Fearful Symmetries

by Thomas F Monteleone

  “George’s what!” asked the frizzie-haired blonde closest to him. She punctuated her wit with a witless chuckle. “I’d be afraid to ask for a drink with a name like that.”

  “It’s sour mash,” said John, mildly interested as he scanned the topography of her face. The lines beneath the makeup spoke of kids off to college and a husband lost within the circles of corporate-hell.

  “Sour mash? Why would anybody want to drink something that sounds like it should be mopped up off the floor?”

  “Because it tastes good?” Frankie dropped the two glasses in front of him and he sipped at the Tennessee ambrosia.

  “Can I try it?” asked the blonde. At least she seemed adventurous.

  He looked at her tutie-fruitie cocktail, grimaced, and did a little Bogie on her. “This ain’t gonna taste like that neon light you’re drinking, shweetheart…”

  She giggled and sipped cautiously from his glass. Coughed. Rolled her eyes.

  “Whew! Why would anybody want to do that to themself?”

  “It makes me horny as a hoot-owl,” said John. He took back the glass, turning it to avoid a rim-smear of dark lipstick, and knocked back half of it. A tiny sip of Coke and he was in business.

  “I never did it with a hoot-owl,” said the Frizzy Blonde.

  John laughed politely and glanced across the bar where a dark-haired woman of maybe thirty was nursing a daiquiri. He’d seen her when he’d first walked in, and she’d been watching him then, as she was now. He smiled and touched the low-slanted rim of his hat. She nodded and proffered a small smile in response. She wasn’t just attractive or pretty; she was centerfold material. Her hair was an explosion of auburn hair, framing a face that spoke of classic Mediterranean statuary. Eyes as dark as the windows in a stretch limo and as full of the secrets behind its glass. Lips that had been designed to do nothing but the best finished off a face that could only be Italian. A woman like her was used to things like the utter impracticality of linen napkins, the joys of Paganini, the cool rush of satin sheets, the necessity of paté de foie, the comfort of silk kimonos and leather upholstery.

  And even if she wasn’t, she should be.

  He finished his Dickel, signaled Frankie for another. Still plenty of time to make some kind of significant contact. She’d sent the guy next to her crashing and burning a couple of times, but he was too stupid or too wasted to realize he might as well be a leper.

  “So what’s your name? And how come you still got your hat on? Do you keep it on in bed too?”

  He looked back to the Frizzy Blonde and made a point of not smiling. “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “I like a lot of answers,” she said with a giggle which wouldn’t’ve sounded right even on a teenager.

  John looked at her and smiled, touched her shoulder softly. “Listen, could you excuse me for a minute? I think I see my sister over there.”

  “Your sister?”

  “Yeah, and I’ve got a message from Mom I gotta make sure she gets.”

  Before the woman could say anything, he was up and moving around the horseshoe of the bar. Gliding to a stop next to the wild mane of auburn, he cleared his throat softly. “For a second there I thought you might be my sister, but now that I get up close, I can see I made a mistake.”

  “Maybe you didn’t,” she said.

  “Really?” Inside he was grinning widely. Yeah, the old radar was still in working order—just like all the other equipment.

  “I know this is going to sound funny,” she said. “But I had a…a funny feeling, almost like a dream, that I was going to meet you.”

  He smiled. “You mean I’m the Man of Your Dreams?”

  “Not exactly,” she said. “I’m not sure what you are.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She brushed her long fingers across the wave of hair on her forehead. It was an automatic gesture, born of long-habit. She started to speak, paused, seemed to think better of it. Finally. “I don’t know why I told you that…I’m sorry.”

  “Hey, no problem. You want to sit at one of the booths?”

  She smiled, obviously grateful to be let off the hook so easily. “That would be fine.”

  An hour later, they had managed to divulge enough information about each other to make things interesting. But John still wasn’t taking any bets on how the night might end.

