Borderlands 3

by Thomas F. Monteleone (Ed. )

  "You know, Patty, I just might take you up on your offer to do something with my hair. Yours always looks so... so Hollywood. Maybe a few curls would erase some of the years."

  Before Patty could answer, Lorene responded in a timid voice. "Please don't, Megan. I like your hair. It reminds me of Mama's, long and silky and that rare shade of auburn. Just like Mama's, remember, Meg? Remember how sweet it smelled and how she'd let us brush it out fan-shaped on long summer nights on the back porch? Then she'd squeeze us quick-like, and we'd snuggle our nose into her neck where it was warm and smelled of gardenias. Then Papa would come out...", her voice trailed away.

  "Don't you dare say one cross word about Papa," Edwina scolded. "You're just jealous, 'cuz he loved me best. You accused him of VILE things, horrid, unnatural acts. You almost convinced Mama, until I spoke up and told the truth. It was natural, after that, that he didn't want anything to do with you and turned to me for affection. You couldn't stand that he gave me little gifts and took me with him on the train to Phoenix that time and tucked me in bed at night. You're a jealous, spiteful, wicked girl, and that's why I remember Papa so clearly and you can't." Edwina settled back in her chair, a smug smile curving her lips.

  "Girls, girls, calm down," Patty intervened. "We're upsetting our hostess, and after she went to such pains to entertain us." She winked at no one in particular. "Lorene, you're right about Mama. She was a real lady, but she shoulda listened to us. I'm not saying she was wrong in ignoring our... problem; poor dear had troubles of her own. What with the cancer and all." Her voice rose as she faced Edwina.

  "But for you to defend that sweaty-palmed bastard is more than I can bear. 'Let me touch you, honey," Patty mimicked. "This won't hurt a bit, just relax. Don't cry; you're daddy's brave little sweetheart. Make Daddy happy and he'll buy you that pretty little sweater you been eyeing down to Fander's Department Store." She paused, her throat tight with unshed tears.

  "Don't you go making out our dear Daddy was anything but an incestuous child molester. He made us what we are today. Me and Lorene and Megan and even you, Edwina. You're a dried-up old maid, terrified of men. Me, I'm so hungry for a man's attention I sell myself to the lowest bidder. Megan lost her child because she couldn't stand up to a man, and Lorene destroyed her child before some man could snatch it from her. We owe all THIS to Papa. May he rot in hell." Lifting her water goblet, she toasted the man in question and spat the mouthful of water on the floor.

  Voices raged around her, cried within her, until Megan thought she'd go mad. Clumsily, she scooted back her chair, excused herself to bring in the puddings. She placed each inside a custard cup, dolloped them with a spoonful of lemon sauce, set them on a tray. Lost Boy met her at the doorway.

  "Think I'll skip dessert. Got to meet somebody."

  "We started this meal together; we'll finish it together," Meg said.

  "Please, Meg, I'm scared. I got the shakes. I need a fix so bad. Don't make me..."

  "I'm sorry, but I must insist. Besides, there's a little surprise baked inside each pudding. Just like when we were growing up and Mama would bake a treat inside the Christmas pudding."

  Lost Boy's eyes brightened as he recalled the Christmas dinners before Mama had gotten too sick to make an effort. "Is there a surprise in mine, Megan? Is there? You wouldn't lie to me?"

  She smiled, shaking her head. He held the door wide so she could maneuver the tray. Setting it on a wobbly tv tray, she served each of her companions.

  Charlie's spoon picked at the moist crust on top. "Looks familiar but damned if I know why."

  Lost Boy burst into speech. "It's a tiny Christmas pudding, Charlie. Like the kind Mama used to bake. 'Member, Charlie?" Lost Boy's voice was animated, high-pitched with childish excitement. "An' Megan says there's a treat inside each pudding. We all got our very own surprise. Neato, huh?"

  Finally, the mood around the table was one of merriment. Each of the guests carefully spooned into his dessert, searching for the elusive gift. The seat at Charlie's right remained empty, but Megan had placed a pudding out for Keeper. It was getting late, but there was still a chance...

