OtherWorld

by Sarah Dreher

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “It looks like the flux.”

  “What’s the flux?”

  “Diarrhea. And if it isn’t diarrhea, it will undoubtedly cause diarrhea.”

  “Don’t be silly.” She stirred the food around on her plate. “Look, Edith’s eating it.”

  “Right,” Gwen said. “And we all know Edith Kesselbaum has the dining instincts of a goat.”

  Not Gwen. Not real enemies.

  What about Marylou?

  How could Marylou offend?

  Well, there was always the botched-airline-tickets possibility. People were known to become murderous over botched airline tickets. Understandably. What with air travel these days a matter of increasing risk, cramped seats, crummy meals the size of doll food, flights late or cancelled, and prices higher than cruising altitude—all most people needed to go on a killing rampage was to end up on a wrong or non-existent flight.

  But they hadn’t botched a ticket in ten years. Either of them. In fact, they should make it the motto of the agency: Kesselbaum and McTavish, Travel Agents, Ten years without a Botched Ticket.

  How about her private life, though? Marylou liked sex, and found men useful along those lines. But they were always falling in love with her, wanting a commitment, wanting CHILDREN, for God’s sake. Marylou Kesselbaum with children was… was… well, it just wasn’t. Some of her ex-boyfriends had gotten a little pushy about it. There was even one against whom she’d had to take out a restraining order. He’d hung moping around outside the Cambridge apartment where Marylou and her mother and step-father lived. Not doing anything, exactly. Just hanging around. Following her. Gazing up at her window. Writing poetry on tear-stained paper. Finally Max—Marylou’s step-father and a retired FBI agent—had declared enough enough and called the cops.

  But that had been two years ago. All she’d heard from him was a brief note, six months after the incident, apologizing for his bad behavior and promising to enroll in a men’s group to get in touch with the “Wild Man” within. A chilling thought, but it seemed to have cured his obsession with Marylou.

  And she doubted that Wild Men stalked the corridors of Walt Disney World projecting dark thoughts into people’s minds. They were probably too busy grooving on the Jungle Ride and getting off on the Pirates of the Caribbean.

  So what about Aunt Hermione? She’d made a few enemies in her life—not counting her oldest and dearest enemy, Stoner’s mother, whom she had dared to defy by taking Stoner in when she was sixteen and a runaway, and refusing to throw her back into the lion’s den.

  But if someone was trying to harm Aunt Hermione, they wouldn’t do it psychically. Anyone who’d spent an hour with her would know they couldn’t win that battle.

  Which left—drum roll, please—yours truly. Yours truly, who only had to walk down the street to pick up enemies by the dozen. Yours truly, who really only wanted to go through life calmly and simply, no hassle, no complexities, just smelling the roses. She had a family, a lover, friends, and a job. Quite enough to look after in one lifetime, thank you. She didn’t need the added aggravation of enemies.

  Marylou passed her a drink in a coconut shell. It was the size of a bucket, and topped with enough fruit to decorate Carmen Miranda’s hat a dozen times over.

  “Am I supposed to drink this?” she asked. “Or save it for breakfast?”

  “Whatever you like,” Aunt Hermione said. “Though from the amount of rum it seems to be carrying, I shouldn’t think it would make a very suitable breakfast. You don’t want to experience EPCOT Center through an alcoholic haze, do you?”

  “To tell you the truth,” Stoner said as she pushed the drink away, “I really don’t want to experience anything through an alcoholic haze.”

  “Yes,” her aunt said, “I’ve noticed you haven’t been having your usual before-dinner Manhattan lately. I didn’t want to say anything, but… well, dear, is there a problem?”

  Stoner shook her head. “Somehow it just doesn’t seem like a good idea any more.” It had actually happened, she recalled, one evening at a dance. For some reason she had taken the time to notice how her drink tasted, and realized that she didn’t really like it at all. Then she noticed how it made her feel, and realized she liked that even less.

