“The week before her eyes went opaque, Thommy girl told me a secret. She said, There are so many worlds, so many variations…”
END RECORDING
Chapter 5 (Jane 2.0)
For their first date, Jane suggested drinks at a spot on the east side of Kingston. The Reading Lodge was a pile of brick and timber sandwiched between two historic neighborhoods on a ridge above the river, but set back far enough there wasn’t much of a view of the water. During certain seasons locals flocked to the Reading: spring, when love and lust were on the wind and the world was new; and fall, when the trees were red and gold and brown and the hot days and crisp nights were the bitter and the sweet and a couple could hold hands and gaze out at a full, yellow moon. Otherwise the Reading brooded on its slope, melancholy and quiet, haunted by a diminished staff and a handful of regulars and the occasional tourist.
“I kind of stopped screwing around after I watched Nights of Cabiria,” Jane said.
“Did that film frighten you?” Renzo said. He sipped a cold vodka. The tips of his fingers caused condensation to pearl on the glass. In the soft light of the lounge, against the backdrop of the walnut sided booth, his flaws were blunted. Pockmarks and a swarthy complexion made his skin vellum, lent it a peculiar reverse-luminescence.
“I dated a guy from Florence, said he’d come into some money, although I bet he was lying through his teeth. I think he was actually a ne’er-do-well. Forgot his wallet on a regular basis. Too much of a coincidence for me. I lost his number and stayed in on Friday and Saturday nights for a couple months.”
“Nights of Cabiria and not Looking for Mr. Goodbar? You are a connoisseur of foreign films, perhaps?”
“Diane Keaton never moved me. My mother adored her. And Meryl Streep.” She drew a cigarette and waited for him to lift the candle in its marbled glass bowl and light it. The Reading had a no-smoking policy that wasn’t enforced during the offseason.
“Ah. I am a generation removed from my homeland. I despise Fellini. Nothing is real with him. Fantasy and hysterical people shouting.”
“Where are your parents from?”
“The Old World.”
“How old?”
“Papa put an atlatl in my hand and said, go kill that thing with pointy bits and sharp hooves.”
Jane laughed. Her lipstick was deep red. She’d dyed her hair blonde. She knew many of the women in her circle were mildly jealous of her lips and her hair, the fact she’d kept her figure and her clean skin. The power of that knowledge was good, like sex in the glow of a mellow drunk. She was on her second margarita and the bartender made them strong as sin. She’d taken the bartender home once. He’d gotten heavier lately. His gin blossoms, the pouches beneath his eyes, proof he availed himself too much from the company store, that his ship hadn’t come in. These days they pretended to be strangers.
She said, “Okay, wiseacre. What do you do?”
“I’m a warlock.”
“Come again?”
“Sorry, I meant…how do you say, a magician.”
“You’re a magician?”
“I was a magician. Once.”
“Oooh—how interesting! Rabbits and cards? Beautiful assistants in sequined cabaret outfits?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You are the first magician I’ve known. Show me a trick.”
“I regret to say those days are behind me. I am officially retired.”
“Once a magician, always a magician.”
“Alas, I have hung up my magic hat for good.”
“Aww, c’mon. Something small, then.”
“What makes you sure I am not already doing something?”
“Be that way, then,” she said in a mock pout.
“Okay, forget magic. I also do what you call, uh, impressions. Disguises.” He screened his face with a placemat and hunched his shoulders. A few seconds later, he lowered the mat and revealed the snarling, red-eyed visage of a Cro Magnon. “Ta-da!”
“Holy shit.” The effect caused Jane to scoot her chair backward a few inches.
Renzo laughed. He relaxed about a hundred muscles and pulled wads of napkin from his mouth and gradually settled into himself once more. “I admire Lon Chaney Jr. He inspired me to study special effects for film.”
“Excuse me.” She exhaled and shook her head. “That’s…Well, it’s amazing. Sorry to jump. It’s just—I’ve never seen anyone transform themselves without makeup, or whatever. Whoo boy, I need a drink.” She gulped her margarita and signaled the server for a fresh one. “Since you’ve retired from the magic biz, what now?”