  Charlie was the first to find a charm: the bell. "Ahh," he approved, then frowned as he peered closer at the miniature. "Damned if there isn't some kind of flaw. There's a crack in the bell." A crack in his armor against danger.

  Next to him, Edwina stared aghast at the thimble, for it predicted she would remain unmarried "a dried-up old maid, terrified of men."

  When Lorene removed the bisque baby from the cup, contact with the cold spoon caused the glaze to craze. As everyone watched, the baby shattered into dozens of glass slivers, which fell like shrapnel on the table.

  During baking, Lost Boy's "good fortune" pig had melted. It was a solid pink teardrop, a bead of fetal tissue—the unrealization of fortune of any kind.

  The acorn in Patty's cake was swollen and cracked. She picked it up, dropped it immediately as heat seared her skin. Her laughter was a cry of pain. "How droll. A nut keeps away illness. Guess what, folks? I've been such a busy little career gal that I neglected to visit the clinic like I should." She chuckled between tears, questioned Meg, "What did the giftee give to you?"

  Megan held two halves of a horseshoe pinched between thumb and forefinger. "So much for warding off the evil eye," she said.

  Their voices were angry, plaintive, accusing—buzzing and colliding inside her skull like a swarm of bees. The candles wavered, dimmed, fought back into elongated flames. The stillness was immediate, oppressive.

  "I'm here," the voice growled. "Will no one greet me?"

  Keeper was greeted with fear-drugged silence.

  "Not even you, Megan; you who invited me to this multiple gathering, this gathering of multiples." His shout of laughter shook the table, set the water sloshing in the glasses. Keeper recited their names one-by-one: "Lost Boy, Patty, Charlie, Edwina, Lorene, Megan." As he said each name, his fingers dug into the pudding in front of him, tearing out six porcelain figures. He arranged them neatly on the cloth, all in a row: six perfect charm dolls. "It's only fair we go in birth order."

  Still, no one spoke.

  He picked up a heavy tumbler and deliberately poured water over the minute bisque bodies. They gleamed slick pink in the candlelight. "Edwina, you were born shortly before your tenth birthday. You came into being a few weeks after Papa raped you. So, my dear, you must be the first we bid farewell." The thick tumbler came crashing down upon the first of the six dolls, smashing it into bits of ground glass.

  Edwina was gone... forever.

  No one stirred or attempted to stop Keeper.

  "Patty arrived when you ran away from home at age eighteen. You had minimal job skills but knew how to please a man. Daddy taught us well. We've always been fond of you, Patty. You maintained a sense of humor throughout it all—the beatings, the rapes, the squalor. I'm sure you'll thank us." The tumbler crushed another of the dolls.

  And Patty was gone... forever.

  Using an index finger, Keeper carefully slid the bits of dust and glass cuticles into a tiny heap. "Lost Boy, you're the saddest of our creations. A woman disguised as an adolescent male, you prostituted yourself for men with no time or desire to discover your womanhood. Your addiction is not to heroin but to pain. You are every child without a mother's love—a lost child." For the first and only time, Keeper shed tears as he destroyed the third doll.

  Lost Boy was gone... forever.

  "Lorene, you are most like your late mother. She was a good woman but she was weak, unable and unwilling to protect herself or her child from the tyrant. I remember the day you joined us. It was after Megan lost custody of her first child and learned she was pregnant. The pregnancy terminated upon your arrival. You are a victim of the system, but you are a willing victim." CRASH.

  Lorene was gone... forever.

  Charlie was the first and only one to fight back. Wrenching the knife from the table, he slashed once, twice before Keeper twisted the weapon from his hand
. Parallel seams opened on the arm, seeping thick rivulets of blood that spilled onto the white linen cloth.

  Keeper ignored the wounds, even though the force of the flow lifted the torn skin to escape. "You, Charlie, are your father's most diabolical offspring. But for you, the companions may have found a way to survive, but all lived in fear of your temper, your obsession with things sharp.

