by Thomas Tryon
“Aw, c’mon, Willie.” Arco had risen and was grinning at him, his voice gently coaxing as he came toward him. “Hey. Hey, listen. Bill was telling me about this present you got,” he began.
Willie stood weaving, holding his empty glass, blinking and peering at him. “Present?”
“Some—uh—” He was trying to remember. “Mirror? I think Bill said Fedora gave it to you. That right, Bill?” Bill didn’t answer. “That right, Bill?” he snapped out.
“Yeah. Right.” Bill looked over from the bar, where he sat smoking a joint.
“La Fedora,” Willie mumbled, his zoris making light clapping sounds against his bare heels as he moved away from Arco to the armoire. He adjusted the volume, then began dancing by himself.
“Willie?” Arco came after him, his voice soft, casual, yet insistent “This mirror …”
“Mirror, mirror, on th’ wall …” He was making drunken, outlandish, dipping circles. “Who’s the fairest …” Withdrawing from Arco again, he continued executing a series of turns, holding the glass away from his robe, his feet describing erratic patterns on the tile squares. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall …” he began again.
“Right.” Arco followed, motioning curtly to Judee, who closed in from the other side, and together they moved with Willie across the floor.
“Who’s the fairest—”
“Of them all. You are, Willie.” Judee tapped his shoulder and he stopped. Hands clasped behind her, she raised herself on tiptoe and demurely pecked his cheek with her lips. “You’re cute, sweetie,” she told him. “I’d sure like to see this mirror.”
“Mirror,” he repeated dumbly.
“You got it around?” Arco had appeared suddenly before him; Willie drew back, then waved his hand airily.
“’S in the safe.”
“Oh, yeah?” Arco said interestedly. “In the safe?”
Willie danced a few more steps. “Locked up. V’expensive.”
They followed.
“I bet it is. Where’s the safe, Willie?”
“Around.” He moved away; they came after him.
“Around where?”
Willie shrugged and wagged his head again. “Here there, up down, over under, in out.” His head protruded on his withered neck, he peered at Arco with a sudden roguish look before dancing off again. “Jus’ around …”
“Wouldn’t you let us have a look?” Arco pursued him.
Willie stopped suddenly and they collided; Willie eyed him with an angry stare. “No.” The word popped out abruptly, defiantly. He wheeled, spilling his melted ice cubes, then did a ludicrous little step, slid on the wet tile, and fell. Miraculously, the glass remained unbroken.
“Hurt yourself?” Arco knelt solicitously at his side.
“I’m … awright.” He angrily yanked his arm away, rolled over, squatted, then came abruptly to his feet.
Arco got up and pressed close to his side, still grinning. “Don’t you want to show us the mirror?”
Blinking, Willie brought his face close, then pulled it back. “Just realized who you look like,” he said, giggling foolishly. “Know who you look like, Arco? Jolly Roger.”
“Who’s Jolly Roger?”
“You know. Pirate flag. Skull ’n’ crossbones. That’s what you look like—skull ’n’ crossbones.”
“Sure, sure, Willie. But don’t you want to show us the mirror?”
“Show and tell,” Willie said. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. Judee—bring it here and show me. Hear that, Mama, l’il Willie’s talkin’ dirty. Right durty, ain’t ah, Mama?” He lapsed into a broad Southern dialect. “Mama and Tallulah both wuz Al’bama girls. Sen’tor Bankhead wuz a friend of Granddaddy’s. Hello, dahlings,” he said in the Bankhead parody, trailing off into the famous laugh. “Bah hah-hah-hah-hah. Bee, darling, Judee, dahling, fellow dahlings, it’s sho-o-owtime. Le’s bring her on—ol’ Laguna Lil.”
Arco muttered something unintelligible, then motioned Judee with his head. She closed in on Willie again and wound her arms around his neck. “Hi, han’some.” She pulled him close and danced with him. She whispered in his ear; he giggled. She brought her mouth around and kissed him lightly; he kissed her back, then stared blankly at her, as if at a stranger. “Your face keeps changing,” he said. “Everything keeps changing.” She murmured something, and touched her lips to his again, forcing them open, inserting her tongue. The dance became a struggle, they scuffled together. He pulled his head back, she closed on it with her mouth; he tried to free himself, while her arms tightened around him, still moving in the dance. He thrust her from him and shrank back, wiping his lips. “Get away from me, you little freak!” As she came at him again he whipped up his hand and slapped her. He stepped forward, with some blind intention in mind, then staggered back. His momentum propelled him in reverse across the floor, narrowly missing a table, then a chair, until he had got to a small coffee table which somehow passed between his spraddled legs and under the skirt of the robe. He stepped over the table without touching it, and falling back onto one of the sofas, looked around with a smug, pleased look. The cushions collapsed under his weight, he laid his head back, and passed out.
