by CK Dawn
“That’s me with George Clooney; he was very taken with me.” Phoebe announced pointing to a picture of herself on the arm of a handsome man. “He said he could fall in love with me.”
“Are you sure that’s George Clooney?” Catherine asked.
“Of course I am. That’s the black and white Dior I’m wearing.”
“I recognize the Dior,” Catherine agreed, “but are you sure it’s George Clooney?”
“That’s the dress the cleaning woman stole,” Phoebe said. “I fired her.”
“You didn’t fire her, she quit. And she didn’t steal your dress, you split the seams and we had to throw it away.”
Phoebe felt her resentment build. Why did Catherine have to do this? Why did she feel it necessary to destroy Phoebe’s memories; even if they were not strictly speaking accurate memories?
“Are you sure about this being George Clooney?” Catherine asked again. She had taken slim reading glasses from her purse and was giving the photograph very close scrutiny.
“Will you stop asking that,” Phoebe begged. “Of course it’s George Clooney. Why won’t you believe me?”
“Because it doesn’t look like him, and because I don’t think he’s ever been to Pittsburgh, and because you have never really been anywhere else. Why don’t you look at it again? Perhaps you have the picture confused.”
Phoebe turned away, more resentful than ever. Now Catherine was being kind and giving her a way out. Well, she didn’t need a way out.
“I can’t see what you’re talking about,” she declared. “I don’t have my glasses on.”
Catherine was impatient. “Well put them on! Really Phoebe, it’s very important that you get a grasp of reality and stop making things up. I don’t know who this man is but he’s not George Clooney, and I’m not sure that woman is even you. She’s too thin.”
“I used to be thin,” Phoebe said. “You’re too young to remember, but I was thin once.”
“Years ago,” Catherine muttered. She studied the photo again. “What have you done to the picture? Did you draw on it with a magic marker?”
“I may have done” Phoebe admitted. “I may have adjusted it a little.”
“More than a little!” said Catherine. “How many pictures have you done this to?”
“Just my favorites. I take a black magic marker and cover up the bits I don’t like. You know, I get rid of a couple of chins and draw in a waist, and get rid of my fat ass.”
“A sensible diet and some exercise would get rid of that fat ass.”
“Diet, diet; don’t talk to me about diet!” Phoebe felt anger building inside. Why couldn’t Catherine understand what it was like to be stuck in this apartment day after day with nothing to do but eat and think of how life might have been? “I can’t starve myself,” she insisted. “I don’t know how you can be so unfeeling. You know I’m diabetic. I have to eat.”
“You’re eating all the wrong things.”
“I’m going to change.” Phoebe knew that she had said the same thing a hundred times before. “When I lose weight I’m going to get my face done. I’m getting bags under my eyes, Cat, that’s why I can’t get work anymore. If I had my face done, I know I could get a couple of commercials. They call me all the time you know, but I can’t go, not like this. I don’t want them to see my like this.”
With a supple ease that Phoebe envied, Catherine rose from the sofa and confronted her sister. Phoebe noticed the impeccable tailoring of her sister’s black suit, the simplicity of the black shirt beneath and the startling contrast of the white priest’s collar at her neck. All done for effect, Phoebe thought. Even real priests rarely wore collars these days.
Catherine smiled the insincere professional smile that Phoebe hated. “Get a grip of yourself, Phoebe. If I can’t tell you as your sister, let me tell you as a trained pastoral counsellor, you’re living in a dream world. George Clooney was never in love with you and no one is going to remake your career for you. You are a big fat joke. You sit up here in this garish over-decorated room spending your ex-husband’s money on mail order negligees and—”
Phoebe interrupted her sister’s ranting, seizing on the one thing that had caught her attention; her ex-husband and his money.
“Do you know what I heard about the bitch?”
“What bitch?”
“Barbara; the bitch that stole my husband. I hear they’ve been fighting. It won’t last you know. He’ll come crawling back to me.”
“Won’t last? It’s been fifteen years. He’s not coming back Phoebe,”
Phoebe tried to ignore the dull pain her sister’s words had caused. Of course he wasn’t going to come back but why wouldn’t Catherine at least let her keep her hopes? What was wrong with hoping? Wasn’t that the job of priests, to give you hope; not that she had any idea why her sister had decided to become a priest; she’d never shown any particular religious conviction. Catherine was the little sister who had ruined Phoebe’s life as an only child by arriving when Phoebe was 9 years old and excelling in everything she did. Catherine was the one who had graduated top of her class. Catherine was the ambitious sister, determined to break down any barrier in her way. Catherine’s every action pointed to her own success and Phoebe’s endless failures; and now Catherine was all she had.
“Isn’t it time you were leaving?” Phoebe asked struggling to rise from the depths of the sofa. “Don’t you have to hear confession or give someone the last rites or something?”
“I have work to do,” Catherine agreed “but I thought I should come and see you.”
“Doing your duty? Strange isn’t it, I was the one who wanted to be a nun when I grew up?”
“I’m not a nun,” said Catherine, “I’m a priest.”
