Wolf was overtaking Harry.
I mulled over the phenomenon. A bodily switch between man and manikin had to be worth a gold mine. It’s not as if Harry would be discarded with indifference; he’d still reside inside Wolf’s abandoned shell. What on earth was I thinking?
Thereafter, I noticed Wolf no longer standing at attention. One leg was bent at the knee and poised on the toes, looking ready to run away.
I gathered my courage to address him. “Okay, Wolfie,” I said with bravado, “you want to play games with me? Have at it. Up you go. Hop to it.” I clapped my hands. “Let’s see you strut your stuff.”
Nothing happened.
“You can’t do it, can you? Of course not. You’re fake…a warped bunch of boards. Ha, ha,” I laughed, but the sound came out a hollow.
Unnerved by Wolf’s vacant stare, I crept around him, placed my hand on his back, and pushed him on his platform across the living room. I quickly opened the closet door and as I shoved him into the darkness, his jarred limbs clattered like the dry bones of a medical school skeleton. Feeling a ripple up my spine, I quickly shut the closet door and stole away.
Steps to end the Takeover
“You know, Judy, I’d love to make it, but Fridays are when I go grocery shopping,” Kadee Harper said when I rang her office to invite her over for a friendly gabfest with the girls. Her late grandmother being psychic, she’d make an excellent partner for the séance I planned to surreptitiously introduce during the evening. I had to be certain my assumptions about Wolf’s link to the supernatural were correct.
“Then how about Saturday night?”
“Actually, no. Friday would be better for me. I save the weekends for catching up on chores.”
“Then you think you can make it this Friday?” Having for months now watched neighbors cross to the other side of the street or duck into doorways when Wolf and I passed on the sidewalk had toughened me to rejections.
“Okay, I’ll see what I can do,” she at last said. “If the weather holds up. Some serious rain’s forecasted for later this week.”
I had gone on with a stream of idle chatter about the onset of autumn, about the recent snowfall at higher elevations, when unexpectedly Kadee mentioned visiting Pike Place in search of Gippo’s woodshop. Being herself totally taken by my manny, she wanted to see if she could purchase an African American version.
I stood, ear pressed to the phone, my mouth agape.
Kadee sighed. “I never did find the shop.”
Neither could Harry, I thought before I said, “The area’s old and is forever being renovated. Could be the carver just changed his location.”
Then a memory flickered through my bewildered brain. At the party, Hillary’s date thought the manny looked like Errol Flynn. Kadee Harper had agreed.
“So you actually set out to get your own black swashbuckler?”
“Swash—Oh you mean like Errol Flynn. Yeah, my granny sure liked him. Didn’t matter about all that other stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“You know that stuff about drunken orgies aboard his yacht. Supposedly they were so bad the boat had to be exorcised after he died.”
“Flynn’s yacht was possessed?”
“Haunted is what’s been said.”
I zoned out as stories about jinxed ships beset by ghostly apparitions surged through my brain like a tidal wave.
“Judy, are you all right?”
I snapped to. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
“Anyway, I’m glad you called. Data processing is slated for restructuring and there’s talk that your old job’s about to be posted.”
The abrupt manner in which I had been terminated came to mind. You will be provided a box and given thirty minutes to pack your belongings.
“You have your resume ready,” Kadee said, “and you can come back for sure. But no more watching SpongeBob on your PC, okay?”
“Okay.” I tightened my grip on the phone. Go back to what? Life as a low-level bean counter? “Thanks, Kadee. I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome. Only, are you sure you’re okay?”
“I might be coming down with the flu.”
“After seeing the shape of Harry at the party, it’s no surprise you’re feeling punk. Anyways, you two take care.”
After thanking her again, I hung up the phone, bowled over. Gippo’s shop no longer existed. Maybe it never had. Maybe I had only hallucinated. Shellfish combined with booze can be a toxic combination. But I had not dreamed up my manny.