He awoke; came to; opened his eyes, at any rate, looking into the maze of mirror reflections. He sat up from his slouched position and gazed around. He seemed to be caught in a jungle whose green-black foliage had suddenly come alive, moving and swaying. From somewhere a bird sang; not the cockatoo—was it a mockingbird? What time was it? He couldn’t see the clock. The rain dripped from the gutters and raided tinnily in the throats of the downspouts. A gauzy mist was spread in mysterious splendor over the flats below, through which the city lights gleamed, fewer now, and more dimly. Between it and him, the jungle: palmetto, elephant ear, aralia, sharp spiky plants, the orange heads of bird-of-paradise. The pool light had been turned off, the water lay silent and unstirring, a slab of glistening obsidian. Then, among the foliage, he made out—what?—beasts moving? Candlelight flickered in the lanai, and on one of the chaises he saw a form. The thick arms were thrown back over the head; tanned skin and a band of flesh untouched by the sun. This was only partially visible, for over it, kneeling between the spread legs, was the curve of a back. It moved, too. It settled closer, the back tensing. He heard low animal cries, muttered obscenities. Along the yellow canvas-duck upholstery lay a hand, palm up, the fingers spreading, stiffening, clenching, opening again. The head rolled to one side. Murmurs, whispers, cries. Two of them, but they were not alone; there was a third one, standing in the shadows; watching.
Willie closed his eyes against the explicitness, lay back in lassitude, trying to shut out the scene. It stung him, fascinated him, disgusted him, heated, chilled him.
Beasts.
Animals.
He heard his knee joints crack as he tried to rise, working his way finally to his feet and staggering in an oblique path toward the doorway, where he braced himself and hung swinging back and forth on the aluminum frame.
“Get out!” he hissed at them. “Get out of here! All of you!”
Arco smiled lazily, while the girl crossed her arms over her breasts, moving aside as Bill reached for a towel and tucked it around his waist. With an adroit leap, he was off the chaise and close to Willie, who drew away.
“Hey, c’mon, pardner, don’t act that way. We thought you was asleep.”
“Wasn’t asleep. Want you to go. All of you. Now. What do you think this place is?” He felt his knees buckle, struggled to hold himself upright.
“We think it’s terrific, pops,” Arco said easily, reaching for his jeans and sliding his bare legs into them. “We were just having a little busman’s holiday,” he continued, his face popping out of his T-shirt. “That’s how we make our living, y’know. You got to watch free of charge. Most people have to pay.”
“That’s a thought, Willie,” Bill said jovially. He tried to touch Willie, who pulled farther away, then turned and went inside. Bill came after him.
&n
bsp; “Hey, babe—hey, babe, don’t act like that, huh? Okay? Honest, Willie, I’m real sorry.” He looked ridiculous with his shorn head, his stupid, happy-go-lucky smile.
Trying to draw himself up, Willie confronted him where he stood, his voice sneering, his hands gesticulating wildly. Bill was a clod, a yokel, a bumpkin, he was coarse, deceitful. He would never make it as an actor—not even as a human being. He was common, he was cheap, was filth. Bill’s face flushed red; then redder, first with sheepish embarrassment, finally with sullen anger. He grimaced—not smiled—the thick, larded cheeks lifting and making his eyes smaller, squintier. His boyish innocence had disappeared and he seemed suddenly malicious. Yet he let the accusations fall in silence. No one spoke. Wind riffled the palms, whisked the surface of the pool, died.
Arco, suddenly placating, made a move toward them. “C’mon, Willie—”
“Who are you?” he demanded loftily. “I don’t know you.”
“Sure you do, Willie.” This was Bill, but altered. “This is m’friend Arco.” He reached and brought Arco past him and placed him before Willie, towering over him from behind. There was sudden menace in the movement, in the sound of his voice, which had suddenly gone soft and babyish. “Arco, wantcha t’meet m’friend Willie.”
“Sure, sure, we met. Hiya, Willie.” He made a quick motion to Bill, who walked out into the lanai and started dressing. The girl lay watching from the chaise. Arco smiled insinuatingly at Willie. “No harm done, man.”