  He wasn’t surprised when she admitted she was Italian, and that she’d always dreamed of being a dancer or an artist or maybe even an actress. But when she hit him with the carnival road show, he kind of did a double-take. She wasn’t the type you’d expect to be part of a bunch social rejects like that. Something funny about it, but he wasn’t in a mood to play Detective.

  Doctor, maybe.

  If he could find the right nurse. And maybe he had.

  She didn’t ask him to further define his work when he told her he was a “short-term investment broker,” and that was just as well. Despite her work in the “mud show,” as she called it, she sounded like the type who wouldn’t be impressed with a bookmaker. Funny, but the longer they talked the more he was getting the impression she was overly fascinated with him.

  But why? He hadn’t said anything all that dazzling, and had in fact let her do a lot of the talking. So what was going on here?

  Carmella felt like she was falling down the rabbit hole—like Alice in the old cartoon movie. The longer she talked to John, the more convinced she’d become that he was the one she’d already dreamed about. He’d taken off the stylishly raked hat, fully revealing the rugged good looks the dreams had always kept obscure. She found herself attracted to his down-to-earth mannerisms and his lack of a need to try to impress her. From the moment he spoke to her, there was something different about him, something that was reaching her on some lower-psychic level. It was like the low-frequency signal from the reptile part of our brains, that thumping, blood-beating rhythm that spoke of sex and danger. Excitement and dread flowed into her, commingling like oil and water, to produce a hybrid emotion that she could not identify.

  There was something about him. Something that kept her on edge, expectant—but of what she was not sure.

  She’d talked a lot to mask her anxiety, to find out more about this man named John. She needed time to sort out her feelings and yet she knew there was no time. There was a sense of the storm just beginning to gather power to itself, of the impending maelstrom, the white-heat star ready to nova.

  She was suddenly reminded of a memory from childhood. It was cold and snowy and Christmastime; she and Momma were visiting with people up north, relatives, maybe. It was an old house, and Carmella had found the steps leading to the basement where a great coal furnace squatted and glowed in blue-edged darkness. She could remember standing in front of its heavy, slatted door from which a terrible heat radiated with red teeth. Like a torpid beast, the furnace slouched and whispered its coal-fire voice at her. There was something horrible behind that slatted door, something which danced in unimaginable heat and anger, something which beckoned to young Carmella.

  Come here, child. Touch my hot metal. Open me. Look into my burning heart, if you dare.

  The memory seared her and for an instant John’s words went away and she was a little girl again, standing in the pit of the cellar, before the glowing, grinning beast. The door of red teeth like a giant jack o’lantern was speaking again. Carmella had reached up and sprung the latch on the grate and fell back screaming as the dragon-breath roared.

  Sitting before John was like that. She wanted to reach out, to throw open the door to his soul and let whatever would come screaming out consume her. More than lust. More than dread. Whatever it was, she knew she could not leave him until she understood why the fates had forced them together.

  And so she did not hesitate when he suggested they take a ride down by the coast. The moon was rising above the Sound, he said, and the dark water was speckled with the mooring lights of pleasure craft—it was pretty, romantic even, if that’s
what she was looking for. He spoke straightforward, didn’t play around with his words, and she liked that. She wanted him and he wanted her—they just had to work out the final logistics.

  His black Infiniti crouched by the coastline like a predator waiting to pounce. She sat in the soft leather of its passenger seat looking out at the moon-freckled water, feeling the effects of the liquor spin through her head. Neither of them spoke for several minutes, but the silence had not become awkward. Rather, it drew them closer, bonding them in some yet to be understood way.

  Finally, he touched her shoulder. Gently. With rispetto. Respect. “Hey, it’s getting late. You want to come to my place, or do I take you home?”

  Turning, she paused to let heart stop racing. “Yes,” she said without letting herself think about it. “Your place. Hurry.”

  He nodded, and keyed the ignition. As the car glided away from the shoulder of the coastal road, she kept herself from thinking about what was happening. The risks didn’t matter this time. There was something urgent, something important, in their meeting. She hated to use such a clichéd word, but she knew it was something fated. She had no choice now but to play it out.

