by Nancy Chase
“Ten years, a hundred years.” The man spread his arms wide. “What matters is that your physical perfection will be preserved forever so that your fans will be able to come and see you exactly as you are now. No sad footprints in concrete. No faded photographs in a dusty album. Those don’t do justice to stars such as yourself. Just look at all those old-time actors: Rudolph Valentino, Marilyn Monroe, Tom Cruise, Julia Roberts. Who remembers anymore what made them so popular in their day? But here at House of Stars we preserve the cultural icons of our time for all time.” He shrugged sheepishly, aware that he was echoing the slogan from the brochure.
Lorraine glanced at Louie, her agent, who was sweating despite the air conditioning. He raised his bushy, caterpillar-like eyebrows and smiled a wide toothpaste-ad smile. Clearly he wasn’t going to be any help. She sighed. “So, this isn’t like one of those tacky wax museums, right? I can’t stand those.”
“No, no,” the man in the white coat assured her. “This is very dignified. After all, we are preserving the mortal remains of some of the world’s most beloved celebrities. It is a modern version of a cemetery, but as I explained, we don’t put our clients in underground tombs to decay. We preserve them in beautiful glass dioramas of their choosing, so they can spend their eternities surrounded by their fondest memories.”
“And people come visit these... dioramas?” It sounded suspiciously like the dusty old stuffed birds and antelopes she had seen in the natural history museum she’d visited once back in grade school.
“Oh yes. Fans make pilgrimages and gain inspiration from seeing their heroes and heroines.”
Fat Louie was looking at his watch. Damn him if he thought he could hurry her through this decision. She was determined to ask all the questions she wanted until she felt comfortable with her decision. “Just movie stars, right? I don’t want to be stuck in with a bunch of nobodies.”
“Movie stars, sports celebrities, some of the better known political figures. The cost of preservation is quite high, as you can see by the contract I gave you. So you can be assured, the expense will keep the riffraff out.”
“It’d better, for that price. All right, give me a pen. Louie says the contract looks all right, so I’ll sign. If my doctors are right, it’s not like I have a lot of time to spare.”
The man in the white coat beamed. “You’ve made an excellent choice. Your fans will thank you for generations. We’ll get started right away on the Oscar night diorama we discussed.”
She scribbled her signature and handed back the pen. “Now we’re all legal. Okay, Louie, you can stop fidgeting. Let’s go.”
The man in the white coat touched her arm. “Oh, Ms. Dupree? There’s just one more thing.”
She rolled her eyes. “Make it quick then, Louie looks like he’s about to have a coronary.”
The man gestured to a white-clad nurse who stepped forward and deftly plunged a large needle into Lorraine’s arm. The room began spinning in a most unsettling way. Her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor.
“You see,” the man in the white coat explained in his calm, friendly voice. “Chemotherapy, such as your doctor prescribed, is very destructive to a person’s looks. It makes you gaunt and sick, and your hair falls out. No one wants to see that for eternity. If we permitted that, ticket sales would plummet. So, I’m afraid we’ll have to start your preservation process now, while you’re still looking your best.”
“What?” Her lips would barely move, and the room was growing dark.
“Is she out?” Louie peered down and nudged her body with his toe.
“Yes, quite.” The man in the white coat checked her wrist for a pulse, found none. “Smooth as cream, just as planned. You can expect your commission check to be in the mail tomorrow morning. It’s always a pleasure doing business with you.”
Mattie crept down the carpeted stairs and crouched on the fourth step so she could peer through the banister into the living room where the grownups were. She knew she was supposed to be asleep, but all the voices were keeping her awake. At first, she’d thought it was a party, like for Christmas or maybe a birthday, but no one seemed to be having a good time. Mommy was leaning on Uncle Bob’s shoulder, and she couldn’t see Daddy anywhere.