Quickly, I went to the closet and looked inside. Wolf was still there, slumped on his stand with his Italian-style sailor hat at a jaunty angle on his head. For a moment, I considered Wolf’s preexisting conditions. What if he’d been constructed from the salvaged wood of a fabled seafaring vessel like the Flying Dutchman…or worse?
In any event, I pulled him out, struck again by his odd anatomy and strange uniform.
“So, my little manikin, what do you think about me scrapping my fabulous business plans and rejoining the labor force?”
Upsetting the Séance
In accordance with my plan, my lady friends and I had gathered at the dining room table, sipping red wine and nibbling on a variety of cheeses by candlelight. We’d been discussing the merits of the bulimic diet when I blurted, “Wouldn’t it be fun to hold a séance and see what we can call up?”
Ruthie’s eyes shimmered in the candlelit dimness. “I’m not so sure about that. Invoking spirits can be sketchy.”
“It sounds like fun to me,” Lisa scoffed. “I haven’t done a séance since I was a kid. But are three people enough?”
“We need someone with psychic powers,” Ruthie said. “A medium, somebody who goes between the worlds of the living and of the dead.”
I explained that I had invited Kadee Harper, the closest I could come to a psychic, but already an hour into our gathering, it looked as if she wasn’t coming. None of us even considered any of the husbands, all of whom were in the game room playing poker. Old lady Crumble on the first floor was also rejected—too addled.
“Since a medium is suppose to go into a trance, why not the manny?” Ruthie asked.
“The perfect channel,” Lisa agreed. “You can’t get much more trancelike than a manny.”
Against my protest, both women went into the alcove, lifted Wolf by his arms, and lowered him in the empty chair near a bare wall. Lisa sat between Ruthie and me. I remained in my seat now to the right of Wolf.
“Let’s get started,” I said. We then joined hands. I took Wolf’s in my left and Lisa’s in my right.
“Alakazoo, alakazam, hocus-pocus with a dash of shazam.” I smiled, seeing that the others appeared pleased with my approach. I’d once read that séances begin with some kind of chant.
For an interval, all were quiet, eyes settled on the quivering flames from the candles in ruby-colored glasses. The silence expanded to where even the faintest noise, my heart thudding and my blood swishing in my ears, was amplified. I began to realize that for a trance to take effect, the medium’s mind must disassociate from his or her body so that another entity could enter, except it occurred to me that if a portion of my husband now occupied Wolf, a séance might conjure up an ill-formed Harry.
“Maybe this is a bad idea.”
Both women shushed me and inclined their ears as if listening. I joined them and in the next instant heard what sounded like heavy breathing. Assuming it was Spike sniffing the baseboards in Ruthie’s apartment, I shrugged it off.
“I think a presence is among us,” Ruthie whispered.
In the ensuing silence, thunder rumbled outside and the soft tapping of rain sounded on the front windows.
Ticking my eyes from side to side, I tightened my grip on Wolf’s hand that naturally felt like a fistful of cold, hard bones.
“Who’s there? Is anyone there?” Lisa asked in a timid voice.
As if in reply, a cold draft blew across the candles. Flames flickered and shadows leaped
forward then cringed back. In the erratic light, Wolf’s face went through a series of grotesque expressions.
“I think this is where ectoplasm comes out of the medium’s mouth,” Ruthie again whispered.
I stared at Wolf, half anticipating a luminous haze to come spewing through the startled little circle at the center of his rosebud lips. My eyes were still fastened to him when I imagined I heard the apartment door creak open. With it the faint scuff of a shoe sounded. I turned my eyes toward the entryway and in the feeble light saw a figure with a pallid masklike face.
The figure shifted, and the hurricane lamp on the sideboard table tinkled before crashing to the floor. I sprung to my feet, toppling my chair behind me. I kept my grip on Wolf’s hand, needing to assure myself that he was not causing the ruckus.
“It’s a poltergeist like I warned,” Ruthie said in a rush then addressed me. “Quick! You need to reverse the mumbo jumbo and break the spell.”
