Whispers in Time

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “Do you think we have a chance to win?”

  He laughed. “You look devastating, darlin’, but, no, I don’t think you have a chance. Somebody from one of the gay Carnival clubs always wins.”

  Carol stopped and stared at him. “They have their own krewes?”

  “You bet! There’s Polyphemus, Amon-Ra, Celestial Knights, Petronius, Armenius, and Lords of Leather. And this costume contest is better than a Las Vegas show.”

  A short time later, after they’d elbowed their way to the appointed street corner, Carol had to agree this must be the best show in town. Never before had she seen such glitter, such glamour, such downright outrageousness. Many of the gorgeous drag queens wore headdresses ten to fifteen feet high. Sequins, spangles, beads, and feathers. Carol felt her own costume pale miserably in comparison.

  The afternoon wore on through a haze of beer and dancing and good Carnival fun. By three-thirty, Carol was done in—her belly jewel beginning to lose its sparkle.

  “Hey, Frank, I think it’s time to head home, don’t you?”

  He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Leave all this?”

  “Well, we are still going to a ball tonight, aren’t we?”

  Just then, a gorilla on the balcony directly overhead called down, “Hey, mister, show us some flesh!”

  Grinning up at the guy in the ape suit, Frank threw back his cape, flexing his pectorals.

  “You, too, lady! Let’s see some skin.”

  “What does he want me to do?” Carol whispered to Frank. “I’ve got about all the flesh showing that I care to exhibit.”

  “He’s probably hoping you’ll toss him your gold bra for a souvenir.”

  Carol clutched herself protectively. “Never!” she gasped.

  “Well, just do that hip-thing for him then.”

  Carol complied, but the gorilla still wasn’t satisfied. Motioning to a pretty young tourist beside Carol, he called down, “You, redhead! I’ll trade you my beads for your tee-shirt.”

  The slightly drunken reveler never hesitated. Off came the shirt, which she tossed to the gorilla. Then he showered her with almost, but not quite, enough strings of beads to cover her bare breasts.

  Carol’s mouth flew open; her eyes went wide. “Yes, Frank, I think it’s definitely time to go back to the hotel.”

  “Whatever you say,” Frank agreed. But Carol could tell that he would have liked to hang around to see if the ape-man made any more trades.

  At six, Carol was gowned in green and gold, waiting for Frank to call for her again. He had explained that the ball they were going to was not one of the tableau balls sponsored by a major krewe, but a private affair at a French Quarter hotel.

  “That makes it even better,” he’d told her. “We’ll really get to dance instead of sitting on the sidelines waiting for a call out.”

  When Frank knocked at Carol’s door, she opened it eagerly, then caught her breath at the sight of him. Gone were his turban, cape and mustache from earlier in the day. He looked so good in his midnight-blue tux that tears actually pooled in her eyes. She laughed and brushed them away.

  “My, you do clean up nicely, Captain Longpre!”

  He stood staring at her, his gaze traveling over her appreciatively for several moments. Then he reached out to her. “Come here, you,” he ordered in a lusty voice. “You look good enough to eat with a spoon. You certainly do that gown justice, Miz Marlowe.”

  Carol clung to her handsome escort, glorying in the long, tender kiss he bestowed upon her.

  “My, my, yes, that is a nice dress,” he said after a time, but the shadow of a frown marred his face as he spoke.

  “I’m glad you like it, Frank.”

  Frown gone, smile wide, he said, “I like what’s in it even better.”

  “If you keep this up, we’ll never get to that ball,” she warned.

  “You’re right. It’s just real hard for me to keep my hands off you, lady.” He shrugged, winked, then offered his arm. “If it’s okay with you, I thought we’d walk. It’s not far to the hotel and it’s such a perfect night.”

  The night was perfect, or so it seemed. They wandered, arm-in-arm, through the Quarter, basking in the admiring glances they received from passing maskers. Their looks gave Carol the heady feeling of being someone special on a very special night.

  But once again, the coming of dark made Carol more than a little nervous. She caught herself trying to probe behind the masks to see the eyes of passing strangers and taking special note of men’s arms as they passed. She was relieved when they reached the hotel and could get off the street into more confined quarters.