Softly, she padded down the stairs and into the kitchen. Aunt Ellen was there, rearranging a bunch of casserole dishes in the refrigerator. It must be some kind of dumb grownup party where everyone brought tuna casserole instead of presents and then stood around looking sad. If only Daddy were here, he’d tell a joke to make them all laugh, and they’d stop looking like their faces were frozen in place.
Aunt Ellen’s broad rump swung around as she reached for the Tupperware dish of fruit salad on the counter. Mattie ducked back out into the hall to avoid being scolded for wandering around the house barefoot in her nightgown. Mattie liked going barefoot, but Aunt Ellen always insisted that bare feet led to head colds.
Daddy’s coat wasn’t hanging in the front hallway. Maybe he wasn’t home yet. Maybe this was a surprise party for him. Lightning flashed outside and rain drummed against the windows. Maybe the rain was making Daddy late. With a sigh, Mattie sat back down on the bottom step to wait.
After what seemed like a long time, two beams of light swung into the driveway, and she heard a car door slam. A moment later, the front door opened.
“Daddy!” Mattie sprang up and flung herself to embrace his legs. He froze in place, then swayed as if he’d had the wind knocked out of him. See? He was playing games already. She hadn’t really hit him that hard.
“John?” Mommy’s voice spiked through the din of conversation. It sounded alarmed, the way it had when Mattie had chased her ball out into the street without looking first. Everyone turned toward the door. “John, what’s wrong? Are you all right?”
Daddy hung up his rain-drenched hat and tossed his coat on a hook. His eyes looked kind of red, and he swallowed hard before he managed to speak. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. It was just—I almost expected to see her when I came in, that’s all.”
Mommy hugged him tight. “I know. I feel exactly the same way. Did you get all the arrangements made?”
“Yes. Everything’s set. The music, the service. Pink carnations.” He choked up and couldn’t say any more, but Mommy nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “Those were always Mattie’s favorite.”
Beep.
Reenie, hey, it’s me Becca. It’s Saturday afternoon, about one o’clock. I guess you’re not at home. Does this mean everything went well last night with you-know-who? Was it amazing? You better tell me everything, I can’t wait to hear about it. I’ll see you later at the mall like we planned, okay? And I want details, you lucky dog!
Beep.
Hi Loreen. It’s Mom. It’s Saturday, about two-thirty. I was hoping to catch you at home. Can you stop by later? I wanted to give you some of those peach preserves I made yesterday. Oh, and Robert keeps calling here asking about you. I didn’t give him your new number, but what do you want me to tell him? He sounds upset.
Beep.
Hello, Beanie-baby. Guess who? Bet you thought you’d heard the last of me, didn’t you? But I don’t give up easy, you ought to know that by now. I got friends too, and they tell me what you’ve been up to. I know where you were last night, you cheap slut. Did you think I wouldn’t find out? You better call me back, pronto. I got some things I want to say to you.
Beep.
Good morning gorgeous! Well, good afternoon, actually. Wow. I just wanted to tell you what a wonderful time I had last night. I’d love to see you again real soon. How about dinner tomorrow? Call me!
Beep.
All right, bitch! I’m getting tired of waiting. If you don’t call me back, I’m gonna come looking. And you won’t like that, believe me you won’t, not you or your new little boyfriend either. I’m not kidding. I know where you hang out, I know where you work. Don’t think I can’t find you just because you moved to a new apartment to get away from me. Didn’t take me lon
g to get your new number, did it?
Beep.
Reenie, it’s Becca again. It’s five o’clock on Saturday. Where were you? I waited for an hour at the mall, but you never showed. Come on, now, he can’t have been that good. Call me back, I’m starting to get worried. Robert left four messages on my cell phone asking where you were. The asshole’s flipping out. Watch your back, okay?
Beep.
Miss Loreen Carpenter? This is Officer Wade at the Spring County Police Department. We’ve recovered your blue Dodge Neon from the scene of a crime in the parking lot of the Spring Valley Mall. Your purse and some of your personal effects were found in the car. We’re launching an investigation into what happened, so please call us back as soon as possible. Thank you.