“No,” he said, sinking suddenly and wearily onto the sofa and putting his head back. “No harm done.” He looked at the tables and the food mess among the crystal ornaments. “Someone will clean it up.” He closed his eyes, his burst of anger seeming to subside. Arco waited a moment, then came and sat beside him. He began stroking one of the dogs and toying with its ear. Willie reached and took the dog onto his lap.
“I wouldn’t hurt him, Willie,” Arco said gently.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t. It’s cold.” He looked at the embers of the fire. Arco was snapping his fingers over the sofa back. Bill’s face appeared.
“Mind if I have one for the road?” Arco inquired.
“Feel free at any time.”
He got up and went to the bar. The girl wandered casually in and took his place on the sofa.
“Gee,” she said, smoothing her skirt, “some night, huh? Crazy. Everybody’s crazy tonight.”
He turned and looked at her. Bill was laying another log on the andirons. No one said anything. The room seemed terribly quiet, empty. Willie thought about what it would be like when they had gone. His eye wandered to the portrait.
“Mama.”
“Huh?” The girl stared at him.
“That’s m’mother.”
“I know,” she said sympathetically. “And she’s dead.”
He nodded; let her touch his arm, caress it.
“‘Little Willie in the best of sashes,’” he said.
“Do it, Willie,” Bill said, fanning the embers.
Willie giggled, then staggered up and began his act. “‘Little Willie in the best of sashes—’”
“‘Fell in the fire and was burnt to ashes,’” said Bill, lowering himself comfortably into a chair. Arco was getting cubes from the refrigerator. Judee smiled. Willie smiled back.
“‘Later on the room grew chilly,’” he said.
“‘But nobody thought to poke up Willie.’”
They finished together, and laughed together, and suddenly it was fun again. Arco had gone into the bathroom, and Judee was putting on more records, and Bill was making Willie another drink, and everyone had forgotten about the blow-up. Bill was sorry and Willie was sorry; everybody was sorry. Never mind; it was only a momentary thing. Then Bill and Judee were dancing, and Willie, holding the dogs, watched, content that no one was leaving.
“Laguna Lil,” he mumbled, suddenly sitting erect. They didn’t hear him, or his gleeful anticipation as he got up again, put down the dogs, and did a nimble tap step across the room.
“‘My little feet may be dancing,’” he crooned as he went, “‘but my little heart is breaking.’” He took one backward look, then went through the entranceway and disappeared. The dogs watched him go, then came back, curled up, and went to sleep, their noses on Judee’s thighs. Presently Arco came out of the bathroom and looked around. “Where’d he go?”
“Dunno.”
“Holler.”
“Willie?” No reply. Bill shouted again; the name echoed in the room and died away. Arco had moved to the wall and was tipping pictures on their hooks to peer behind them. “What’re ya doin’?” Bill asked.
“Lookin’ for the safe.”
“How we goin’ to open it?”
“He’ll open it”
“How?”
“I said he’ll open it. He’ll open it.”
Arco backed away from the wall, staring up, thinking. He went to the armoire. He knocked against it; the record arm jumped, and scratched across the disk. The cockatoo ruffled its crest and screamed.
“Fucking bird.” Arco swatted the cage and it rocked violently on its stand, while the cockatoo flapped its wings. Arco continued past the fish tanks and the open glass doors, where the rain leaked through the grommeted weepers in the canopy. He crossed to the far wall and felt behind the pulled-back curtains. At the end there was another picture. He angled it away and looked up and under.
“Shit.”
Moving quickly, purposefully, he recrossed the room to the bar, looked down around the shelves, then went into the wine closet behind the counter. Bill had sunk down on a stool, and sat swiveling, studying with dissatisfaction his reflection in the mirror. Judee came and leaned onto his lap, caressing his cheek. “Billy, poor old Billy,” she crooned softly. She kissed him, and as their mouths parted Bill looked past her frizzed head, toward the chapel.
“Holy God!”
“What?” Judee nuzzled his neck.
“Look.” He lifted her head and pointed. “The painting—see it?”
“What?” Judee said; she didn’t see anything wrong.
“It moved. I just seen it move.”
“Aw, Billy,” she giggled, then sat bolt upright. “Oh, my God …”
She had seen it, too. The life-size figure in the painting behind the cross cradling the infant Jesus had come suddenly, miraculously, to life. The hands were moving, extending the child out into the light. The head became animated, then the body, the shoulders surging gracefully, the drapery softly rippling.