  “It seems to me,” Aunt Hermione was saying, “people just don’t respond well to liquor these days. Thirty years ago I don’t believe we had quite so much drunken violence. Do you suppose they’re making it differently? Or is it the hole in the ozone layer?”

  Stoner thought about it. “Maybe it’s genetic.”

  “It could be the nuclear testing, I suppose.”

  “Actually,” Gwen put in, “I think it’s television. Boys see boys getting drunk at sporting events and think it’s cool. It gets attention.”

  “I vote for the hole in the ozone layer,” Aunt Hermione said.

  Glancing up, she noticed Marylou staring morosely at her plate. Poor Marylou. They could tease all they wanted, but Marylou did hate being away from home. And as unconventional as Edith Kesselbaum was, it certainly wasn’t an easy thing to travel with one’s mother.

  “I think,” Gwen murmured in her ear, “a little extra attention is called for over there.”

  “You’re right.” She excused herself and pulled up a chair between Marylou and her mother. “So. How’s it going?”

  “This is absolutely,” Edith said, “the most fantastic food I’ve ever eaten.”

  Marylou groaned.

  For the first time, Stoner took a good look at their dinner. Some kind of salad, possibly shrimp and vegetables, but diced within an inch of its life, every bite identical to every other bite in size, shape and texture. Two varieties of baked chicken in sauce—one clear sauce and one yellow. Chunks of beef, also in sauce...

  “Walt Disney World,” Marylou grumbled. “Sauce capital of the universe.”

  Stoner dipped her little finger in each of the sauces and tasted them. They seemed to be identical, smooth and slightly gingery. “How come they’re different colors?” she asked.

  “Food coloring,” Marylou said.

  “No.”

  “Look.” She pointed to a swirl of yellow in a river of clear. “They didn’t stir that one enough.”

  “Oh, God,” Stoner said. “You’re right.” She took Marylou’s hand. “I’m sorry about this, really I am. When we get back to the hotel, you and I are going on a real food hunt.”

  Marylou smiled evilly. “You’re going to pay for this, Stoner McTavish. For the rest of your life.”

  “Marylou,” Edith Kesselbaum said, “don’t pick on Stoner.”

  “Mother! You’re acting like a mother!”

  Edith held up one hand in apology. “Sometimes I forget myself. Do you suppose it could be some strange manifestation of displaced counter-transference? Maybe I should see my training analyst again.”

  “I think it’s probably just habit,” Stoner offered.

  “Nonsense. All behavior is motivated, usually unconsciously.” She caught herself and pressed a finger to her lips. “Listen to me, talking like a Freudian. And I thought I’d put all that behind me. It’s a cult, you know. Remind me to think twice next time I’m tempted to go to one of these conventions.”

  “Edith,” Stoner asked, “do you have any enemies?”

  Dr. Kesselbaum tossed her hair and adjusted the orchid she wore behind one ear. “Not at the moment, but I undoubtedly will before the conference is over. I am only...” She held up two fingers, separated by a millimeter. “...this far from telling someone off. Today we were subjected to one of those touchy-feely group experiences I thought had died back in the ’70s. And after that a seminar on managing the business end of your therapy practice, with particular emphasis on dealing with HMOs.” She frowned and sucked on her drink. “Sometimes I wonder if anyone does real therapy any more.”

  Drums exploded to a frantic, hysterical cadence.

  The lights went out.

  Dancers leapt o
nto the stage, torchlights glistening and reflecting from the dinner sauces.

  “Dear God!” Edith Kesselbaum murmured, and turned to watch them, mesmerized.

  “You and Edith getting along?” Stoner asked, leaning close to Marylou.

  “Fine.”

  “Did she find the you-know-whats?”

  Marylou grinned. “The coast is clear.”

  “Where’d you put them?” She could imagine Edith going through the drawers, looking for a spare blanket or the phone book or something, and coming across the world’s largest collection of vibrators.

  “In your room. That’s how I found the dinner tickets.”

  “My room!”

  “Sure. If she finds them in there, she’ll think your therapy was a complete success.” She caught her breath. “I just had a terrible thought.”