Beep.
The feast was over. The musicians and dancers had long since retired. A few drunken knights and lords snored next to overturned goblets of mead, and the wolfhounds dozed before the smoldering fire in the great stone fireplace. Prince Idris leaned over and whispered to his new bride, “I have a gift for you.”
Aeliana herself was sleepy and nodding from too much wine, but the sweet sound of his voice and his warm breath on her neck revived her. She put her hand in his and followed him up a curved stairway to his chamber in the topmost tower.
He pushed open the heavy oak door and guided her inside. The room was dim, lit only by a single, flickering candle, but she could see at once the spectacular decorations. The walls were painted to resemble an apple orchard in bloom, the ceiling studded with silver beads to look like stars. And in the center of it all, the most glorious bed!
It was swathed in bed curtains of pale silk as sheer as moonlight. The bedposts were thick as trees, with curving branches that laced together above the bed itself. Each post was covered with the most intricate carvings Aeliana had ever seen. One was carved to look like a tall stone tower with many steps and a beautiful woman combing her hair in the topmost window. Another was a huge tree, ringed round with all the creatures of the forest: stags, foxes, badgers, field mice, and hares. The third was a craggy peak, veiled with a tumbling waterfall. The fourth showed a swirling spiral of winged creatures: butterflies, sparrows, gulls, dragonflies, eagles, larks.
Aeliana was so entranced, she nearly forgot her waiting bridegroom. “Do you like it?” he asked softly.
“Oh, yes. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”
“It is a faerie bed,” he said. “Brought from my homeland, as a gift for my lovely new bride.” When he slipped an arm around her waist and kissed the tip of her ear, all her bones turned to honey. His touch always did that. “Would you like to try it out?”
He parted the bed curtains as if they were nothing more substantial than mist. Within, the bedcovers were embroidered with thousands of flowers and fruits. Daisies, trilliums, heartsease, and roses entwined with grapes, apples, currants, and pears. “It is a bed for magic,” Idris murmured, stroking her hair. “A bed for fertility. Feel how soft it is? I think it will suit you.”
He was stirring such heat in her veins, she thought her knees would buckle. She swayed, trying to focus on his words. “A faerie bed? Then that means what they say about you is true?”
His eyes crinkled, sparking with green fire. “That I am a prince of the fae folk? Indeed.”
She had heard the gossip, of course, but until now she had never believed. She turned her gaze back to the bed. “They say that anyone who sleeps in a faerie bed will never get back out of it.”
“Would that be such a bad thing?” Idris chuckled. His breath smelled of apple blossoms, and this time his kiss lingered on her lips until stars bloomed behind her eyes.
She giggled. “No, I suppose not.” With trembling fingers, she loosened the laces on her gown until it tumbled to the floor around her ankles. Wearing nothing but her chemise, she leaped playfully into the bed.
And vanished.
A tall figure stepped out from a corner of the room where he had been all but invisible until now. Unsurprised, Idris turned to greet him. “Hello, Father.”
The older man nodded. “You were right. She is lovely. She will make a fine wife for you in Faerie, if she does not pine away like the others, missing her homeland.”
“She is young,” Idris said. “She will adjust.”
The faerie king smiled. “If that is true, perhaps soon there will be more faerie children to swell our numbers. Meanwhile, her lands and wealth will fund our further dealings here in the sunlit world. Soon we will take back all our old realms from these mortal interlopers. Now, tell me, son. Where shall we find your next bride?”
It’s noon and nothing is concluded. The judge clenches his teeth, waiting for the damned lawyer to finish whining, then taps his gavel and dismisses the court for lunch. Arguments will resume at one-thirty.
He hurries back to chambers and fumbles open the pill bottle. The burning in his chest hasn’t subsided, so he chokes down two more pills. Maybe it isn’t heartburn. Maybe it isn’t stress and meatball subs. It’s been keeping him awake almost every night, nights he’s spent browsing through health sites on the internet. Lately, two words have been appearing with alarming regularity. Esophageal cancer.
