The Perfume

by Caroline B. Cooney

  Wing smirked.

  Dove was even more detached from her body. It truly was somebody else’s now: clothed in somebody else’s taste and somebody else’s colors. Wing was the one who pirouetted in front of the mirror, and Wing was the one who picked out the long, thin, silver-and-crystal earrings.

  “I got them from a catalog,” said Luce eagerly. “They’re supposed to be what Egyptian queens wore.”

  “They’re not,” said Wing.

  Dove shuddered, for Wing actually knew, because Wing had been there. What if she takes me back there? thought Dove. What if the Venom runs out … and instead of leaving me to my life … she takes me with her into the past and the evil?

  Her shudder annoyed Wing, who hit the side of her head to stop the itch.

  “That’s such a weird habit you’ve developed,” said Luce. “Hitting your head like that.”

  Way inside, behind the eyes, Dove saw how Wing looked at Luce, despising her. Luce was nothing but a creature from whom to borrow accessories. In this sweet friend, Wing saw no personality, no frailties, no strengths, no goodness, no nothing—just a body.

  But then, that was all Wing saw when she looked at Mother.

  A maternal body.

  Not a real mother, who loved and was loved, who was completely predictable and yet a mystery.

  Just a maternal body, a carrier, a wage earner, a car driver.

  Dove could not look at the world like that. It was too horrible, too futile and pointless.

  Wing left without saying thank you, of course, and Luce tagged along momentarily, hoping for a normal conversation about Timmy, and the date, and where it would lead, and what would happen. But Wing was no longer interested in Luce and did not waste time talking to her. Luce was left standing in her doorway, confused and hurt.

  Wing was not using the mouth, and Dove, because it was her friend standing there so pitifully, called back, “Thanks, Luce! See you Monday! I’ll tell you all about it then!”

  Wing burst out laughing, and their two noises were frightening, a cacophony of unrelated sound.

  “Do you know what I’m going to do tomorrow?” said Wing to Dove. “On this little date of yours? With your dull little boyfriend?”

  Dove did not know what a viper would find enticing.

  “I don’t know yet,” said Wing, “but it will be something dramatic. Your life is too boring for me. I want action.”

  Timmy picked her—or was it them?—up at five A.M.

  It was still rather dark, and he had stopped at the convenience store for two coffees to go. He was driving his father’s new car, and was full of pride at having been allowed to take it for the morning.

  Wing pricked up at this; here was a vulnerable place; the car, perhaps Wing’s drama could be through the car, which Timmy, of course, had promised to take perfect care of.

  No, please! said Dove on the inside, let’s not hurt the car. Timmy has got to be able to take it back unscratched and unscathed, or his father will kill him.

  So? said Wing.

  The lack of interest in her voice was bone-chilling. You can’t kill anybody, Wing, said Dove.

  I was all but dead for fifteen years and nobody cared, said Wing. Listen, she added, you be the one to talk to this jerk. He’s too boring for me. I can’t be bothered.

  Wing kept the body, but let Dove have the mouth.

  How weird it was to be talking to Timmy, and seeing out of the eyes, and yet the hands and body were doing what somebody else felt like doing. Somebody else crossed her knees, fidgeted with the radio, opened the window, and changed the vents.

  There were three people in the front seat, but only two of them knew about it.

  Timmy, however, was happy. “I love flight,” he confided. “I’m going to be a pilot, you know. In fact, for my birthday next summer, my parents are giving me flying lessons. I can hardly wait.”

  “That’s so exciting!” said Dove.

  He grinned at her. “I love your voice. The way it changes key. It’s like an electronic synthesizer or something.”

  “It is?”

  “Yup. You know. Dial-a-voice. High pitch or low pitch. Sharp edge or Dove edge. Here. Drink your coffee.”

  But the hand that lay in her lap did not pick up the coffee.

  Timmy looked at her.

  Wing laughed silently. I don’t feel like coffee, Dove Bar, old twin, she said. I’m the one tasting it and swallowing it, and I’m not interested. So there.

  Dove said desperately, “Thanks, Timmy, it was great of you, but I actually am not terribly fond of coffee.”

