by Tim Waggoner
He gripped the mouse, intending to delete the message sight unseen, but then he hesitated. It could be from someone in typesetting. There might have been some problem with the file he’d sent. There was even an outside chance it was from his ex-wife. A small chance — she communicated with him only when strictly necessary, and then usually by phone. But it could be from her.
He hesitated a few more moments, then said to hell with it and clicked on the envelope. The message opened.
TO: MORGAN MCCLAIN
FROM: CLAIRE
SUBJECT: YOUR FAULT
There was no text with the message, only a small icon of a paperclip. A file was attached. He knew better than to open files that came from an unknown source, but he was too busy trying to figure out how the woman from the restaurant — how Claire — had gotten his home e-mail address to be overly concerned with viruses. Had someone at the paper given out his home e-mail address? He didn’t exactly have a lot of friends on the staff; still, it didn’t seem likely. But then how … ?
A thought drifted into his mind, then. A wild thought, a crazy thought, a thought he’d dearly have loved to un-think, if only such a thing were possible. It was no surprise she had his home e-mail address. After all, hadn’t she said she was dead? She was a ghost — a badly dressed, puffy-eyed, crooked-nose ghost — and nothing was beyond the scope of her supernatural powers.
“Horseshit,” he muttered, but the word didn’t sound convincing, even to his own ears.
She was probably just some actress who he’d given a bad review to years ago … God knew there were enough of them. Hundreds, perhaps even thousands, as long as he’d been writing. When she’d said she was dead and it was his fault, she’d been speaking metaphorically. Her career (such as it was) was finished, and she blamed him for giving her a bad notice. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Yeah, a shivery little voice inside him said, but it’s the first goddamned time you’ve been confronted by someone with gill slits on the underside of their forearm, not to mention who can perform a nifty parlor trick like turning water into blood, then back into water.
She wasn’t a spirit returned from the grave to exact revenge against the mean old theatre critic who’d ruined her. That was the stuff of bad melodrama. Whatever he’d seen, not seen, or merely thought he’d seen, it had some form of rational explanation, no matter that said explanation escaped him at the moment. And to prove it, he clicked on the attachment.
The hard drive whirred as the computer went to work. An OPENING FILE message appeared on the screen, along with a horizontal series of white boxes. One by one, from left to right, the boxes turned blue as the file was opened. Twenty percent open. Thirty-five. Fifty-five. Eight. Ninety-five … then a new window appeared on the screen. It was a color picture of Claire. She was younger in the image, but it was clearly the same woman. In the background, plastic plants and ferns; in the foreground, Claire naked, on all fours. Behind her …
Morgan had been divorced for several years, and he didn’t date much. He didn’t have the sort of personality that worked and played well with others. But he still had normal biological urges and, occasionally, he’d surf the Net, searching for images that, if they didn’t completely fulfill those needs, at least took the edge off them a bit.
But in all his prurient wanderings through cyberspace, he’d never seen anything like this.
There was a man behind Claire, well muscled, tattooed, washboard abs. He wore a black leather mask with slits for his eyes and mouth. In his hands he held the coiled length of a large, mottled-hided snake. A boa, or perhaps a python. The snake’s tail was wrapped around the man’s left wrist. It’s head … Morgan couldn’t see its head, but he had a good idea where it was.
He quickly closed the picture and deleted the file. He exited the e-mail program and sat staring at the screen, forcing himself to breathe evenly. But as hard as he tried, he couldn’t keep himself from trembling.
“Is that the way I taught you to sit at the table?”
Morgan stopped bouncing, though he remained crouching on the dining room chair.
“No, Mother.”
She bustled into the dining room, make-up and hair perfect, all perfume and nervous energy. She placed a serving bowl of peas onto a trivet — there was always a trivet; she would never allow a hot bowl to come into contact with the surface of the table. The peas were perfectly green, not too light, not too dark, and their skin wasn’t puckered from overcooking or too hard from undercooking. Like Goldilocks’ third choice, they were just right. But in the McClain household, Just Right was the first and only choice as far as his mother was concerned.
“Sit properly; rear on the seat, feet pointed toward the floor.”
“Yes, ma’am.” It was hard to make his body obey. He was five years old, and it seemed every part of him wanted to wiggle, squirm, and bounce. But he did it.
“Good boy.” She patted him on the head, and he smiled as she began dishing peas onto his plate. She didn’t drop any between the serving bowl and his plate; she never dropped any.
The front door opened, shut. Almost a slam, but not quite.
“You could be quieter coming in, you know,” Mother called.
Morgan listened to the sounds of his father setting (not tossing) his keys onto the coffee table, moving to the front closet, the jingling of hangers (not too loud) as he hung up his coat.
“And would it hurt you to be on time for a change?”
Father walked into the dining room, a small man with a pot belly that always preceded him, and a dour, beaten expression. He sat at the table without saying a word, without looking at either of them. Morgan understood. Father hoped to avoid drawing any more of Mother’s criticism.
She stood at the table, looking at him. Finally, she asked, “Did you stop at the bank on the way home?”
He stared down at his empty plate, and Morgan knew what the answer was.