He puts down the pill bottle and picks up his phone. Halfway through dialing his doctor’s number, he panics and sets it down again.
* * * * *
It’s noon and nothing is concluded. Juror six shoves a handful of quarters into the vending machine in the basement. She gets her lunch here every day because she can’t bear to accompany her peppy, extroverted fellow jurors to the pub-and-grill across the street, no matter how good the burgers supposedly are.
Quarters rattle down. A Snickers bar, a bag of Cheetos, a packet of Slim Jims, and a Diet Coke tumble into the trays below. But when she bends to collect them, a voice behind her shoots her straight upright.
“Eating a healthy lunch again, I see.” It’s the janitor, wheeling his yellow mop bucket of dirty water. He is standing too close. He’s blocking the only way out of the alcove. He smiles, showing brown, tobacco-stained teeth. He’s not looking at her face. He’s leering at her chest.
* * * * *
It’s noon and nothing is concluded. The prosecuting attorney stands in the courthouse vestibule, talking on her cell phone. A colleague passing by pats her on the shoulder. “Hey, Killer. I hear you really nailed the bastard in there. This case is a lock!” She frowns and turns away, pressing her hand over her free ear. The vet is saying, “I’m sorry. Muffin was a very old cat. There was nothing we could do.” She holds her voice steady as she thanks the man, but tears are turning her mascara to pools of sludge.
* * * * *
It’s noon and nothing is concluded. Juror three is sitting on a bench showing juror eleven how to do the intricate cable stitch in the sweater she is knitting for her grandson. It is a sunny day, but the shade is cool and pleasant beneath the trees outside the courthouse. This is much better than spending another day alone in that big, empty house watching game shows on TV. She wonders if it would be a sin to try to stretch the trial out a few extra days by pretending to be confused or indecisive once they get to the deliberation room.
* * * * *
It’s noon and nothing is concluded. Juror two rushes to the pub across the street and orders a shot of whiskey—no, make that a double. He has already checked his cell phone for messages, but there weren’t any. Where is she? He can’t believe he’s stuck here in jury duty with this pack of imbeciles when he should be out looking for her. Why would she leave? He’d apologized twice already, and the bruising was hardly noticeable anymore anyway. She had no right just to pack up the kids and disappear like that!
* * * * *
It’s noon and nothing is concluded. The defense attorney glares across the table at his client, who crunches his salad too loudly and has a habit of spitting out flecks of half-chewed lettuce while laughing at his own idiotic jokes. Clearly the man has no conscience.
The attorney has neve
r realized before how much he hates his clients. They are scum, all of them. How is he supposed to build a career, earn professional respect, make enough money to pay his son’s college tuition, when he is stuck defending idiots who clearly deserve to be behind bars? This case is already as good as lost, he can feel it. The judge had been irritable, the jury indifferent, yet—as usual—he is stuck here, forced to smile and mouth encouragement to a client who would do the world a favor if he would just slip in the shower some morning and crack open his thick skull.
* * * * *
It’s noon and nothing is concluded. The defendant swaggers into the pub with his attorney. Several of the jurors are already seated at a table near the window. He pretends not to notice when they glance his way. It’s important to seem calm, confident, and—most importantly—innocent. He’s not on the witness stand now. Here in the pub, he can show them he’s just a regular guy, like them.
He slaps his attorney on the back. “You’re doing a hell of a job!” he says, a little too loudly. He flirts with the waitress. He eats with gusto. He tells outrageous anecdotes, summoning reserves of good cheer enough for two, since his prim little accountant-looking lawyer has so little to say.
It doesn’t matter if he has a wuss for a lawyer. People like him for his easy ways and ready laugh. He’s charmed himself out of worse jams than this before. He glances toward the table by the window to see if the jurors seem impressed, but they are no longer looking in his direction.
* * * * *
It’s one-thirty and court is back in session.
