Flickers

by Arthur Slade

  So Jolly had encountered the same scorpion hornets. And she had died. Perhaps she also sneaked into the cottage. It was curious how that made Beatrice feel as if they were friends. But what did she discover? And were the hornets let out of their jar on purpose? Perhaps to silence Jolly forever.

  She thought back to the money Mr. Cecil had given the sergeant. Maybe the cop knew the death wasn’t an accident, and he had taken the payment to cover up the facts.

  Beatrice wondered if the scorpion hornets had bitten anyone else, but Raul had never encountered them before. She also spent time outside nearly every day and actually pursued insects and had not seen any other proof of their existence. Maybe there was something in one of her notebooks.

  Beatrice slid out of bed and limped over to the dresser. She opened the bottom drawer, where she kept a few of her older notebooks and several scrapbooks. She flipped through them, then stopped when she got to a scrapbook of newspaper stories. They were mostly about Isabelle or Mr. Cecil, but she remembered a recent article that had actually been written by Robert Russel. She found it again and began to read:

  The New York Times

  Saturday, April 12, 1926

  The Russel Hollywood Report

  Bigger is always better in this land of dreams. And two of the biggest names in Hollywood are battling to have the biggest theatre. Mr. Cecil’s Theatre Eternal and Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. It’s like watching giants fighting with stone.

  On Hollywood Boulevard it took the muscles of 150 men and the power of two steam cranes to lift the black marble pillars of Theatre Eternal into position. The impressive dark pillars were imported from Italy—money is no object in this world of film. The theatre’s walls are massive and equally dark and there are no windows. Mr. Cecil planned it that way, for there is no point in having windows in a theatre; it is a place where you gaze into another world. It took fifteen months and over $800,000 to bring the theatre to this juncture, the first crew working all day and the second crew labouring all night under a massive array of electrical lights. When the theatre is finished it will seat 1,333 people, one of the largest movie theatres in the world.

  The theatre is being constructed directly across the street from Grauman’s Chinese Theatre so that the two are facing off against each other, one orange and white and the other the colour of the darkest dark. Each day they battle for the attention of those who pass by in automobiles, on foot, or on bicycle. People even take bets on which will be finished first. Grauman’s Chinese Theatre is the nearest to completion and most who laid down money did bet on that one. After all, this is Grauman’s third major theatre. But just last week twenty of the workers and all six of the foremen employed by Grauman fell sick after being bitten by particularly nasty (and—if the stories can be believed—giant) wasps. Two of the men actually died from the bites. The welts were said to be the size of baseballs! The lack of strong backs was enough to stop construction.

  Who will win this madcap race? The name of Mr. Cecil’s theatre is etched in Latin across a huge slab of black stone that dominates the front stairs: THEATRUM AETERNUM. But that is too long and too foreign a name for the public to use, so it has become known as the Theatre Eternal. It is a place of dreams.

  And this is the city where people dream big.

  The Theatre Eternal was completed now and waiting for Frankenstein. It was that line about the insects that had caught in Beatrice’s memory. It wormed its way into her thoughts. Into her logic. She had discovered giant wasplike creatures in his cottage. And they obviously hadn’t stung him. And if he could control them, could he also send them after the workers at Grauman’s Theatre?

  She looked up at the framed scorpion hornet on the wall. Last night, Mr. Cecil had seemed to be communicating with the dead insect. The thing stared at her with its compound eyes.

  So little of this was making any logical sense.

  She felt a chill, so she pulled on her khakis. When she opened the stockings drawer she gently removed several of Raul’s drawings and set them on the dresser, then retrieved the photograph of her father from the bottom. She had discovered the photo in her aunt and uncle’s room years earlier, while she and Isabelle were playing hide-and-seek. She’d stolen it and a matchbox containing three of her father’s medals from the Boer War—one silver and two bronze—and squirrelled away her discoveries here.

  She lifted up the photograph. It was the only picture of her father she’d seen. He was holding a calf in his arms, his sleeves rolled back enough to show his muscles. His face was determined, wrinkled by time and the sun. Ernest Thorn, 1910, was written on the back. Only three years before she was born.