  “What?”

  “Suppose we lose the key?”

  They looked at each other and began to giggle.

  “You know,” Marylou said with a little hiccup, “this vacation could be all right.”

  Stoner pressed her forehead against Marylou’s. “You’re a great friend.”

  “Stop it, Love. You’re embarrassing me.”

  Loudspeakers blared out the announcement of the “Knifa Oti”, the Samoan Fire-Knife dance.

  The drums became frenzied.

  The stocky Polynesian men whirled, tossing their flaming batons into the air and catching them without missing a beat.

  “Too bad they’re boys,” Marylou whispered in her ear. “With this act, they’d have the talent section of the Miss America Pageant sewn up.”

  They watched for a while.

  So Edith Kesselbaum didn’t think she had enemies. At the moment. Well, she could be right. But...

  And how vulnerable was Marylou, really?

  She was obsessing. “Marylou, do you have any known enemies?”

  “Thousands,” Marylou said. “Why?”

  “Aunt Hermione thinks someone here is out to get us. And there are those phone calls…”

  “Know what I think?” Marylou asked as she took another bite of what she had identified as the real Chicken Pago-Pago.

  “No. What?”

  “I think someone’s out to ruin your vacation.”

  “Mine?”

  “Yours. Someone who knows your fatal flaw is worry. And is attempting to drive you mad by making annoying phone calls and putting thoughts in Aunt Hermione’s head. Which isn’t difficult, as you know. Aunt Hermione’s ability to pick up signals is the envy of every satellite-dish owner in the country.”

  “But why me?”

  Marylou spread her hands in a ‘who knows?’ gesture. Her silver bracelets jangled. “Could be anything, love.”

  Stoner frowned. “I don’t like this.”

  “I know. But remember what you’re always telling me. If you don’t have enough information to reach a conclusion, best to wait until more comes your way, and meanwhile sit back and enjoy yourself.”

  “I never said that, Marylou.”

  “You might say it. Probably did at one time or other only you don’t remember. Probably will again. Probably in the next few hours. It’s the kind of thing you’d say.”

  A hand appeared from nowhere, wearing a flowered bracelet and holding what looked like a rum-and-coke. “Excuse me. Ms. McTavish?”

  Stoner looked up.

  “Compliments of that gentleman over there,” the cocktail waitress said.

  She glanced over. The nearest table was packed with couples. No one was looking their way.

  “Which gentleman?”

  The waitress scanned the group. “I don’t know which person. I’m sorry, but their dinner server took the order and passed it on.”

  “I don’t think...” But the woman was gone. Stoner scanned the other table. “That’s odd. I don’t recognize anyone in that crowd.”

  “Maybe somebody just likes your looks. Maybe they have a thing for green eyes.”

  “They know my name.”

  “A secret admirer.”

  “I don’t have secret admirers.”

  Marylou reached for the drink.

  “I don’t think you should drink that. It might be poisoned or something.”

  “At Walt Disney World? Don’t be silly,” Marylou said. She picked up the drink, took a sip and made a face.

  “What is it?”

  “Rum and Coke. A real lollapalooza. Try it.”

  Stoner shook her head. “I’d rather not.”

  “Oh, go on. Just taste it. You don’t have to swallow enough to kill yourself.”

  Cautiously, she tried the drink. It was bitter, with a smoky over-taste. Reminded her of the valerian tea they used to drink for P.M.S. back at the Cambridge Women’s Center. “Does it seem all right to you?” she asked.

  “Seems fine.”

  “You’re positive?”

  “Absolutely. Will you please relax, Love?”

  One of the hula dancers approached, holding out her hands, inviting them to join her on the stage.

  “Come on,” Marylou said. She jumped to her feet, flinging her napkin into the yellow sauce.

  “You go ahead,” Stoner said. “I’m happy to watch.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Marylou shouted from the stage. The hula dancer took her by the hips and began swaying back and forth. “You’re a great dancer.”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Okay,” Marylou called over her shoulder, getting into the rhythm and motion, “but this could be the end of a beautiful love affair.”