“I travel abroad. I have reinvented myself as a naturalist.”
“A fan of Thoreau?”
“I am more socially inclined than Mr. Thoreau. Nor do I write essays. I simply observe.” He raised his drink and sipped without breaking eye contact.
“Since you haven’t asked, I’ll just tell you: I’m the administrative assistant to the director of human resources in the Olympia School District.”
“That is a fine job. Very noble to serve as an educator.”
“I’m the director’s personal secretary. We don’t really work in education.”
Renzo reached across the table and took her hand. “You have money,” he said, turning her wrist slightly as if to read her palm. “You drive a new Mercedes.”
“Money? My second husband certainly did. He’s dead. Bad ticker.” Jane had calmed down enough that she didn’t mind Renzo touching her. His fingers were damp and cool from the glass. “There isn’t a lot left. Husband the Last was a swindler. Lucky for me, I got out before it was too late.”
“Perhaps this is a trend, your attraction to swindlers and confidence men.”
“My shrink asked me the same question.”
“How did you escape the tentacles of your swindler husband? Did you shoot him?” He smiled.
“No! God, no. Silly man. I admit, it was tempting…”
“You are to be congratulated for your restraint.” He stroked her fingers. His dark eyes were off-kilter, almost crossed, but compassionate. How could a girl not go for a man with compassionate eyes?
“The Mercedes is six years old, by the way.”
“I don’t care about cars.”
Jane smoked her cigarette and looked at his hand covering hers. “Well, Renzo, are you after my money?”
“It doesn’t sound as if you have any.”
“Don’t tell my girlfriends. They love to hate me for my wealth and privilege. I fly to the Bahamas or the Mediterranean often enough to keep up appearances. Drives them mad. They don’t know it’s a timeshare, ha-ha.”
“I don’t care about money, either,” Renzo said. His eyes steadied as he focused on hers with a languorous intensity she associated with Latin lovers of Oxygen Network cable specials and overwrought Mexican soap operas.
“Wow,” Jane said, knocked a bit loopy from the wallop of her last margarita and the hot and sexy eye contact. She fanned herself with the plastic drink menu. The longer she studied his face, the more it sank in that Renzo wasn’t what she might charitably term plain, or even homely. As her brother the Marine was fond of saying, this guy had been beaten with the ugly stick. And he was shorter than her. Yet, yet… “Goodness, it’s warm in here.”
Renzo relaxed and allowed his hands to rest on his half of the table. He smiled kindly which did wonders to redeem his damaged skin, the unfortunate asymmetry of his features. “Isn’t that what the undercover policewoman says in the movie to signal for reinforcements? There’s always some kind of code word.” He made a show of scanning the lounge and its shadowy corners. “Are you wearing a wire?”
“Wanna see for yourself?”
He tilted his head. His hair was black and thick, except near the top where it thinned and light glimmered on his scalp. “The hour is late. You should go home and sleep. It is a work night, yes?”
“Um. I’ve heard that one in a movie too. The Brush-Off.” Jane realized she was tapping her foo
t. She always tapped her foot when nervous or pissed. Too close to call in this case.
“Never.”
“You think I’m drunk.” She heard the petulance creeping in and winced.
“Oh, I know you are drunk. If I took you home in this condition, it would hardly be fair.”
She raised her eyebrows, but he wasn’t looking—he summoned a waiter and asked for the check, and would the fellow be so good as to ring a taxi for Ms. Holt? Jane wanted to protest on principle, yet Renzo was classically gallant and getting cuter by the second. She reached into her bag for her keys, saw he was already handing them to the waiter for safe-keeping. Omigod! He is a magician! Pleasantly nonplussed, she cupped her chin in both palms and gazed at him with something akin to adoration.
“Thank you for not asking,” he said after they paid for their drinks and waited in the lobby. His limp would’ve been impossible to miss. He dragged his left foot like a convict towing a ball and chain. His left shoe was much larger than his right. “Always they ask. I do not mind, of course.”
She looked down at her purse, uncertain of what to say, if anything.