  She wished she could somehow reach into the photograph to take her father’s hand. To be there. In the same time, the same place as him. It was where she truly belonged. But he was forever frozen in that pose, in the past, and she was forever stuck in the present.

  She clutched the photo to her chest, then put it back in the drawer. She touched the war medals for good luck. Superstition, she thought. Then she snapped up the medal with the image of Queen Victoria on the front and stuffed it in her pocket. She closed the drawer.

  With the medal serving as a comforting weight, Beatrice went to the wall and examined the insect Mr. Cecil had given her. He’d called it a Zebûb. The name was unfamiliar. It sounded almost Arabian—not Latin, as was used by scientists for naming insects. But Mr. Cecil had said the sting was her first taste of the inevitable future. What could that possibly mean?

  She was tempted to smash the glass, but then the beast might fly away. It was dead, wasn’t it? She took the frame down and went into the closet. Lifting aside Gibbon’s Decline and Fall, she picked up the tin can. She placed the framed specimen and the can in a pillowcase and set them next to the bedroom door.

  A pinch of pinkness had appeared in Isabelle’s cheek. Beatrice sat on the bed and took her sister’s hand. “I’m going out. I need fresh air. But if you want me just call and I’ll come to you, Izzy. You don’t even have to call all that loud.”

  There was no response.

  Beatrice carried the pillowcase out of the room. When she was outside, she grabbed a shovel from the garden shed and dug a hole in the soft dirt of the vineyard. She dropped the pillowcase inside and filled the hole, all the while thinking she heard buzzing. She stamped on the earth until it was packed, brushed her hands on her trousers, and went back into the mansion.

  She spent the rest of the day and the evening at her sister’s side. Isabelle did not wake up.

  22

  The shades were up and the morning sun brightened the room. Beatrice first felt a throb in the centre of the welt on her leg, then she heard a soft humming and opened her eyes to slits. Isabelle was combing her hair in front of the mirror. Beatrice sat up.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” Isabelle said. Her hair was down past her shoulders, the silver brush made it glisten in the light.

  “You’re awake!”

  “Oh, you’re amazingly observant!” Isabelle answered with a laugh. “And I’m ready to take on the whole big, wide world. You, piggietoes, have been snoring for the last hour.”

  “I don’t snore.”

  “You did this morning, Beets. Thunderous, blunderous snoring.”

  “Oh. Sorry. How . . . how do you feel?”

  “I slept like a log. Like a baby. Like a baby on a log.” Another chuckle. “Like Sleeping Beauty.”

  “You slept for two days, Izzy.”

  “That’s what Mr. Cecil said. I must’ve been very tired.” She stood and did a twirl, her hair flying. “I feel brand-spanking new, Beets. Get up! I ordered eggs and bacon and pancakes for breakfast. Today’s a holiday. Maybe we can walk along the beach. Or picnic at the zoo and throw peanuts to the monkeys.”

  “Did you say you spoke to Mr. Cecil already this morning?”

  “Yes, he was here twenty minutes ago.”

  Beatrice clutched the sheets. “I didn’t wake up?”

  “No, you
didn’t, sleepyhead. And we weren’t even trying to be quiet. He promised some very special and amazing surprise today. To celebrate the film being finished. Get up, Beets!” Then Isabelle did something she hadn’t done since she was a child: she jumped on the bed. And continued to pop up and down, saying, “Get up! Get up! Get up! The morning is zooming by. A day just for fun!” She hopped down to the floor. “It’s like Christmas and a birthday all rolled into one.”

  Beatrice got out of bed.

  “What’s that bandage on your leg?” Isabelle asked.

  “Oh. This? Nothing.” There wasn’t any blood or pus showing. There was a heartbeat when she almost told Isabelle everything that had happened. But not yet. Her sister had just come out of a coma-like sleep. No sense in troubling her further. “I fell off my bicycle.”

  “Well, you should be more careful, sis!”

  “I will, I promise.” She ran her hands over her skull—all those indentations and unsightly clumps reminded her of the surface of the moon. They were meant to be hidden. She carefully tied her scarves in place, letting the ends run down her back like hair. She glanced at the mirror, but nothing had changed in her appearance. She dressed in khakis and a white shirt.

  The sisters walked downstairs, Isabelle in the lead. She even slid down the banister for the last few steps.

