have done if I was on my deathbed?” she asked once she was settled.

  “I’d tell you jokes until you fell off your deathbed.” He strode up to her side of the bed.

  “Ha! You’re a good boy, Raul.”

  “I’m not a boy!”

  “You’re right, you’re a crazy young wild man. And you scaled the wall like . . . like a gecko.”

  “A gecko. Thanks.” He stuck out his tongue.

  “Well, more like a Romeo, then.”

  “Romeo who?”

  “He’s from a Shakespeare play. The story ends badly, but most of his plays do. What I mean to say is, thank you, Raul.”

  “You’re welcome, friendbird.” He scratched at his bandage. Stopped himself. “And how is your sting?”

  “Peachy! My leg should fall off any moment now.”

  He lowered himself down on the bed a few inches from her feet. “We’re stupid, aren’t we?”

  “No. I was stupid. I should’ve listened to you.”

  “I am amazingly wise. I’m glad you recognize that now.”

  “Let’s not go too far.”

  Raul pointed his thumb at her sister. “Is Izzy doing all right?”

  “I’ve never seen her like this. I can’t feel her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Usually, I know exactly where she is. When she enters a room; when she wakes up. I just know she’s there. But I can’t find her now. She’s right in the room and I can’t find her. Mr. Cecil worked her too hard. The film was more important to him than she was.”

  “But she was just pretending to be someone. That doesn’t sound so hard.”

  “It’s more than that. Acting is . . . well, it’s using your energy to become someone else. The film took too much of that energy. And—”

  Her sister moved her arm the slightest bit and Beatrice felt a shock of joy. Then, a microsecond later, a sharp fear.

  “Get unde
r the bed,” she whispered.

  “What’s wrong?”

  There was a creak outside the door. The softest of footsteps. “Get under the bed! Now!”

  Raul dropped down to the floor the exact moment the door opened. She hoped the ruffle was low enough to hide him.

  Beatrice lifted her book up, feigning surprise. But could she really fool a man with such a keen sense of both the real and the pretend?

  Mr. Cecil stepped into the room. He was wearing a tan suit, and his greying hair was a little tousled, as if he’d just run his hand through it. “Good evening, Beatrice,” he said. “I’m much later than I intended to be.”

  He approached the bed. He did look concerned. Patches of tiredness lingered below his eyes. As far as she could tell he hadn’t been stung by a scorpion hornet. “How is Isabelle?”

  “She’s sick,” Beatrice answered. “You worked her too hard.”

  “She isn’t sick. She fell into herself. It was a wonderful piece of acting—she is such a once-in-a-generation natural. And it was more than that. I—we captured her scream on the Cinétone. The perfect frequency. It will change things.”

  “What do you mean?” Beatrice set The Wizard of Oz down.

  “When people watch the film they’ll hear that scream and history will spin on its axis. No film will be the same after this. I may even be so bold as to say nothing on earth will be the same.” He rested his hand on Isabelle’s forehead. “She’ll recover. You’re right, though. I overtaxed her. But I only ever do what’s necessary.”

  “Was it necessary for her to collapse?”

  “The film had to be completed. And Isabelle wanted to give it her all. She said as much to me right before the fainting spell.” He clapped his hands together. “I didn’t come just to play the physician, I also came as a friendly inquisitor. I have a few questions for you, Beatrice.”

  “Questions for me?” She had rehearsed her answer: I was in the tower all day.

  “Yes, young Miss Plato. But you weren’t being Socratic today, were you? Instead you were a girl of action. The first question I have is: Who were you talking to a moment ago?”

  “I—I was reading aloud.” She tapped the book. “It makes Isabelle feel better.”

  “I distinctly heard two voices.”

  Mr. Cecil came around to her side of the bed but showed no sign he’d seen anyone. He was rubbing the space on his left hand where his little finger had been.

  “Why is the window open?” he asked. A gentle question.

  “Uh, I was warm. And Isabelle was sweating. We needed fresh air.”

  He sniffed ever so slightly. “I’m quite certain that boy was here. Did he crawl in the window?”

  “No, he’s not here,” she said. “He hasn’t been here. I only spend time with Raul outside.”

  “Not true. He’s been in the house many times. To watch movies. To sneak up to your schoolroom and stare at insects.” He sniffed again. “There is the slightest scent of boyish childish desperation in the air. Perhaps he’s recently departed. At this very moment he might be standing in the garden looking up. Wanting to love and protect you. I know you’re wondering: Will my prince come and rescue me? A hundred thousand girls are thinking that tonight and a hundred thousand boys are wanting to climb a mountain, a tree house, a rope ladder, a”—he paused—“a lattice.” He strode over and picked up the strand of Virginia creeper, then looked out the window. “Ah, no sign of any prince. Perhaps the lion has lost his bravery. Like a tin man without a heart.”

  There was a knocking beneath the bed. Mr. Cecil turned and Beatrice sat up, bumping her head against the headboard.

  “He’s not outside,” she said. “He’s never ever been in my room.”

  Mr. Cecil went to the scorpion hornet on the wall. “The compound eye captures one image, not thousands,” he said. “And it’s adept at tracking motion.”

  “I know that,” Beatrice said, somewhat defiantly. “But a dead insect sees nothing.”

  “Don’t be so certain about that.” He touched the display glass near the insect’s head and held two fingers there. After a moment, he nodded. “The boy came in the window. He stood by your bed.”

  “How can you know that? He—didn’t. He’s at home.”