  "We stopped going to the therapist to protect her from assault. We hid scars beneath long sleeves, grew our hair long so punctures and slashes would go undetected. You destroyed the system. It's with great pleasure we destroy you." The tumbler fell again and again, until the charm was fine dust. It was scraped into the pile with the rest.

  Charlie was gone... forever.

  "Ah Megan, at last, it's just you and me. We know the outcome, for you summoned me. Will you speak?"

  Megan obliged for, with the death of the others, she was almost alone within herself. "All these years, I've been afraid to say your name aloud, afraid it would bring greater pain. Keeper of the Darkness. Instead, I find you're Keeper of the Light." She paused. "They're gone, really and truly gone?"

  "Just as you intended."

  "I'm the only one left?"

  He chuckled. "Not quite, Meg. I'm the last, but I want to tidy up after you've gone. After being together all these years, you've managed to instill some housekeeping tendencies in me."

  "You lied."

  "How's that?" He was clearly startled.

  "You told Edwina she was the first to share my body. She wasn't, you know. You were."

  "I was never very good at chronological order. Remember junior high, Miss Sweetzer's Library Skills class?"

  "How could I forget?" She chuckled, then gasped.

  "Are you all right, Meg?"

  "Just a bit woozy. I get that way around blood. There seems to be quite a lot of it puddling around your arm."

  "There is indeed," was the calm observation. "Lay your head back; take a deep breath. You won't feel a thing; I promise."

  Believing him, she did as he said. The tumbler struck the figure and the table with resounding force, smashing the last personality.

  Megan, messenger for the system, was gone... forever.

  Without the original, founding personality, Keeper worked by rote. Without being aware of doing so, Megan had given him instructions. Removing the serving spoon from the curdled creamed peas, he heaped it full of porcelain crystals. They clung to the walls of his mouth, to the surface of his tongue like burrs as he swallowed, choking on the stinging sediment. He drank long and deep from Charlie's water glass, screaming as microscopic shards snagged the soft lining of his throat. The blood streaming from the corners of his mouth was hot and bitter. As his head fell forward on the table, the bright red trickle blended with the stain spreading across the linen cloth.

  The candles burned low, the wax snapping and popping as it struggled to sustain life. Seven very different personalities had come together for a party. Seven places had been set at the festive table, only one had been used. Seven had died; there was only one corpse. The candles sputtered; their dying flames silhouetting the Keeper in the Darkness.

  Night Life by Michael Cassutt

  Michael Cassutt is an interesting and talented guy. He lives in Los Angeles and works as a television writer on lots of shows you've probably seen—including that doomed gem Eerie Indiana. He's also probably the resident expert on the Soviet Space program, as well as a science fiction writer. I have the honor of having "discovered" him back in the mid-seventies when I was reading the slush-pile for Amazing Stories. I passed a Cassutt story on to Ted White, who bought it for Michael's first professional sale. Years later, we met at a convention and have been friends ever since. The following story is a hardboiled, disturbing look at a diversion that can assume a life all its own.

  They say you meet all kinds of guys in a place like the Club, but that's bullshit. It doesn't matter whether they wear suits, like the visiting businessmen, or dozer caps and jeans, like the truckers, they all want help jacking off.

  Princess spots one of them—engineer by his face, trucker by his clothes—blinking in the spotlight by the entrance. He has managed to avoid the rain, which is coming down hard, making Princess wonder if it's letting up early tonight.

  Stubbing out her cigarette, she decides to save him. Make yourself comfortable she tells him, smiling brightly, pointing toward a chair close to the stage but not at the stage. Don't scare him.

  He blinks and Princess sees he's not a trucker. He doesn't have a mustache or that windburned greasy look. He's actually quite a beautiful young man in a crisp white shirt. She's always liked beautiful young men in crisp white shirts. He must have a girlfriend who's out of town.

  He takes the seat Princess offers. Can I get you a drink? A beer, he guesses. She goes for a Lite.

  His eyes—blue with gold, the same as her own—are wide with amazement at Vanity on the stage. Vanity is impressive, Princess has to admit: her hair is so bleached it's almost white, her tits are the best money can buy, she has a creamy all-over tan. Her song says I wanna know what love is and she shows the guys she is really a blonde. Then dances off.