  Frank had arranged for them to have a table alone in a shadowy corner of the ballroom. “I don’t want to share you this evening, darlin’,” he whispered.

  Romance perfumed the air. They sat together in the glow of the single candle on their table, Carol sipping champagne while Frank kissed her fingertips and talked to her quietly about his dreams, his hopes, and his growing love for her.

  When they took the floor for a stately waltz, Carol felt as if she were drifting through a lovely dream. The warm night air, the excitement of Mardi Gras, the soft music, the magic of her feelings for Frank—all these things worked together to transport her to a seemingly mystical, faraway place. She felt like a member of a long-ago royal court.

  As she waltzed in Frank’s arms, Carol noticed little points of light flitting around them like nervous fireflies. A mirrored ball suspended above the dance floor shot tiny, shining prisms around the room. She half-closed her eyes, imagining that stars had come down to earth to mingle with them.

  “I could dance with you forever,” Frank whispered, his warm lips brushing her cheek.

  “Oh, Frank, I don’t want the music to stop—not ever!” Carol felt almost frantic suddenly. “Don’t let it stop!”

  But it did stop—abruptly.

  Still holding Carol in his arms, Frank stared down into her eyes. His frown was back. She looked familiar, yet she looked like someone else. Her eyes had gone green—not the hazel-green of Carol Marlowe’s in anger—but a clear, dreamy green. The green of emeralds, the green of Eileen’s eyes. As he continued to stare, the bright color of her irises faded. He blinked. He must be imagining things. A moment later, Carol’s eyes had changed color again. Now they were indigo—a wonderful, clear blue, shot through with violet lights.

  “Carol?” Frank whispered, wiping his sweating brow. “Carol, something’s happening to me.”

  Before she could answer, the music began again. Frank moved slowly with its rhythm, but he was no longer conscious of anything around him. The ballroom, the mirrored lights, even Carol herself took on a hazy, dreamlike quality.

  “Frank? Frank…”

  He heard Carol calling his name, but her voice seemed to come from faraway in time and space. He tried to answer, but the music grew louder and louder until his voice was lost in the sound.

  Suddenly, he felt strange and hot. He fought for breath, trying to call out to her. But there was only the melancholy music of a harp thundering inside his head and the dizziness.

  “Carol! Carol, hold onto me!” It seemed to Frank that he was screaming to her, but no sound came. He only mouthed the words in a futile attempt to stop what seemed inevitable. He was leaving her, slipping away into the past.

  He thought he heard her call to him, but Frank was too far away to hear anything going on in the twentieth century. He was now in a little shotgun house of the rue d’Amour, pacing inside Victoine Navar’s body, his face stormy, his mood worse.

  “You have to help me, Fiona,” he demanded. “I must find her!”

  “Mon Dieu! Do you mean to tell me Cami has run away? What did you do to her, Victoine? You knew she was innocent, that you had to be gentle with her.”

  He stopped pacing long enough to turn and face Fiona. “I’m not talking about Cami. It’s my wife, Madelaine. I must find her! There’s nothing left between us. I want out, permanently.�
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  Fiona gasped. “Surely, you can’t mean divorce.”

  “Annulment, whatever. I mean to marry Cami.”

  “Marry her?” Fiona paused, her head spinning. Only three weeks ago Victoine had taken the girl as his mistress and now his thoughts were already on marriage. Had Camille told him her true identity?

  Vic’s voice interrupted Fiona’s thoughts and answered her question. “I know, I know. You needn’t remind me that she is a woman of color. I’ll take her to Paris and marry her there where no laws forbid such a match.”

  “Have you discussed this with Cami?”

  “Not yet,” he admitted. “First, I must find my wife and my son. You have connections, Fiona. You know people who could help me. Please, say that you will.”

  “I can only tell you I’ll try, Victoine. But I feel you should talk to Cami first. There are things she should explain to you.”

  “What things?” Black Vic rounded on the woman, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

  “You must ask Cami for her secrets. They are not mine to expose.”

  Vic set down his brandy snifter and turned for the door. “Very well. I will. The moment I return to the house.”