  Timmy’s face fell. He had been so proud of himself, thinking of it.

  Wing’s hand picked up the Styrofoam cup, rolled down the window, and threw the whole thing—cup and all—into the grass at the side of the road.

  Timmy said tensely, “I hate littering, Dove. Please don’t do that again.”

  Dove hated littering, too. In her head she said, Wing, I hate you.

  In her head, Wing laughed.

  Out loud, Dove said, “I’m sorry, Timmy. I wasn’t thinking.”

  He frowned and drove.

  It was going to be a long morning.

  They parked in an immense field and hiked through long damp grass to the area where the balloons were tethered. The crews for each balloon were getting ready, and the flames beneath each lovely silk creation were building up hot air, and the balloons were starting to lift. There was much shouting and pulling of ropes and guy wires. The large crowds who had gathered for the display stared in awe as the balloons inflated. How immense they were! How incredibly beautiful!

  Like a great box of crayons—every color there ever was. Every pattern, every rainbow.

  One went up, then five more, then two, then another half dozen, soaring, lifting, like magnificent Christmas bulbs rejoicing in the sky. The sun rose in the east and its low rays flickered through the dewy grass, sparkled on the black shirt that Dove wore, and turned the balloons into jewels on a velvet sky.

  They stared and stared.

  “Want to go up in one?” said Timmy, smiling.

  Dove shuddered. She didn’t like heights.

  But Wing was afraid of nothing. “Of course,” said Wing.

  “Over here,” pointed Timmy. “These are the ones that take passengers.” They walked to a row of four balloons. A family of three was nervously getting into one basket with a man who would control the balloon. The wife was not sure she really wanted to do this. “Very safe,” said the man, smiling. Then, seeing Timmy, he said, “Hey, kid. How are ya? Going up? Who’s your friend?”

  “This is Dove Daniel,” said Timmy proudly, moving her forward like a prize. And to Dove he said, “We don’t need to have anybody go with us; I’ve gone up plenty of times and I know what I’m doing. I’ll take you.”

  Dove opened her mouth to say no, but Wing hurled her out, so that Dove smacked against the back of Wing’s mind, hitting the outcroppings of bone, and hurting herself. How is she doing this? thought Dove, dizzy and sick. Do I have to learn how to do this to her as well? Are we going to have wrestling matches of the mind?

  Wing said, “I’d love that, Timmy. You’re such a sweetie.”

  Timmy beamed. He launched on a lengthy lecture about aerodynamics, balloon history, how the silk was sewn together. Neither Wing nor Dove listened.

  Wing said, Dove Bar—think of the attention I would get if one of us fell out of the basket!

  Wing! No! You can’t do that!

  Why not?

  Because you’d be dead, that’s why! Look how high those balloons are going!

  I’m not going to lose my balance, said Wing. Her cruel smile made a terrible blinding light inside their head. Timmy did not see the horrible smile, but the balloon man did, and he flinched.

  It’s Timmy, said Wing, who will lose his balance.

  Chapter 14

  THE GONDOLA OF THE HOT air balloon was made of wicker. It was just a very very large basket. A sturdy basket, to be s
ure—but not something Dove particularly wanted to trust with her life.

  In their ancient history book, there was a chapter on prehistoric England. A scary group of people lived there when the Romans conquered the island: Druids. The Romans had crossed the Channel from France and taken England as a colony two thousand years ago, and they wrote history books about it. How strange it was to think of people two thousand years ago needing to write history books for themselves. How ancient could you get?

  Druids, the Romans wrote, made human sacrifices. The Druids were not a kindly people and they did not have kindly gods. They burned people: women and children and warriors … in immense wicker baskets.

  There was an illustration in the history book. One of those pen-and-ink drawings that can be so much more horrifying than photographs. It pictured desperate victims with their feet on fire. And even as they tried to stomp the fire out, they smothered to death from the smoke.

  The Druids had done this often.

  There were many periods in history in which nobody would have wanted to live, and this was certainly on the list. Druid sacrifice would have been a very difficult way to die.