  The house was more ordinary than she expected. It resided in an older neighborhood of Oyster Bay—the kind of place that usually included the wife, the kids, and the station wagon. The usual suburban tableau. John LoMedico didn’t seem to fit in that picture, but she didn’t care.

  Once he guided her inside, they moved through the maze of rooms and hallways in semi-darkness, both of them aware of an animal urgency, of that familiar, unquenchable and searing need. It was like a third presence, pushing them together, pulling them through the shadowed house.

  Half-closed vertical blinds painted the king sized bed in thick stripes of shadow and pale light from a moon as high and full as her breasts. He kissed her gently with a hint of more passion to come, teasing, promising. She slipped off his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt; he fumbled with the catches and zippers of her ensemble. There was something wonderfully erotic to be slowly undressed by your lover and she tried to control the pace, to savor each moment.

  As their clothes began to fall away, some with effort and others with a clumsy tug, they began to lose themselves in the dark pool of each other’s desire. A mutual abandonment, a magic chemical bonding that spoke of a closeness neither could have anticipated. Exhilarating and fearful at once, Carmella had never felt anything like it. No man had ever made her feel like this…

  “Do you feel it?” she whispered as he kissed her swollen nipples. “What’s happening to us?”

  “I don’t know…I’ve been trying to ignore it…” There was a sincerity in his voice. He wasn’t humoring her, he sounded wary, cautious. “You feel it too, huh…?”

  She nodded, arched her back in response. Whatever it was, she had fallen prey to the aura of danger which had enveloped him. Intoxicating, alluring, teetering on the edge of control. He was kissing her, tonguing and licking her and nothing mattered beyond that single moment. Moving up to kiss her cheek and blow warmly in her ear, he stopped suddenly.

  “Oh Jesus…” he whispered hoarsely.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked, sitting up as he backed away from her. Even in the slatted light, she could see the revulsion, the abject fear in his eyes, and she knew what had happened. Automatically, her hand moved to her forehead, to protect, to conceal.

  “Jesus Running Christ!” John LoMedico didn’t so much as move away from her as he leaped backward into the shadows of the room. He slammed into a closet door and sagged down to the carpet where he buried his face against drawn-up knees. His breath came in ragged sobs.

  “I’m sorry…” she offered, trying to maintain control of her voice. This had never happened before. She didn’t know what to say, how to handle it. She had no idea he would react so…negatively. Was she that repulsive? “I…I don’t know…maybe I should have told you…”

  He looked up, his eyes catching just enough moonlight so she knew he was staring at her. “Oh, God…you don’t understand, honey…you don’t understand…Oh, Christ! Is this crazy or what?”

  “From the show…” she started to talk without thinking, rambling. “We’re all like this…well, not exactly like this, but—”

  He gestured for her to stop, forced himself to stare at her. “You don’t get it…you don’t get it, Carmella.” John LoMedico crawled over to the bed, touched her knee as he struggled to stifle his sobs and his jagged breathing.

  “Tell me,” she whispered, feeling comfort in his touch.

  “Hey, don’t think it’s you, honey. You’re beautiful,” he said, letting the words leak out of him like water from a cracked vase. “You’ve always been beautiful…you were a beautiful baby…”

  He stopped, letting his words echo in her mind. And just that quickly she knew what he meant.

  “Oh no…” she managed the two words before a stringent pulse of pure pain/joy spiked through her.

  John LoMedico forced himself to stand, gathering his clothes about him, turning his back and awkwardly stepping into his pants. The task seemed to calm him, give him strength. The words rambled out of him. “I met your mother almost thirty years ago—Jesus, at a fucking carnival!—I should’ve thought something was funny right away when you called it ‘mud show.’ And you kinda looked familiar to me…Your mother, she was older than me. I was just a kid…”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “No, lemme get this out. Christ, I’ve been carrying this around for a long time, honey.”