  “Frank? Frank! What’s wrong with you?”

  Carol was shaking him, there on the dance floor. Frank felt himself literally jerked back from wherever he’d been. Fiona’s house… yes, he remembered. And some secret that might keep him from marrying Cami. He didn’t understand any of it. But he shared Black Vic’s feelings. He would move heaven and earth to marry Carol, but, as with Vic, he had enormous obstacles standing in his way to happiness.

  “I’m okay now,” he said, his voice a harsh, dry whisper. “I had some sort of flashback, but it faded fast.”

  “You’re sure you’re all right?”

  Frank nodded, trying to smile. “What triggered it?” Carol asked. “Do you know?”

  “I’m not sure. It was real strange, but I think your eyes sent me back. They turned color until it was almost as if I was looking into Cami’s eyes and she was pleading with me. For something… I don’t know what exactly.”

  They danced on in silence for a few minutes, both thinking about Cami and Vic and how much those two lovers from the past adored each other.

  Frank tried to lighten the mood. He didn’t want to spoil the evening for Carol. “Hey, did I tell you that sure is a good-looking dress, honey?” He’d only told her that about six times during the evening, but at least the subject was safe, or seemed so. “Where’d you get it, anyway?”

  “Oh, this old thing!” Carol laughed, delighted that her vintage costume pleased Frank so and that he seemed to be himself again. “I’d like to say it came straight from Paris, but the truth is it was in a load of stuff I bought from a Memphis dealer a couple of months ago. I don’t usually sell old clothes in my shop, but this was part of the deal. If I wanted the garnet jewelry he had for sale, I had to empty his whole truck. When you mentioned the Mardi Gras ball, I figured this dress might be just the trick. I’m glad you like it.”

  Frank’s smile faded instantly. He stopped dancing and stared at the gown. “Memphis, you say?”

  “That’s right. Is something wrong?” For no reason she could imagine, Carol felt a cold hand close over her heart.

  “Eileen was from Memphis. Her mother still lived there.”

  “Lived?”

  “Yeah. She died of a heart attack about six months ago. Eileen’s uncle cleaned out the old homeplace, sold most of their stuff. He called to see if there was anything I wanted. Mrs. Doncaster still had all Eileen’s things. She said she couldn’t bear to part with anything that had belonged to her only daughter. I guess I’m just the opposite, though. I don’t like things around to remind me of what happened—to remind me that I’ll probably never know what happened. And that dress…”

  Frank paused—his face pale and frozen—as if the words simply refused to come.

  “Yes, Frank? What about my dress?”

  “It was Eileen’s.” His voice broke as he finally managed to say the words. “That’s the very dress she wore to the Mardi Gras ball right after we were married.”

  Carol wanted to die on the spot. “Surely not, Frank! Oh, I’m so sorry!”

  “I thought it looked familiar when I first saw you tonight. But, hell, all women’s clothes look pretty much alike to me and I couldn’t really place it.” Although Frank was obviously trying to make light of it, his voice was filled with pain. “You’re probably right, Carol. It couldn’t be Eileen’s even if it did come from Memphis.”

  Carol followed his lead. “I’ll bet there are hundreds of gowns like this. It probably came off some department store rack.”

  “Not if it’s Eileen’s,” Frank countered. “She had that gown made by a cousin of hers who was a dressmaker. It was one of a kind. There was even a special label in it—‘Cassandra Classics.’”

  Carol caught her breath. What could she say? What could she do to apologize for this stupid blunder? It wasn’t her fault, but all the same she felt responsible for causing him needless pain.

  The music ended. Somewhere far off a church bell set up its mournful knell.

  “Almost midnight,” Frank said. “Mardi Gras will be over in another few seconds. Nothing left but a lot of clutter on the streets and the final toast. Then it’s gone… all gone.”

  The sad tone of Frank’s voice and the dazed look in his eyes shocked Carol thoroughly. He sounded as if he were talking about some loved one on the brink of death. He looked like he had a short while ago when he’d slipped away. Maybe the gown was the catalyst that caused him to go back, bringing such pain with Eileen’s memory that he’d been forced to escape to another time and place. Whatever the cause, Carol had to get him out of here and she had to get out of Eileen’s dress. Curses on the gorgeous gown!