“Congenital birth defect,” he said. “I am fortunate. You should see my brothers. Their necks…” He tapped her nose and smiled mischievously. “That is a bit of comedy. Laugh if you wish.”
And she did, mostly out of relief.
As he helped her into the taxi, she clumsily assayed to slip her card into his pocket. He kissed her cheek and promised to be in touch. He smelled of lime aftershave, faint musk, and her cigarette smoke. The night was starless and the sparsely lighted exterior of the Reading Lodge floated as if upon the surface of a midnight lake. As the taxi rolled from the curb, she craned her neck to watch him become a black shape against a yellow-blaze in the entrance.
*
Every second Thursday, Jane, or her best girlfriend Naomi Baker, hosted an informal ladies-only get-together for coworkers and close friends. This Thursday it was Naomi’s turn to hold court at her chalet at the edge of a lovely subdivision in the hills near Rosendale. Mr. Harold Baker was away on a business trip and the kids had been packed off for a long weekend. Naomi pulled out the stops with a crate of California wine, hors d’ oeuvres and a stack of board games and DVD films. Friday was an in-service for teachers in the district, but most of the guests had already decided to call in sick so they could stay up drinking and gossiping until dawn.
The party was coming along nicely. Geraldine Peirce volunteered to get everyone started with drinks. Someone put on one of Naomi’s conspicuous stack of mix CDs. The Stones and Jimi Hendrix and Cat Stevens were pulling the soul train, although the younger girls like Mattie Dalzell and Sarah Lynch and Grace Ring would’ve doubtless preferred more contemporary music—John Legend, Christina Aguilera, or the Pussycat Dolls.
While they were preparing snack platters, Jane bit the bullet and confessed her attraction to the loveably homely Mr. Renzo, he of the puppy dog eyes and male pattern balding and the quaint enunciations.
“Jeezus—guy’s got a clubfoot?” Naomi said.
Jane shushed her with a venomous glance. She slid a knife from the block and began chopping celery to cover their exchange from the rest of the women who’d congregated between the kitchen and the living room. Not that that crowd was likely to notice. The girls were laughing at one of Carrie Peabody’s sarcasm-laced anecdotes. Carrie’s voice cut through the din like an off-key violin stroke. “Keep it down, would you? It’s not a big deal.”
“Oh, yeah?” Naomi popped an olive into her mouth. “You sure?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just asking. You brought it up.”
“I’m sorry, trust me. You got any carrots; I didn’t see any. Stop eating the olives.”
Naomi smirked, her hip thrust against the counter, another olive poised to her lips. “Renzo who? What’s his game? What kinda car does he drive?”
“Valente, Rutigliano, damn it, I can’t recall off the top of my head. He does have a last name. He said he’s retired. I didn’t ask about his car.”
“Yeah, yeah. Where’d you meet Mr. Mystery?”
“Church.” Jane’s face burned. Her armpits itched with sweat. She loved Naomi, but the girl knew how to get under her skin.
“Don’t be bitchy, El. He sounds nice. He pay?”
“We went Dutch. My idea. He is nice, though. I met him at Kurt and Winnie’s wedding last spring. Seen him around a few times since. We were standing in line at the video store and started talking…”
“It’s like a Julia Roberts fairytale,” Naomi said. “Minus you being a whore, of course. Oh, wait a minute. At Kurt and Winnie’s wedding? That little swarthy guy in the suit from the ’40s—”
“He’s Italian. His suits are tailored.”
“Holy shit. Really? That guy? The wallflower?”
“What? You expect him to dance with his foot, uh, you know.”
“Sarah talked to him at the reception. She thought he was super awkward. Afraid of girls, maybe. Flaky.” Naomi made vague hand gestures to express the magnitude of flakiness their friend Sarah had observed.
“You blame him for being afraid of Sarah?” Jane said, and laughed. “Get a couple shots in her and look out. She’d eat the poor man alive.”
“But that guy. Jeezus, Jeezus. Personality is ninety percent of everything, right? Does that mean you’ve kicked Pete what’s-his-name to the curb?”