  Uncle Wayne and Aunt Betty were sitting at the main dining table in their matching blue silk pajamas. “Good morning, you lovely flappers,” Aunt Betty said.

  Uncle Wayne paused between gulps of his orange juice. “It’s about time you rascals joined us. The day isn’t getting any younger and neither is Betty.”

  Aunt Betty gave him a playful slap. “I’m younger than you—you cradle-robber.”

  Uncle Wayne’s eyes were red-tinged, but he’d shaved and his cheeks and chin were smooth. “Well, little Miss Isabelle Lazarus Thorn has awakened! Just in time to fill her guts. We’re having chicken and pig for breakfast. And fried potatoes. And pancakes! This is not what actors are supposed to eat, but today is a day off. From everything! A day off forever!”

  Beatrice and Isabelle sat across from them. Mrs. Madge rolled in a loaded trolley and set the large silver platters on the table: a plate of perfectly fried eggs, yellow wiggling eyes of yolk watching them. The bacon was crisp and the sight of it made the twins salivate at the same time. A mountain of fried potatoes waited in a silver bowl. There were also two tall plates of toast and several jars of Knott’s Family Preserves. And a neatly stacked pile of pancakes. It was almost a perfectly normal day, Beatrice thought.

  Each time Mrs. Madge swung the kitchen door open Beatrice would glance inside. None of the staff were within sight. It was as if ghosts were making breakfast.

  “It’s a Sunday dinner on a Thursday morning,” Isabelle said. “Sunday dinner on a Thursday.”

  Uncle Wayne held up a piece of bacon in his already greasy fingers. “Your father would eat this sort of grub every day. Then go off and cut down twenty trees and milk thirty cows.”

  “Did you have very many meals with him and our mother?” Beatrice asked.

  “Oh, when I was a kid Ma would take us over to their ugly little sod house for family get-togethers. Your mom could cook, almost as good as Zhen and her brood. But ol’ Ernest was the king of grumps. He once nearly tugged my ear off. He said I’d taken too much sugar. He was a mean, mean old codger.”

  “Yes, he was,” Betty agreed. “He threatened me with an axe.”

  Beatrice had heard this story a thousand times. The day Aunt Betty and Uncle Wayne had arrived to see the twin sisters and were turned away by The Angry Dumb Farmer with an axe. Beatrice was pretty sure her father had a good reason to be holding that axe.

  “Was my mother beautiful?” Isabelle asked. She’d asked this same question ten thousand times.

  “Gorgeous,” Wayne said. “She could’ve been a star. Every stubble-jumper in that corner of Alberta wondered how your dad had won her. He must’ve had some secret sweet-talking side. Or she liked them big and dumb. She was the belle of the prairies.” He poked the air with his index finger. “Now that could be a movie title, couldn’t it? I should mention that one to Mr. Cecil.”

  “‘The Belle of the Prairies,’” Isabelle repeated. “Oh, I’d like to star in that. As the daughter, of course. It could be a reenactment of my real life. The tragic death of the beautiful mother. The father driven mad by sadness. The burning house.”

  “And the aunt and uncle who swoop in to save you at the last minute,” Betty added.

  “Ohhh. It’s all coming together.” Isabelle clapped her hands. “And the daughter goes on to become a movie star.”

  “Our life is more than a movie story,” Beatrice said.

  “I could be the belle!” Betty said, holding her glass aloft.

  “You could be the good friend of the belle,” Wayne suggested. “The confidante. Or the parson’s wife.”

  Betty slammed down her glass of cranberry juice hard enough that the ice rattled. “Parson’s wife? That’s stupid. Your movie idea is stupid.”

  “It’s a good one. I’m going to tell Mr. Cecil.” He scratched the back of his skull. “I just had another idea. I was going to shoot clay pigeons at the club, but this is even more fun. I’ll drive the three of us out to the beach. We could have a picnic.”

  “That’s too much work,” Betty said.

  He waved his perfectly manicured hand. “Oh, the help will throw it all together. You’ll just have to put a bonnet over your hair to keep it from blowing in the wind. I won’t drive too fast. I could bring wine and milk for Isabelle. Wine for us, I mean, of course. And cheese and bread and it could be all Parisian.”