I tried to recall the mumbo jumbo I’d spoken, but everything was now too chaotic.
“The lights. I’ll get the lights,” Lisa said, letting go of Wolf. He slumped forward and, as his face hit the table, the wooden knock of his forehead caused goose-bumps to ripple across my arms.
“Oh no! They’re out! The lights are out!” Lisa flicked the wall switch up and down.
“Just stay put. Don’t anyone move.” I released the manny and got to my feet.
Halfway across the darkened kitchen, I banged my shin on a chair and cried out in pain. “I’m okay,” I called over my shoulder, trying not to panic anyone.
After rummaging through the drawer, I found the flashlight, switched it on, and returned to the dining room.
“See, it’s nothing.” I raised the mini-blinds and pointed the light outside so they could see the sudden rainstorm. Behind the rain washed glass, the entire block appeared to have gone pitch black.
“A downed tree probably took out some power lines.” Not uncommon this time of year, we all knew.
Just then a weak voice squawked from the entryway. I trained the beam in that direction. Old lady Crumble stood spotlighted with one gnarled hand shielding her eyes.
“I locked myself out of my apartment and came to get a key from the manager. And oh my, now the elevator’s not working, and I can’t see anything it’s so dark.” Glass crunched beneath her shoes as she stepped forward. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to break anything.”
“It’s all right; it wasn’t worth much,” I told the elderly woman.
While I spoke, Lisa took the flashlight from my hand, saying she would get Ernie to start the generator. She then offered to escort Mrs. Crumble down the fire exit to the office to get the key to her apartment.
“Watch your step,” I said, referring to dog poop on the stairway treads.
After they left, I turned to Ruthie who remained sitting stark-still, her face a pale moon, her eyes riveted to the manny. He was slung across the dining table, looking among the flickering candles like nothing in this world but a spent medium.
Speaking a Foreign Language
Early the next day, while sweeping the shattered hurricane lamp into a dustpan, the remnants I hadn’t been able to see last night, I began thinking about Harry’s fitness routine and recent weight loss. I supposed that Harry could have developed a roving eye, yet it just didn’t gel. Harry had become more, not less, attracted toward me since he’d decided to get in shape. Rather than extramarital activities, the uptight Harry had more likely been in a sort of contest with Wolf for my attention. Distracted as I was by my scheme for financial success and ideas about the manny, I really had been neglecting my spouse. To make up for it, I decided to cook him his favorite meal.
That afternoon, on my return from the grocery store, I closed the door to the apartment behind me and heard Harry talking to someone.
“C’mon, pal, I know you’re bluffing,” he said as I started toward the kitchen. The comment was followed by the sound of cards being shuffled.
That’s odd, I thought, hesitating. Harry often enjoyed a friendly game of cards, but he usually played down in the game room.
“Pick your poison, pal. What’ll it be, even-card stud, five-card draw, or no-holds-barred Texas hold ’em.” Harry waited a moment then said, “I read you. Hold ’em it is.” From the ensuing sounds, he had shuffled the cards, cut them, and dealt them out. I heard the slap as they hit the table. “Hope you’re game, pal. It’s the final showdown. You’ll need more than your wits to bluff your way out of this one.” Harry tossed some chips onto the pile and muttered, “Put your money where your mouth is, greenhorn.” More cards slapped. “Hold ’em or fold ’em, you gotta risk big to win big.”
I entered the kitchen, astounded that Harry’s opponent was Wolf—at present with a green eyeshade on his head. “Nice to see you boys found a way to amuse yourselves in my absence.” I set the grocery bags on the counter and turned back to the table.
“Who’s winning?”
“Who do you think?” Harry cast Wolf a knowing look as if something secretive had passed between them.
“Honestly. Who’s ahead?”
“Sometimes he is. Sometimes I am. We’re breaking even. Right, poker face?” he asked the manny.