Mother took in a breath of air, held it for a count of three, and then released it slowly, letting it fill the air with her disapproval.
“Do you know what makes us different from the animals, Phillip? They have no choice in how they act, what they eat, where they live, who they mate with —we do. But we can aspire to something higher. We can choose excellence, Phillip, excellence in all things…if only we have the courage.”
Father continued to sit, continued to stare at his plate. But his jaws muscles bunched and bulged, and Morgan could hear his teeth grinding.
Mother just waited.
“I’ll go to the bank tomorrow, during my lunch hour,” Father said at last in a small, defeated voice.
Mother smiled. “That’s nice, dear.” She turned and headed back to the kitchen to fetch the next dish.
Morgan started to draw his feet up, unconsciously preparing to crouch and begin bouncing on his seat again.
Excellence, in all things, he heard Mother’s voice, a whisper deep in his five-year-old mind.
He looked at Father. The man was dishing himself some peas, but he still couldn’t bring himself to meet his son’s gaze. And he had dropped three peas onto the tablecloth, too. Morgan tcched and pressed his rear firmly against the seat, pointed his feet toward the floor.
I have the courage, he thought. I do.
The next morning, Morgan planned to head downtown and stop in at the paper. Since he often worked nights attending performances, he didn’t have to go in until the afternoon, but he didn’t have anything better to do. Besides, he knew if he stayed here he’d just keep thinking about Claire, and that picture of her … the man with the mask, the snake …
As he headed for the door, he glanced at the glass and chrome end table next to the sofa and saw the message light blinking. Odd, he hadn’t heard the phone ring. Maybe someone had called when he’d been in the shower. Probably just a sales call, though it might be his ex-wife. Either way, there was no great hurry to listen to the message. Still, he went over the machine and hit the playback button.
S
ilence for several seconds. He’d been right the first time: a sales call. He didn’t know what it was, the salespeople themselves or their computerized calling systems, but they often left blank messages. It was quite an annoyance coming home to a half dozen or more empty messages, all of which needed to be erased. He stabbed a finger toward the delete button, was about to press it when a voice finally came on.
“We need to talk. I’ll be on the quad at the community college. Come as soon as you can.” A few more seconds of silence, then the click of her disconnecting.
Claire.
He stood staring at the answering machine for several long moments. He felt compelled to replay the message, to make certain it really was her. But he didn’t need to. There was no mistaking her voice. He pressed a trembling finger to the delete button and erased the message, but he sensed that he wouldn’t be able to remove Claire from his life so easily. Whoever she was (not a ghost, damn it!), he knew that she wouldn’t stop hounding him until she’d gotten whatever it was she wanted.
Besides, he was beginning to feel the first stirrings of anger within, the first hint of anticipation, of need for a confrontation. By Christ, if the bitch wanted to meet with him, then they’d meet, and he’d let Little Miss Stalker have it with both barrels. He headed for the door, and by the time he’d gone downstairs, outside, and gotten into his car, he was feeling downright cheerful.
Claire hadn’t needed to tell him what community college to meet at; there was only one in the city. His alma mater, or one of them as he’d gone on to a four-year college and then to graduate school. But this was where he’d begun his college career, and aside from a less than well-received speaking engagement several years ago (the chair of the theatre department had stood up in the middle of Morgan’s talk and called him a “pompous asshole” and had gone on to call him much worse), he hadn’t been back since he’d graduated.
He parked his Lexus in the visitor’s lot, and strolled down a tree-lined walkway toward the quad. The buildings were ugly as sin; huge, blocky things without any scrap of personality. Hell, they didn’t even have names — no Mitchner Halls or Davis Auditoriums — just large metal numbers bolted to the brick. Building 1, Building 2 … talk about a complete and utter lack of imagination.
The quad wasn’t much better. It wasn’t even square, for god sakes, but round. How hard would it have been to call the damn thing The Circle? In the middle was a fountain, which during Morgan’s tenure as a student had always been filled with Styrofoam cups and cigarette butts. These days, it probably contained soiled condoms and empty syringes. It was a warm, if breezy day in early April, and normally this time of day, the “quad” should’ve been filled with students heading from one class to another, or just standing around gabbing, laughing, smoking. But it was empty. Was it some sort of holiday? If so, Morgan wasn’t aware of it. Maybe it was an in-service day and classes were canceled. Whatever the reason, the quad was deserted. No students, no faculty, and certainly no Claire.
He wondered if he’d been stood up, or if she had never intended to meet with him, had just been playing a prank. He was almost disappointed. He’d worked up a good head of steam on his way over here, and now it looked like he wasn’t going to get a chance to unload on Claire. He considered turning around and heading back to his car. He checked his watch. Still early. Well, he was here; he might as well give her a few minutes.
He walked over to the fountain, intending to sit on the edge while he waited. But as he drew near the water, he stopped. Floating face-down in the fountain amid the debris left by students was a woman dressed in a medieval-looking gown of green and white. A blonde woman. Morgan took a step forward, intending to do whatever he could to help, but then he stopped.
“Your tableau displays a certain amount of imagination, but it’s a more than a little over the top, don’t you think?”