Phoebe knew her sisters vulnerability on certain points. “You’re not a real priest. I don’t think that being ordained by a bunch of women into the Church of the Women of God—“
“Womb of God,” Catherine corrected impatiently. “The Church of the Womb of God. It’s a perfectly valid ordination.”
“You should be embarrassed to even say the name,” Phoebe declared. “And I don’t think you’re a real priest. Real priests are catholic, and they wouldn’t let you in, would they?”
Catherine drew in a long offended breath. “I don’t want to be a catholic priest.”
“I should have been a nun,” Phoebe declared. Having at last pulled herself out of the grip of the sofa, she located her unique mail order art deco cane and stood upright. “I would have looked great as a nun. White is so flattering to the face and black is very slimming.”
“It’s not too late,” Catherine replied. “You can give up all of this and go into a convent. I won’t try to stop you.”
Phoebe turned away from her sister’s challenging stare.
“You’re all talk,” Catherine said, “and I don’t want to listen to it any longer. I’m going to the bathroom if I can get there past all the boxes and bags you have on the floor, and then I’m leaving. I’ll try to come and see you again next week, but don’t count on it. I can’t do any more for you if you’re not willing to do something for yourself.”
Phoebe watched as her sister walked lightly down the corridor to the bathroom. As soon Catherine was out of sight, she lifted the sofa cushion and pulled out the bag of chips she had concealed when Catherine had arrived. She stuffed a handful into her mouth and had started to tuck them back under the cushion when she was startled by a sound from the balcony outside the living room windows. She turned to look at the uncurtained expanse of glass. She could see the faint outlines of the furniture she kept out there. She was six floors up, she reassured herself, and nothing but a bird could reach that balcony. On the other hand, perhaps it would be a good idea to order drapes, just to be on the safe side. Dark blue velvet she decided. She had a mail order catalogue somewhere. As her mind turned eagerly to the thought of shopping, the intercom buzzed. The chips fell from her hand onto the blue velvet cushion of the sofa and s
he feverishly tried to brush them away, determined that Catherine would not see them. The intercom buzzed again.
“Were you expecting someone?” Catherine called from the bathroom.
“I get visitors all the time,” Phoebe declared, despite the fact that she had no idea who would be visiting her at this time of night, or any other time. She brushed away the last of the crumbs.
“So who is it?” Catherine called again.
“All I can say is that you’d better close the bathroom door unless you want George Clooney to see you on the toilet.”
She heard the toilet flushing as she shuffled across to the door. The buzzer continued to ring until Phoebe pressed the intercom.
“Who is it?”
“Delivery ma’am,” said a deep masculine voice.
Phoebe relaxed her vigilance. There was nothing unusual about a delivery. Home shopping was her major pastime. “Give it to the doorman. He’ll bring it up. “
She had another thought. She pressed the intercom again. “Is it flowers?” she asked hopefully. Now that would be a triumph; to have Catherine be there when flowers arrived.
“It’s too big for the doorman,” said the masculine voice. “He said to come right up. We’re outside your door, ma’am.”
Shock and fear made Phoebe shiver. The men were outside her door! What could they possibly want? How had they got past the doorman? Her mind ran wild. Perhaps they had injured the doorman; even killed him. How was she going to protect herself?”
The buzzer rang again and then someone actually shouted through the door. “Come on, lady.” It was a younger male voice this time. “We ain’t got all day. We got a box out here. Open the door.”
“What sort of box?” Phoebe heard a tremble in her voice.
“A big one,” said the younger voice. “Come on, give us a break and open the door.”
“I’m not expecting a big box,” Phoebe protested, trying to remember what she had recently purchased from the Home Shopping network.
The deeper masculine voice interrupted her thoughts. Now he too was ignoring the intercom and shouting through the door. “Look ma’am, I’m going to slide my company ID under the door so you know who I am, and then will you open the door and let us in?”
“What the hell you doing, Bill?” asked the younger voice.
“She’s nervous Ted,” said the voice called Bill. “She don’t know who we are, so I just show her my ID and it’ll be—”
“Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here,” Phoebe protested.
“No, ma’am, of course not ma’am,” said Bill. “Here’s my ID. See, we’re perfectly legit.”
Phoebe looked down at the little laminated square that had appeared under her door. She considered the effort it would take to bend her knees and reach down for it, and the effort it would take to stand up again.
“I can’t bend over and pick that up,” she declared.
“What the hell?” said the Ted voice.
Now Phoebe was angry. Why could no one understand her? Even her own doctor refused to give her a disabled person’s permit for her car. What was the matter with the world?
“Haven’t you ever heard of a person who’s physically challenged,” she shouted through the door. “I’m physically challenged; even bending over to put my shoes on is agony. How do you expect me to pick that up?”
“Physically what?” she heard Ted say.
“She means handicapped,” said the older voice.
“Oh fine, great,” Ted shouted. “Hey lady, we’re just gonna leave this outside the door. You can challenge yourself to get it whenever you feel like it.”
Phoebe heard him laughing at his own joke and then Bill said “Wait a minute. What about my ID?”
“Screw your ID,” said Ted. “It’s late already and I got places to go.”
“Please ma’am,” Bill pleaded, “just open the door.”