  “Let’s go, Frank,” Carol begged. “Maybe we can still beat the crowd.”

  “Might as well,” he muttered, “it’s all over now anyway. She’s gone, soon Mardi Gras will be gone, too. Nothing left. It’s over… all over.”

  Carol gripped him suddenly in a fierce embrace. “No, Frank! It’s not over,” she cried. “Nothing’s over! I’m still here. And I love you, Frank! Can you hear me?”

  Frank didn’t answer. He seemed caught up in some sort of fog, like a drunk who’s gone one drink past his limit plunging instantly from giddy euphoria to deadly depression. That depression, in its deepest form, now had Frank in its deadly grip.

  Carol kissed him almost desperately, then caught his hand and headed for the nearest exit. Maybe if she got him out of here the dismal spell would pass.

  Clinging limply to her hand, Frank followed. A short time later, they were outside the hotel in the cool, damp air of midnight.

  “Breathe deeply, Frank,” Carol ordered, realizing that she was treating him foolishly, as if he were indeed drunk.

  “I just want to go to sleep,” he mumbled. “Just take me home to bed.”

  A number of taxis were parked nearby, waiting for the Mardi Gras ball to end. Carol hurried to the one at the head of the line. “Take us to the Hotel Dalpeche,” she instructed, stuffing Frank in the back door.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the driver said. “Need any help with him? Looks like he enjoyed Mardi Gras right much. Me? I gotta drive, so no booze.”

  “He’s not drunk!” Carol snapped. “Just get us to the hotel as quickly as you can.”

  Frank said not one word all the way. He sat next to Carol in the back seat, his face stony, his eyes glazed over. She began to wonder if he had gone back to Vic and Cami’s time without her again, and that truly frightened her.

  “Frank?” she whispered urgently. “Frank, can you hear me?”

  He said nothing, but when they passed under a street lamp, Carol saw that tears were streaming down his marble-white face.

  “Oh, God,” she moaned softly, then louder to the driver, “Can’t you go any faster?”

  “Listen, lady, we got laws.
”

  “I think he’s going to be sick.”

  Hearing Carol’s words, the cabbie floored it. Within five minutes, they arrived at the hotel. Frank leaned heavily on Carol all the way, but she managed to get him to his room and into bed. He remained stone-faced and silent.

  “Frank, answer me! Are you all right now?” Nearly frantic, she leaned over him, trying to get some response. Not a muscle in his face moved. His eyes stared through her instead of at her.

  Carol was torn. She was afraid to leave him, but she had to get out of Eileen’s gown. Somehow the dress had triggered all this.

  “Frank, I’m going to my room for a couple of minutes. You just lie there and rest. I’ll be right back.”

  Nothing! Not a word, not a move.

  Carol ran to the door, raced out and across the courtyard. She was breathing heavily as she entered her door, already clawing at the zipper down the back of the gown. Bra, hoopskirt, half-slip, and panty hose went flying about the room like so many odd-shaped UFOs. She pulled on jeans and a tee-shirt and headed back out, still at a trot. Three minutes later, she was back with Frank. He hadn’t moved.

  Leaning over him, Carol felt his his forehead. He was cold and clammy. She grabbed a blanket and covered him, then lay down beside him, hoping her body heat might help.

  “Please, Frank, it’s me—Carol,” she almost shouted. “Can you hear me, Frank? Answer me, dammit!”

  Frank stirred uneasily, giving Carol cause for hope. But when she called his name and gripped his hand there was no response.

  “Where are you, Frank? What’s happening? Talk to me, darling!”

  He settled again, staring straight ahead, but seeing nothing—not the ceiling overhead, not the fan turning slowly, not Carol’s tear-streaked face.

  Vic found Cami waiting when he returned to the house in Condé Street. But she seemed different somehow. Usually, when he arrived, she rushed to meet him, kissed him senseless, then bombarded him with endless questions about what he’d done while he was away. Today, however, she was quiet and withdrawn. When Vic tried to kiss her, she shied away.