The woman continued to float for a moment or two more, then she pushed herself to a sitting position and turned to look at him, an expression of extreme irritation on her face.
“You’re not funny.”
Her skin was bluish white, her face bloated as if she’d been in the water for days. Her lips were so swollen she could barely get words past them. ‘Or ‘ot hunny. The sleeves of her gown were split at the elbows and hung down, their ends floating on the water. He glanced at her arms, and, as if obliging him, she turned her hands palm up so he could see the gashes, three on each forearm.
He felt an insane urge to go to her and help her out of the fountain, but he couldn’t bring himself to step forward, couldn’t bear the thought of touching her wet and undoubtedly cold flesh.
She pulled herself out and sat on the edge of the fountain, water dripping off her, beginning to form a puddle at her feet. She patted the concrete next to her, indicating he should sit. Her hand left dark, moist prints.
“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll stand.” His voice sounded far away to his own ears, and he felt a trifle dizzy. He wondered if he might faint; he wondered if he cared.
“Suit yourself.” Shhuit yer’efhh. She lifted her arms, the wet ends of her sleeves dangling. “Recognize the costume? My little dip in the fountain is a clue.”
Her voice was still distorted, but for some reason he had no trouble understanding her. “I don’t —” and then it came to him. “Ophelia!”
She clapped her hands softly, the wounds on her forearms opening and closing along with the action. “Bravo, Mr. Critic! Hamlet’s girlfriend who, after her love has killed her father, descends into madness and commits suicide by throwing herself into a stream and drowning. A fountain’s a poor substitute, but a girl has to work with what she’s given.”
A memory tickled at Morgan’s mind. There was something about this school, Ophelia, an actress named Claire … Then he remembered.
“Omigod.”
She smiled, and Morgan saw black-shelled water beetles wriggling behind her teeth.
“Terribly miscast?”
“You’re a good actress — “ he’d almost said competent — “it’s just …” He trailed off, afraid to say anything more. His words had gotten him in enough trouble as it was.
They stood in the hall on the third floor of Building 6, outside his modern American literature class. People walked by, heads turned toward them, some frowning in puzzlement, others smirking knowingly.
Claire brandished the rolled-up student newspaper at him as if he were a bad puppy she intended to swat on the nose. Tears glistened in her eyes, and she blinked furiously, fighting to hold them back.
“Good actress? Not according to this!” She opened the paper, began to read. “‘Claire Ashton, as Ophelia, is terribly miscast. Her idea of portraying the character’s madness is to stare off into the distance as if she were merely waiting for a bus. One hesitates to use the expression all wet when referring to her performance, but if the cliché fits…’ All wet? God, what a lame joke!” A sob erupted from her throat then, a strange, unfeminine sound, almost like a frog’s croak. She slapped the paper against his chest and let go of it. It fell to the floor, and Morgan almost bent down to pick it up, not wishing to see his writing discarded like so much litter. But he sensed that would be a bad move right now, so he left it alone.
“I didn’t mean anything by the joke,” he said. “It was just something to spice up the review, make it more interesting to read. It’s nothing personal.”
“Not personal?” She was almost shrieking now. “How could it be any more personal, you sonofabitch!” Tears rolled down her cheeks now.
He should’ve said he was sorry, that he had tried to be clever at the expense of her feelings, and it was wrong, and more than that, it was downright nasty. He started to, got as far as opening his mouth when she said, “You’re nothing but a hack, you know that? Mr. Student Newspaper Critic. After you graduate — assuming they let you graduate, that is — you’ll be lucky to get a job writing copy for the back of cereal boxes!”
He knew she was lashing out because
he had hurt her so, but his own anger welled up now, liberally mixed with bile. It surged into his throat, poured over his tongue, and shot out of his mouth before he could stop it.
“You know, if you’d invested your Ophelia with half as much passion, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”
Claire’s eyes widened in shock and her hand twitched. For a moment, he thought she was going to slap him. But instead she turned around and ran off, and she didn’t look back.
“You remember now.” It wasn’t a question.
He nodded. “You didn’t come back to school the next quarter. The rumor around the theatre department was that you’d transferred to another college.”
“No. I decided that I’d had enough of school, so I moved to L.A., determined to get into movies and become famous, all so I could come back to Ohio one day and shove my Oscar up your ass.” She shook her head, seeming almost embarrassed.
“Luckily for me, it doesn’t look like you’re concealing any golden statuettes on your person.” It seemed insane, standing here and chatting with a woman he’d hurt over twenty years ago, a woman who, according to her own words was … “Are you really, you know … dead?”
She showed her arm wounds again. “These aren’t exactly a fashion statement. I was smart about it, made sure to cut long ways instead of across the wrist, and I made three cuts on each arm. That way, even if anyone found me before I died, they wouldn’t be able to save me.” She gave a little hmph. “Not that there was anyone to find me.”
“When?”
“Last night, not long before you sat down at the Purple Pagoda.”
Morgan looked at her for a moment then, despite himself, walked over and sat down next to her. But not too close. “Why did you do it?”
She clasped her hands in her lap and kicked her feet back and forth slowly, the way a little girl might do. “Did you open that picture file I sent you?”
“Yes.”