“Now look who’s talking to inanimate objects.” I wondered if this game ended with the winner taking all, me included. “You’re gonna love what I’m planning for dinner.” I began to unload the groceries. “Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and fresh string beans.”
“I beat you to it. Check it out,” Harry said, shifting his eyes from the pantry to the refrigerator.
I opened the pantry door, stunned by the array of Italian foodstuffs lining the shelves. I counted six jars of different kinds of tomato sauce, five varieties of packaged spaghettis, and two boxes of biscotti. I then went to the fridge finding more jars, green pesto, red bruschetta, and white cheeses labeled Alfredo. There were also readymade meatballs, a plateful of veal scaloppini, and a dish of antipasto.
“But you hate Italian food.”
“And you love it. So I figured I’d ply you with a few stuffed olives and plenty of dago red.” From a carton on the floor by his feet, he produced two bottles of Chianti. “I got a wedge of parmesan and a loaf of crusty bread, too.” He pointed to the buffet where the items sat next to a strand of fresh garlic.
“Well, then,” I said, concerned that things were further along than I realized. “Now that dinner’s prepared, I guess I’ll set the table. If you boys don’t mind.”
“Nope, not at all, right Mister Manny?”
On his feet, Harry yanked the eyeshade from Wolf’s head and tossed it on the table. He then jockeyed his buddy through the archway into the living room, Harry’s arm around Wolf’s waist, Wolf’s arm slung over the back of Harry’s neck. All very palsy, sharing more than Harry could ever imagine.
Later that night while dining, we listened to the romantic strains of Puccini’s La Boheme. Plied by the Chianti, as my hubby had intended, I dismissed my earlier misgivings. And things would have remained just fine, had Harry not taken my hand and joined Pavarotti in the role of Rodolfo singing, “Che gelida manina, se la lasci riscaldar…”
I eyed the string of garlic that’d been sitting next to me on the buffet then tossed it around my neck and held up my index fingers in a sign of the cross.
“What the hell’s gotten into you?” Harry asked in response.
“What the hell’s gotten into you? First, you take a liking to Wolf, then Italian food. And when did you learn to speak Italian?”
“I don’t…I can’t. You put that old opera on so many times some words stuck in my head.”
Was the takeover actually occurring? Was Harry aware of its progress? In any event, he and the manny for the first time appeared as much on the same page as on the same wavelength.
Not a good sign.
“Harry,” I began decisively, “do you think it’s possible for someone else to occupy another person’s body?”
&nbs
p; “Like gender confusion, a woman in a man’s body and the reverse?”
“No, more like hijacking where the entity just sort of moves into somebody else’s skin while it’s still attached to the owner, of course.”
“What’s the hijacker do with his own skin?”
“He exchanges it for the other person’s only they might not get what’s happening, except for maybe feeling undecided, out of sorts, not quite one’s self.”
“I thought we resolved all the doppelganger stuff.”
“It’s different. It’s more like what happened between the ventriloquist and his dummy in the Twilight Zone.”
“That’s fiction.”
I removed the necklace of garlic and smiled. “You’re right.” I then stood, leaned to kiss his lips, and started to clear the table. When finished, I went into the living room to peek at the manny, looking zombie-like on the sofa. I glanced at the tip of his pinkie, reattached with superglue, and considered telling Harry about the other night when I found it in the hall. But how would I express my true concern? Wolf is taking over you.
Tying Them Up
The aroma of last night’s Italian food filled the air. It neared five in the afternoon and Harry would be home soon from playing basketball at a nearby park. At the same time the oven dinged, indicating the leftovers’ doneness, the clues that eluded me had become unequivocally clear. Wolf had been tricking me, too, in order to get to Harry. He was out to get both of us. And it was my fault since I had the dummy made in the first place.
On the way to the oven, I cut a wide swath around Wolf sitting in a kitchen chair, afraid that on some level he tracked my every movement, perhaps even read my thoughts. If so, he could jump up, throttle me, and blame the deed on Harry.
Me and My Manny Page 14