  “I never knew anything about you…”

  “That’s because your mother didn’t either, I guess. When the carnival came back the next summer—right here on The Island—she surprised me with the baby…our baby. It was you…and you were…you were different, and I guess I went kinda whacko. Hey, I was sixteen years old—what did I know about being a man?”

  “So you split?”

  He hung his head, shook it slowly, then nodded. “Oh yeah,” he whispered. “I told her I never wanted to see her again…and I didn’t…”

  He moved to the wall, leaned against it as though he wanted to melt into it, and he started to cry. Softly, in a dignified way, but she could feel the pain coming off in hot sheets like the furnace of her childhood. “I’m…sorry…Carmella…”

  “Please, don’t be,” she said, pulling her clothes together, dressing quickly. She felt like there was so much they could say to each other, but she knew it wasn’t necessary. Her half-toned dreams made sense now, in their usual muddy way, and with such understanding, she felt a sense of peace, of release.

  “I’d better go,” she said softly.

  “Yeah…” He continued trying to fade into the wall. “Give me a minute or two and I’ll drive you. Wherever you want to go.”

  She sighed, shook her head. “You can’t take me there, but you’ve got me started in the right direction.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. Too hard to explain.”

  “You mean you don’t want a ride?” He looked at her for an instant, then toward the window.

  “I think I need to be alone. I need to sort things out.”

  Her father moved to the bedstand table and picked up the phone. “Let me at least get you a cab.”

  She considered the option of walking the deserted streets, but not for long. “All right…thanks. I’ll wait out by the door.”

  As he called for directory assistance, Carmella slipped down the shadowed hallway, into the living room. Even the absence of light could not diminish the gaudy accessories and furnishings. Lots of draperies, fake roman columns and statuary. As her gaze traversed the fireplace mantle, the silhouettes of framed photos and knick-knacks failed to catch her attention…until she noticed a patch of moonlight caught on something round and smooth.

  A crystal ball. Smaller than a real one, like hers. But there was beauty in its petite symmetry. Its glass held pale power of the moon. Fascinated, she moved to touch
it but stopped halfway…Rather than merely looking at the object, she seemed to be listening to it. A subsonic hum. Soft, gentle. Like a ballad in a minor key.

  The Piece.

  No, it couldn’t be. And yet the feeling and the knowledge engulfed her. The words of Oz haunted her: when you’ve come near it…you’ll simply know.

  Her pulse jacked behind her ear, the tips of her fingers tingled. Reaching out, she picked up the crystal sphere, and felt its coldness.

  No. Something was wrong.

  It was dead. Its promise a lie. Carmella felt dizzy. Anxiety catching up with her. The emotional floodgates had been opened and she was going to get caught in the backwash. It was too much. Too much at once.

  “The cab will be here in a minute or two,” said her father. His voice had been not more than a whisper, but she started, almost dropping the crystal.

  “Hey, something the matter?” He walked closer, but not too close.

  “I…I don’t know. I thought I recognized this glass.”

  He almost smiled. “You should—you’re mother gave it to me. That first summer.”

  Wait! Oz was right. Too many coincidences. It had to be The Piece. And yet…

  “Maybe you should take it,” he said. “Maybe if you gave it back to…to your mother…maybe it would make things a little better.”

  She could not tell him her mother was dead. For a lot of reasons.

  “I don’t know,” she said slowly replacing the sphere to the mantle and the silvery ringstand which held it. As her hand drew closer to the polished mahogany ledge, her fingertips grew warmer.

  The stand…

  “Did she give you this part too?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Sure,” he said. “Take it, go ahead. Give it to your Mom, I want you to.”

  Carmella picked up the stand—three graduated rings given form by external braces that looked like the flying buttresses of a gothic cathedral. The metal was almost pearlescent, like platinum. There was a density, a sense of great mass about the metal object; it spoke to her. Tonight she had found both her past and her future.