  She watched the dancers for a while, and tried to take her mind off of her apprehensions. Marylou was right, of course. There was nothing she could do but wait and see what developed. If she had a nickel for every time she’d had an apprehension that had died on the vine, she’d be rich. She was prone to unreasonable apprehensions. Forebodings that scurried through her mind like squirrels in autumn, rustling dried leaves of anxiety, burrowing into piles of premonition-weeds and pulling out nuggets of sheer terror. Most of the time they didn’t amount to anything. This was probably one of those times.

  Probably.

  CHAPTER 3

  The phone rang. The night shattered. Startled awake, her heart racing, Stoner picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Help me.”

  She sat up. “Please, tell me who you are.”

  “Help me!”

  “I can’t help you if I don’t know who you are.”

  “I’m lost. You gotta help me!”

  Beside her, Gwen switched on the light.

  “Who are you?”

  The voice became very small. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t...” She could make out background noise. A man’s voice. Familiar. Couldn’t make out the words. She tried to place it. Damn. It was right at the edge of her mind, but...

  “Help me!”

  Stoner rubbed her eyes, chasing away the remnants of sleep. She had to keep the woman—clearly, it was a woman, a young woman, not a child, heavy rural Southern accent—on the line. “Look, I want to help, but you have to tell me more.”

  She picked up the pencil and pad of paper from the bedside table and scrawled a note. “Marylou’s room. Trace call.”

  “I gotta go.”

  “Wait!”

  Gwen tossed her bathrobe over her shoulders and scurried from the room.

  “Please,” Stoner said. “Don’t hang up.”

  “I gotta.”

  The young woman’s voice was faint and a little hollow, as if she were down a well.

  “At least try to tell me where you are.”

  “I don’t know.”

  What do I do now?

  Damn. Can’t think.

  She kneaded her face. “I…”

  Okay. Analogy. You’re… Christine Cagney, and Mary Beth’s been kidnapped. She’s called you on the phone but doesn’t know where she is and you say… you say...

  “Somebody help me!”

  “All
right, all right.” She tried to make her voice calm. And you say… damn… you say… Got it! “Look around. Tell me what you see.”

  “Dark. All dark.”

  Oh, great. No wonder Cagney and Lacey was cancelled.

  “Well, there must be something or someone there. I hear a voice.”

  “There’s a voice, but nobody here.”

  “Voices don’t come out of nowhere. Try to find out…”

  “Please!”

  Stoner tried to identify background noises. The man’s voice went on and on. Lecturing? Explaining? Unintelligible. Who would be lecturing? At this time of night? “Don’t hang up,” she said firmly. “Okay? We’re trying to find you, but you can’t hang up.”

  “They’re gonna take me away,” the woman said. “I don’t want to go. I’m afraid to go.”

  “Who’s going to take you away?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t see ’em but they want me.”

  “Okay, okay. Try not to panic. Take a deep breath and clear your mind.” Who is that in the background. Damn it, who is it?

  “I gotta go. Please, I don’t wanta go!”

  “No,” Stoner said firmly. “You can’t go. We’re going to find…”

  The phone went dead.

  She dropped the receiver onto the cradle and ran her hands through her hair.

  This was one well-planned hoax, or someone was in real deep trouble. Either way, the potential for making her crazy was limitless.

  As she started for the door, Gwen came back into the room. She looked a little shaken.

  “Did they trace it?” Stoner asked.

  “Yes.” Gwen hesitated.

  “And?”

  “Did you keep the person on the line?”

  “Sure. Until just now. Seconds ago. Why?”

  Gwen looked at her. “I called the operator. He checked and double-checked. I made sure he had the right room number.”

  “Good,” Stoner said. “What did you find out?”

  “Nobody was using our line,” Gwen said quietly.

  She frowned, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “Nobody was calling in.”

  “Well, they must have made a mistake. There must be something wrong with their equipment...”