Phoebe heard Catherine coming up behind her. She pushed past Phoebe. She was wearing a smart black raincoat and a red scarf, ready to go out into the night and leave Phoebe on her own and she was frowning impatiently.
“Phoebe, what are you making such a fuss about? Open the damned door and let these guys get on with their business.”
“I don’t trust them. They could be anything, thieves, kidnappers.”
“Kidnappers!” Catherine’s voice was full of scorn. “Who do you think is going to pay a ransom for you?”
Phoebe drew in a sharp breath. “Bitch.”
Catherine ignored the insult, took the chain off the door and flung it open. “Come on in fellows. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
Two men entered. They wore green overalls with name badges. Phoebe immediately identified the tall young man with long greasy hair as Ted. Therefore, the older, somewhat military looking man with close cropped grey hair must be Bill. She concluded that Ted was someone she would cross the street to avoid but Bill appeared to have a kind face and a reassuring presence. She concentrated on Bill.
“Well, what do you want?” she asked.
“There’s a box for you, ma’am.” Bill indicated the box on a hand truck outside the door. Phoebe studied the box. Even without her glasses she could read the stenciled lettering. Experimental Mushroom Compost. Do not expose to sunlight. Perched on top was a small box with the familiar HSN logo.
“Where do you want this, lady?” Ted asked, backing through the door with the hand truck.
“I don’t know,” Phoebe said. “I don’t even know what it is.”
“It’s experimental mushroom compost,” said Ted impatiently reading the label. “Where do you want it?”
“I don’t want it,” Phoebe insisted. “It’s not for me. Do I look like someone who would want mushroom compost?” She paused and a terrible thought came into her mind. “Is this just an excuse to get into my apartment because if it is...”
“Lady,” said Ted, “if I wanted an excuse to get into your apartment, would I bring something that weighs about twice as much as the Titanic?”
Phoebe noticed that despite his reassurances, the young man was indeed looking around her apartment. She thought about all the valuable items that she had purchased from HSN; the doll collection, the gold plated flatware, the hand painted china; the limited edition Thomas Kinkaid prints.
Bill interrupted her anxious thoughts, offering her the clipboard and a pen. “Please ma’am, just sign the receipt and let us be on our way. We don’t want to cause you no trouble.”
“But it’s not for me,” Phoebe protested.
“This is 605 The Atrium, ain’t it?” Ted asked.
“Yes, but...”
“Then this is for you. Look lady, I got things to do tonight. Just sign the receipt.”
Bill respectfully offered her the pen again. “Here you are, ma’am.”
Phoebe liked the way he called her ma’am, but there was no way she was going to accept that big ugly box of whatever it was. She turned appealingly to her sister.
“Do something, Cat. This isn’t for me.”
Catherine tilted her head to look at the label and her smooth blonde hair swung gracefully across one side of her face. “It’s addressed to this apartment. It’s probably something you ordered from TV. I told you not to believe everything they say.”
“I didn’t order this,”
“You must have,” Catherine insisted. “Just sign the receipt and let these guys go about their business. Where’s your purse?”
“Why do you want my purse?”
“To give them a tip; after all, they’ve struggled all the way up here with this heavy box.”
Phoebe turned her back on the men and whispered urgently to her sister. “I’m not going to tell you where my purse is. If they see I have money, they’ll come back here and...”
“Oh Phoebe!” Catherine took the clipboard from Bill, signed the receipt and reached into her own purse for a couple of dollars. “Here you go, fellows, thanks a lot.”
“Thanks ma’am,” said Bi
ll.
Ted, already halfway out the door with the hand truck offered Phoebe a suggestive leer. “You keep your doors shut lady. There’s all kind of weirdos out on the streets, and when I tell them you’re up here, they’ll all want to see for themselves.”
Bill grabbed Ted’s collar and came close to lifting the boy off his feet. “You’re bothering the ladies,” he said. “Get out of here.”
“I ain’t joking,” Ted whined. He stepped out onto the interior balcony that ran the width of the atrium high above the building lobby, and kept well out of reach of Bill’s hand. “There’s weird shit going on. Police just found a dead guy out by the Amtrak station. They say his blood was drained.”
“How would you know that?” Bill asked. “We just came from the station. There weren’t no dead body.”
“It’s on my Facebook,” Ted said reaching into his pocket and producing an I-phone. “They’re saying it’s vampires.”
Bill shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, and don’t believe everything you read on there. Anyway, it’s supposed to be turned off while you’re working.”
“Don’t you go telling me what to do,” Ted grumbled. He looked as though he had more to say but suddenly he looked upwards at the glass roof of the atrium.
“There’s something up there.”
“Up where?” Bill asked.
Phoebe looked up at the darkened panes of glass.
“Something ran across the roof,” Ted insisted.
Phoebe let out a little squeak of terror.
“There’s nothing up there,” Bill said. “It was probably something blowing in the wind.”
“Vampires,” Phoebe whispered, conjuring up in her mind dark figures in long black capes.
Bill patted her arm comfortingly. “It’s nothing, ma’am. Ted’s an idiot and I’m going to report him when we get back to the depot. There’s really nothing to worry about.”