  “Wine would be a nice touch.” Betty scrunched her lips together. “Yes, I suppose we can do that. But I need a new cover-up. My old ones have shrinked. Shrunk, however you say that.”

  “We don’t have to swim,” Uncle Wayne said. “We’ll just be a happy family on a picnic. They’ll make postcards of us and sell them to families that don’t live our lives. It’ll be—”

  “A picnic is a lovely idea,” Mr. Cecil spoke from behind Beatrice. She shuddered. “But just a romantic husband-and-wife getaway from the children, from all your responsibilities. Perhaps even stay long enough at the beach to watch the sunset.”

  “That’s even better,” Uncle Wayne said. “A romantic getaway is exactly what Betty and I need.” He pinched her cheek.

  Mr. Cecil rested his hands on the back of the chair next to Beatrice. She leaned away from him.

  “I’ll take the twins for a drive myself, today,” Mr. Cecil said.

  “Even Beatrice?” Aunt Betty said.

  “Yes, especially Beatrice. It’s time she started seeing a few things. The real world.”

  “Oh, that’s a great surprise!” Isabelle said. She grabbed Beatrice’s hand. “We’re going on a trip together.”

  Beatrice nearly choked on her toast. What would he do to her? To them?

  “I had . . . I had an idea, Mr. Cecil,” Uncle Wayne said. “A really good one. It’s about a film. A prairie idea. I even had a title. It’s—it’s—”

  “Tell me later,” Mr. Cecil said. “This is your time off. Forget about films. Forget your responsibilities.”

  “Oh,” Uncle Wayne said. “I will. I will. Films forgotten. Responsibilities forgotten.”

  “And you two ladies,” Mr. Cecil continued. “I want you to be ready for twelve noon exactly.”

  “How should I dress?” Isabelle was still holding Beatrice’s hand. “Will we be taking the open car? Do I need a bonnet?”

  “We’ll be in the Lincoln. Dress as though you’re going out for lunch at a fancy establishment. Please wear sunglasses to hide your faces, both of you. Hats with veils, too. Something stylish but not too eye-catching. We’re going incognito.”

  “Incognito!” Isabelle repeated. “That sounds like we’re spies. It’ll be a grand adventure.”

  “Oh, I’m certain it will,” Mr. Cecil agreed. He patte
d Beatrice on the shoulder, then left the room.

  23

  At twelve noon, Isabelle and Beatrice walked out the front doors of La Casa Grande, wearing sunglasses, cloche hats, and dresses that weren’t too flashy. Isabelle had taken great joy in helping her sister pick a grey dress and put it on properly.

  Across the driveway, Raul stood halfway up a small ladder that was leaning on a palm tree. He snipped at the leaves with a pair of clippers. He gave Beatrice a subtle wave and mouthed the words: How are you?

  Fine, Beatrice mouthed back. She managed a half-hearted smile. Fine is not the right word, she thought. Dread was in her bones.

  “Is he your boy?” Isabelle asked.

  “No.”

  “What’s his name again?”

  “Raul. You know that.”

  “Why should I know that?” She rolled her eyes. “He’s cute, Beets. I’m so glad you have someone to play with while I’m off working.”

  “I don’t just play while you’re gone. And he’s not mine. At least not in that way.”

  “The Beatrice doth protest too much,” Isabelle said. “Maybe we should take him with us for lunch.”

  “Mr. Cecil wouldn’t stand for that.”

  “I was joking, Beets. You don’t take garden boys to lunch. That only happens in the movies.” She chuckled. “Plus this is your big trip out. Who would want to share it with a stranger?”

  The Lincoln Town Car came up the paved road from Mr. Cecil’s house. Raul climbed down the ladder and disappeared into the foliage.

  “Our royal carriage is here, sis,” Isabelle said.

  Mongo stepped out of the car and opened the door to the passenger compartment. Beatrice peered in. Mr. Cecil was sitting in the back seat, his hands resting on his knees. He smiled and gestured for them to enter. Isabelle, without hesitation, slid next to him. Beatrice’s legs had turned to stone. But her sister was in there. She had to go. She forced herself to move, and sat alone on the opposite seat.