  Timmy and Wing and Dove entered the basket. Wing’s fingers gripped the rough and splintery reeds of the basket, but Dove could not feel it.

  There was a fire in this basket. Right in the basket. Flames rose and heat expanded the air to keep the balloon aloft.

  Perhaps I was wrong about Wing being from Egypt, thought Dove. Perhaps Wing is really from ancient England. She’s a Druid, and she is going to burn us as a sacrifice.

  Don’t be silly, said Wing inside their shared mind. If I burn you as a sacrifice, whose body will I have? Nobody’s. Don’t you understand anything, Dove? I need a body. Yours is the only one I can get at.

  Dove was not fond of heights but, because the body was not hers, she could not feel the lift, or get dizzy from looking down.

  She could only look.

  Mostly Wing looked straight ahead, so that Dove’s view was of the ropes and wires that attached the balloon to the gondola. Sometimes Wing looked at Timmy, and then Dove studied the wide horizontal blue stripes of his shirt. Sometimes Wing stared into the flames, and Dove wanted to squint against the bright orange, but she could not; and Wing did not.

  “See?” Timmy kept saying. He kept turning to Wing, laughing with pride, as if he had made the world; this was Timmy’s creation, this green and lovely land beneath them. “See the farm?” cried Timmy. And later. “See the village?”

  “See the river?” said Wing. “See the playground?”

  Wing was mocking him, making Timmy’s sentences sound like phrases in a first-grade reader. But Timmy did not know. “Yes!” he cried. “And the road! See the cars?”

  “Cars?” said Wing. “Really? On a road? My, my, how exciting, Timmy.”

  Stop it! said Dove.

  Why?

  Because you’re being ugly, said Dove. He’ll notice, and I don’t want him to! I want him to like me.

  Wanting to be liked is one of your personality problems, said Wing. I don’t care about that sort of thing. What I want out of life—she laughed—out of your life, Dove—is excitement.

  Wing put her hand in the lower middle of Timmy’s back. Timmy turned and smiled at her, dizzy with the excitement of piloting the balloon in front of a girl he adored.

  “How high up are we?” asked Wing.

  “Not very. A thousand feet.”

  “That’s enough,” said Wing.

  Enough for what? demanded Dove.

  Wing’s answering smile was no joyful baby’s grin. It was a manic stretching of lips.

  “Sure is enough,” agreed Timmy. “I like to see details so I don’t like to be all that high.”

  What do you have in mind here? said Dove.

  You know what I have in mind, said Wing, you just don’t want to admit it. Out loud she said. “I think we should throw more ballast out, Timmy, so we can go up higher.”

  Are you insane? said Dove. Wing! Answer me! What are you doing?

  I’m not insane, said Wing. How could I be insane? I’m you.

  Dove fought to get inside the mouth, to use the lungs and tongue and vocal chords to warn Timmy. She means you, Timmy! You’ll be the ballast she throws out!

  Their heart was beating so hard and so fast now, that Dove could feel the thudding all the way up in the skull; every pulse like drums in a marching band. Don’t do it, Wing, said Dove, please don’t do this.

  I want to, though, said Wing, smiling.

  Even if you don’t care about killing Timmy, said Dove, think about what will happen to you!

  Wing was puzzled. Nothing will happen to me, she replied.

  You’ll be a murderer! There will be police and jails and prison and scandal and it will hurt Mother and Father! Think, Wing!

  It would not bother me to hurt the maternal body, said Wing. But surely you know, Dove, that I am not going to any prison or doing any suffering. If they think it was murder, I’ll just go back into your head and let you take the rap.

  Dove struggled, but she could not invade the body. Wing had it completely. Dove kicked and screamed and bit and pounded her fists, but Wing simply hit the side of her head and otherwise did not react.

  How am I going to warn Timmy? Dove thought. How can I let him know that he must not turn his back on me!

  On me. Is it me, after all? Are there two of me in this gondola with Timmy O’Hay?

  Timmy, blow me a kiss! Dove tried to cry. It worked in the classroom. Please, please, blow me a kiss, set me free, it works in Sleeping Beauty!