  He blinks and pays for the Lite. Wow.

  One of our more attractive models, Princess tells him. You're new here.

  It shows?

  It's not a crime, she says. I'll explain everything.

  That would be nice.

  You're free to sit here and watch all you want, as long as you buy a drink an hour. You can tip your waitress extravagantly, of course.

  Of course.

  If you sit at the rail, the dancer will expect a tip. How much is up to you. For ten dollars you can have a private table dance. Anything else is up to you.

  Eyes adjusted, he looks around.

  This being a Thursday in the rainy season, about eight in the evening, the Club is almost a tomb. When the rains let up, about ten, the truckers will come in. Right now there are maybe six customers of the engineer type. Princess knows three of those as regulars, harmless guys in glasses who would rather drink and watch naked women than just drink. One of the customers is having a private table dance from Lori, who will let him feel her up for an extra ten. Another one has Maxine in his lap. That's another story. There is an older girl—Crystal—behind the bar, and Rick the bouncer.

  The Club isn't bad, as these places go. Unlike the Clown Room, which burned down last week out in Belle Isle, it is pretty clean and the drinks are so overpriced that there are no regular hustles, none of that twenty-five dollar bottle of champagne shit. The Club is happy with half of the table dance money.

  What's your name?

  Princess.

  It takes him a second. Oh, he says. Did you pick that?

  Yeah. It's more ladylike than Poontang.

  It takes him another second.

  Am I bothering you? she says, motherly.

  No. Surprising me.

  What's your name?

  Ray.

  Did you pick that?

  He smiles for the first time. As a matter of fact, I did. Then he changes the subject. So pretend I asked the question.

  Narrow it down a little for me.

  What's a nice girl...?

  ...Doing in a place like this? She was beginning to think he was a lost cause. Or maybe just an innocent, like a priest out where he shouldn't be. Making a thousand a week, she says, finally. And maybe I'm not so nice.

  You look nice.

  Thank you.

  I'm boring you.

  No. He wasn't, really. Look, she says, since you're new here, I'm a stripper. You're a customer. Both of us are in different ends of the same business. I'm selling a... a fantasy. That's what you're buying.

  You've given this some thought.

  Between dances I study.

  Working your way through college.

  Working my way back in. Maybe.

  Vanity's number ends. Princess nods at Rick, the manager, who is indicating that she's up n
ext.

  When will I see you again? Ray asks.

  In about three minutes. She gets up, adjusts her teddy, then leans over Ray. He smells as good as she hoped. Don't ask too many questions, she says. It spoils the fantasy. Then she goes backstage.

  ▼

  The first time Princess danced nude she was so drunk she almost fell off her heels. They let new dancers break in during afternoons, when it was really slow. One of the other girls just told her, just like going to the beach. Except Princess never went to the beach.

  The second time she was less drunk, and these days hardly at all. One glass of wine, tops.

  She hands Rick her tapes, then maneuvers around Vanity, who is coming in from collecting her stage tips. Four bucks, she says, jamming the money in her cup with disgust. Beat that. Princess doubts she can; blond, big-titted, tan Vanity is the star whatever shift she dances. Princess, with her lithe, that is to say, small-breasted dancer's figure, dark brown hair and pale skin, is no competition.

  Show time. She tightens the strap on her shoes—hooker shoes, so she won't fall on her butt—and straights the G-string. She thinks she'll start with a filmy halfnightie, make herself look a little virginal under the lights. It also has the virtue of being cool and easy to get rid of.

  The final touch is a girlish ribbon in her hair. For anyone out there looking to play Daddy.

  The music hits and she starts onto the stage, right to the lip, the exact spot where during her first week she had learned how to make very good tips from the guy who wanted her to step on his hand.

  She usually doesn't take anything off during the first song; save it for the second one, just let them peek around the straps. This is the closest she ever gets to real stripteasing.

  Ray has moved up to the rail. He seems to be the only one of the five or six customers actually paying attention to her. The others have ambitious dancers on their laps or are buying them drinks. One guy is watching a basketball game on the TV over the bar.