  Mr. Cecil turned away from the hanging insect and rubbed that fingerless space on his left hand again. He strode over to her bedside. His lips were a tight line. “You lied to me about him, Beatrice. And, not so long ago, you lied about Robert Russel. That pattern disappoints me. Our relationship has always been about trust. I’ve presented all the right traits and have worked so hard to insert myself as a father figure.”

  “But you are. You are.”

  He sat lightly on the edge of the bed. “Someone broke into my cottage.”

  “R-really? Was it robbers?”

  “It was an inside job, so to speak. And if you know who it was, then tell me now. I’ll forgive your trespasses. You’ll rebuild the bridge of trust. Was it that boy?”

  “Raul wouldn’t go in there.”

  “Was it you?” He spoke with such gentleness.

  A moment passed. Another. It would be so easy just to say yes. To be done with it. But what about Raul? “I—I didn’t go in your house. I know I’m not supposed to. I promise it’s true.”

  “A promise is a contract, Beatrice.” Mr. Cecil closed his eyes as if he were meditating. He stayed that way for several moments, then opened them slowly. “Our contract has been broken,” he said. Then he moved aside the sheet, uncovering her wounded leg. “Your lies are revealed.”

  “But Mr. Cecil, I—”

  He clamped a hand on her knee, tore off the bandage, and thrust his finger directly into the giant welt. “You trespassed in my home,” he said very quietly as Beatrice twisted and turned, trying to pull her leg away. “You crossed into my sacred ground—a place designed only for me. But the Zebûb has stung you. That’s your first taste of the inevitable future.”

  “You’re hurting me! Stop!”

  Mr. Cecil stared directly into her eyes and continued to press harder. She arched her back, let out a moan of pain. He didn’t stop staring. “Tell me what you saw, Beatrice. And tell me exactly what you did.”

  “I—I. Ahh. I p-pushed the window open.”

  “Yes, and you went in. I concluded that. But what did you see? What did you touch? What did you discover?”

  “I . . .” Tears were leaking from her eyes. “I didn’t see anything. N-nothing. Ahh.”

  “No more lies.”

  “Ahh. I—I touched—I touched the bauble thing. And I looked in a book. It had drawings, h-horrible drawings.”

  “Not for children to see. You are a child. What else? Speak, Beatrice.” He jabbed the wound with each word.

  “Ahhhh.”

  “I said speak. Speak the truth, Beatrice Thorn.”

  “I—I heard . . . buzzing. I picked up the jar and it slipped.”

  “And you fled?”

  “Yes. AH. Yes.” Spittle dripped from her lips. “Yes. I f-fled. Stop it. Stop it, please. Mr. Cecil. You’re killing me.”

  His eyes did not waver. “Were you alone?”

  She snapped her teeth together hard enough to make a click. “Ahhh, it hurts so.”

  “It’s meant to hurt, Beatrice. Pain teaches. The body remembers. The human mind sharpens. Now, answer me. Were you alone?”

  Her lips began to move. Raul. Raul. Raul, she thought. But she said, “I—I. Was. By. Myself.”

  Mr. Cecil pulled away his finger. He wiped it on the sheets, then gently covered her leg. He patted her shoulder. “I do this only to teach you, Beatrice. I will punish you much more severely if you disobey me again.” He stood. “I have my work to do. Keep your vigil with Isabelle and comfort her when she awakes. That is an order.” He left the room and closed the door behind him.

  It was a full five minutes before Beatrice whispered hoarsely, “He’s gone. You can come out now.”

  Raul pulled himself out from under
the bed and climbed to his feet. He looked pale and smaller. His hands trembled. Beatrice was surprised at her own anger. Why didn’t you save me? she wanted to shout. But she bit back her words.

  “What a bastard,” Raul said.

  She nearly laughed.

  21

  The night passed.

  Beatrice did not sleep much more than a few minutes at a time. Isabelle still slept soundly. The rising and falling of her chest was almost imperceptible.

  Wake up, Isabelle. Wake up. Beatrice tried to send that thought right into her sister’s head. Open your eyes. But Izzy did not stir.

  When the morning light was bright enough, Beatrice pulled back the blankets to see the swelling from the sting had slightly receded. It still throbbed, though. He laid his hand on me! Not once in her life could she remember Mr. Cecil ever getting angry. Not once had he raised his voice. And even last night he had spoken with quiet certainty. But he had caused her horrible pain on purpose.

  No. With a purpose, she decided. To control me.

  To put me in my place.

  She poked at the flesh around the wound. The welt from the sting was much larger than those she’d had from other insect bites. But it was familiar, too, and it took her a moment to run through her memories of other bites she’d seen. On her own arms. Even on Isabelle’s. But the ones that she remembered now were those on Jolly’s arms.

  Beatrice forced herself to picture Jolly’s dead body in the pool. Jolly was floating because there was still air in her lungs. She’d also been wearing a silk dress that would have trapped air (Beatrice knew it was silk because Mr. Cecil had given all the girl orphans silk dresses for the party). Jolly had been making mournful, frightened cries only a minute or so before her death. So what had killed her? Not drowning, obviously.

  The large welts had been the only obvious injury. There were at least six of them, if her memory could be trusted (and Beatrice knew memory could not always be trusted) and they were just like her own sting. But judging by the pain that one sting had caused, six would be enough to make you pass out. Or cause you to throw yourself into the pool to try to escape the agony. Then the venom had stopped the orphan’s heart.