  Wing chatted with Timmy about going up higher. They had separated from the other balloons. The sky was empty.

  “Let’s fly over a city, Timmy,” said Wing. “Let’s fly over the mall! I’d love to be right over the mall, right over that glass pyramid, right where thousands of people are watching us.”

  She wants to dump him where people are, Dove realized. It wouldn’t attract enough attention if she dumps him in a hayfield. She wants his body to fall through the air, and hear the screams of horror from the people in the parking lots, and hear the smash when it hits!

  Wing, listen to me, she said to her twin, we can work this out. Let’s strike a bargain. Come on, come in here and talk to me.

  Timmy said that navigating and steering a hot air balloon was not as simple as driving a car, but he could see something on the horizon and they would head for that.

  “Okay,” said Wing cheerfully, looking way over the edge.

  Dove thought of weird people she had been taught to look through or ignore. People who muttered to themselves, or yanked at their torn and dirty clothing, or slept in doorways. Were they demented? Drunk? Schizophrenic? Drugged?

  Or were their bodies in the possession of a vanished twin?

  Wing’s hands closed around Timmy’s waist; he was laughing, pleased that she was showing such enthusiasm.

  “Let go of the ropes, Timmy, darling,” coaxed Wing, “and give me a kiss.”

  Timmy let go of the ropes.

  No, no, no, please no, thought Dove, please don’t let this happen. Let me have a voice, or hands, or something! Anything!

  She had no time to wonder why people were afraid of ghosts. What could a ghost do? A ghost had nothing to work with.

  The rich farm smell of cows and cut hay reached her nose.

  I can smell! thought Dove.

  But nobody can be rescued through a sense of smell. To save flesh, you had to have flesh.

  Wing pushed.

  Chapter 15

  A SENSE OF SMELL.

  How strange that so much exists on earth that is not visible. How difficult to identify these things. How much of the world human beings do not possess at all.

  Radio waves, curling and wafting in their infinite symmetry … waves that bats read, to find their way in the dark … waves that whales read, listening to their relatives oceans away.

  Colors … those ultraviolets human e
yes cannot see, but whose presence can burn and fade the skin and the soul.

  Sounds … those low sonorous murmurs or high unheard whistles that make a dog’s ears prick up, while humans sleep on.

  A human cannot smell where an animal has marked its territory, but the rest of the living world knows. Deep in the forests, out in the wide mountain meadows, every fox and deer, every woodchuck and chipmunk knows.

  Only humans stand ignorant of those invisible inaudible kingdoms.

  But this was different. The rich scents that filled Dove’s nostrils belonged to her; she knew them; she had names for them: cut hay, turned earth, burning gas, fragrant flowers, boys’ sweat.

  Dove was back in Dove.

  She clung to Timmy’s shirt. Oh, the joy of feeling the cotton against her fingers! The inexpressible joy of looking where she chose to look! Saying what she wanted to say. Moving where she wanted to move!

  A smell saved us, thought Dove. A smell brought me back. Some perfume of the earth was strong enough to oppose some perfume of evil.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I lost my balance. I’m scared, Timmy. Let’s land. Please?”

  Timmy maneuvered the ropes. “Okay,” he said in a funny collapsed voice. “The field on the other side of that brook would be perfect.”

  But what smell? thought Dove. Of all the million smells in the world, ones I can identify and ones I can’t, which smell brought me back? Cut hay, turned earth, burning gas, fragrant flowers, boys’ sweat? All or a combination? Or one I didn’t even know I was sniffing?

  There is an antidote. I know that now, but I can’t be going up in hot air balloons to sniff for it every time Wing gets back in control.

  First, Timmy was saying, he had to look and see if there was anything important growing in the field, because they weren’t supposed to land where farmers’ crops would be ruined; no, he could see a horse at the far end of the field, near a white fence; so it was pasture; except that he might scare the horse, and that would be terrible; he could never face the farmer, let alone ask to use his phone, if the horse went berserk with fear and broke loose, or broke his leg trying.

  The burst of speech from Timmy was so incredibly beautiful.