Judee moaned, and Bill cursed quietly. Arco came out of the wine closet and his eye followed Bill’s pointing finger.
One hand of the figure still extended the Infant, while the other hand made languid beckoning gestures. The three crossed the room, staring up at the moving form in the white robe, with the blue, gold-bordered headdress, the cloth wimple beneath, the gold girdle. The arms brought the child back to the curving bosom and gently cradled it there, the head gazing down at it, holding the pose in perfect tableau.
As the three came to the chapel doorway and stared, the figure raised its head and spoke.
“Hello, dahlings, how’s tricks?”
“Jesus—Willie!” Judee fell against Bill, shrieking with laughter.
The figure flourished its draperies and bent in formal greeting. “No, dahlings—Laguna Lil.” He stepped down from the bench he stood on, revealing the painting of the Virgin behind, then moved past the altar, came through the gate, carrying the child, floating past them out into the game room. The blue headdress lifted, fluttered, as a gust blew through the open doors, and the sparkle of a gold sandal showed at the hem of the gown. Majestically the figure moved to the center of the room, where it made obeisance to the portrait, then gravely curtsied, first to Bill, then Judee, then Arco, turning slowly in a circle in a parody of a formally devout attitude.
“Here she is, dahlings,” came the Tallulah drawl. “Laguna Lil in person.” A brief dip to the painting. “Hello, Bee, da
hling, it’s Laguna Lil again. And the little one.” The Jesus figure was held up to the picture; a life-size doll with blinking eyes. “Here he is, dahling, the little tot himself, Jesus-Billyboy. Why don’t I marry him off, dahling?” The voice rang out bitter and sarcastic.
The others stared in silence as the face, garishly made up, with long fluttering eyelashes, penciled brows, cheeks powdered and rouged, a painted mouth, peered around the circle, the scarlet lips turned up in a burlesque smile. “That’s it, you see, dahlings, that’s what she did to Billyboy. Married him off. Her only begotten son, and she married him to Laguna Lil. She did, dahlings … a shotgun wedding. Pistol Willie. Bah hah-hah-hah-hah.” The Bankhead sheep laugh echoed in the room, and the head angled coyly, campily.
“‘My mama done tol’ me’—bum bum bum bum bum bump!” With lewd pelvic thrusts, the swathed figure flounced in a stripper’s walk, fluttering fabric from head and arms, extending the gold-sandaled foot. “‘When I was in knee pants’—bump! Well, hardly knee pants; more like knee skirts. I’ll give you th’ bridge to that song, Wimp…. ‘A woman’s a two-face … a worrisome thing … leave ya t’ sing … blues in th’ night.’ You see how it is, darlings; she couldn’t let her Billyboy go, so she married him. To Laguna Lil. ‘My mama done tol’ me—Son …’” The hand lifted the skirt of the gown and let it fall. “Like it? Fedora’s. From the movie. But not Mary, you know, not the Holy Mother. Bee’s the holy mother. This is Laguna Lil … that’s what we call her. Billyboy and Lil get married and Mama’s happy, aren’t you, Mama? Buzz buzz buzz. And … Mama lets her Billyboy wear … well, you see what it is.” Holding the skirts out, the figure drifted to the glass case that contained the silver crown, took it out and placed it on his own head. “Divine, isn’t it?” He moved back and held up the photograph of Fedora, dressed as the Virgin in The Miracle of Santa Cristi. The costumes were identical, yet one was a travesty. “Tallulah would have adored it. Bee did, and …” The hand came up in a delicate but hopeless wafting gesture, settling the crown more securely on his head. “All because a woman died in an epileptic fit on the …” The voice faltered as the figure collapsed to its knees before the portrait. “… steps of an … Italian country … church.” He lowered his head, the crown slipped, he caught it and tossed it like a quoit onto the arm of the doll, then laid both aside. He hiccupped, blinked, stared blankly around, his gaze eventually coming to rest on Arco, who was watching the scene with detached amusement. The clock chimed. The sound held, died; there was an infinitesimal pause, a moment’s beat as when an actor goes up in his lines and needs prompting. Then, in the silence, Arco’s amusement vanished, to be replaced by a fierce expression, as if he were assuming another role. Again his pale face darkened, his languor was transformed into galvanized action, and with a furious half-laugh, half-cry—“Blasphemy!”—he threw himself at the collapsed figure. Tearing away the blue, gold-bordered drapery, he stared down at Willie’s crumpled face, macabre and ludicrous in its woman’s make-up, and raised his arm in violent menace.