“I haven’t burned any bridges.” In fact, Pete Wharton had texted Jane at work that very morning. Pete was a loan officer. Tall, lean, and moderately intelligent, an animal in bed, and he seemed genuine enough. She hadn’t allowed herself to get attached—she figured he’d be headed for financial and emotional skid row once his quasi-divorce finalized. His homemaker wife was a barracuda and there were three children involved. Nope, any relationship with him would be a disaster movie in the making. She’d been sure to keep her hand on the ripcord of the parachute.
“Naughty-naughty,” Naomi said.
“No, I’m smart. Girl’s gotta have an escape plan.”
“Can’t argue with you there, sweetie. I’m jealous as hell. Your Latin lover’s got sexy eyes. Gotta hand him that.”
They lugged the platters into the living room where the other girls had begun to adjourn in two’s and three’s and flop on Naomi’s decidedly ’70s mod couches and overstuffed chairs. Gracie Ring and Lucy Allen had endeavored to build a fire in the massive rock fireplace. Sparks jumped against the screen as heavy gusts shook the windows. The weather service predicted a decent-sized storm to blow through the mid-Hudson Valley later that night.
When the chandelier flickered, Lucy Allen and Debra Mulholland uttered primal yips and Carrie Peabody muttered an obscenity Jane didn’t quite catch, but Mattie Dalzell must’ve because she laughed a bit shrilly.
“Think any of your damned trees are gonna crash through the roof?” Carrie Peabody said to Naomi. “One a those old growth sycamores would split this house right down the middle.”
“Yeah, Baker, you should clear-cut your property,” Lauren Bloomfield said. No secret she despised Carrie Peabody. The pair worked in separate houses at the school and were frequently at professional loggerheads. They’d antagonized one another since grade school. When it came to those two, the Doom Clock was perpetually one minute before midnight and their assured mutual destruction.
This ceased to matter three minutes later.
Naomi sent Jane upstairs to snag candles and a spare flashlight in case the power died. Jane didn’t even bother to hit the light switch—she and Naomi smoked out in the master bedroom plenty over the years. She glanced through the window near her friend’s bedside dresser. Branches whipped and sycamore leaves and pine needles whirled through the beam of security lighting. The swimming pool hadn’t been covered and its water seethed greenish-white. Odd that Naomi hadn’t covered it, considering the weather.
A black shape, larger and thicker than a man, lay at the bottom near the
center. She blinked and had the horribly preposterous image of a drowned bear. Some kind of animal, surely, and not drowned, because even as she tried to make sense of the situation, the creature drifted or crawled along the bottom until it reached the edge. The shape gathered itself and heaved to the surface—
“Do you think anyone is really named Renzo?” Thom said from the opposite corner of the bedroom. Voluptuous, assured, pale as cold cream, she lurked in the gloom. “Do you think anyone could see past the façade to the vulnerable heart of you? Oh, babe, even a guy with a clubfoot could do better.”
Jane hadn’t seen reckless, feckless Thom since when, yet the sight of her, the faint smell of her perfume, the wry bite of her words, brought it back instantly.
Glass shattered downstairs. The sliding patio door not breaking, but exploding. The women shrieked and an animal growled.
“Harry keeps a shotgun in the closet,” Thom said. “You’ve seen it.” Shadows and light moved across her cheek and through it. Her voice came from a deep well.
Yes, Jane knew about the shotgun. Guns were the devil; she’d always hated them, the death penalty, and US foreign adventures. Nonetheless, two of three ex-husbands hunted. Husband the third considered himself a bit of a collector. Inevitably, she learned a thing or two about firearms.
She retrieved the shotgun and fumbled with the safety.
Thom said from even farther away, “Orange means that bad boy is ready to fire, so okay. Push in the tab on the side and pull the slide back. You’re good, you’re hot.”
Jane sat on the bed with the barrel aimed at the door. Her hands shook and it proved difficult to hold the gun steady. She said, “I’ve been here before.”
“Or somewhere like it, babe. I just remembered. This won’t work. You were supposed to do something else.”
Limbus, Inc., Book III Page 38
