by Jack Ketchum
Mr. Vinny was in for a little surprise. No, she amended, stuffing the gun inside Sally’s worn tan leather handbag, a big surprise. Lifespan itself was so aptly named, its Catch-22 element made Christine inwardly dizzy. Imagine wanting to kill yourself, then being told you had to make a hit and you either signed the contract that would loose another suicide killer on your own ass, or Mr. Vinny and Co.—and plenty of ‘Co.’ at that (as Cate Blanchett said in Christine’s favorite movie, The Talented Mr. Ripley) would bring Mom, Dad, little sis or the christforsaken family dog into Lifespan’s green room for a little reorientation training—translation: knife wounds, broken, bleeding jaws, or the ever-popular blackjack therapy. And frigging Sally, that stupid chump, who practically couldn’t sign a check for groceries, had agreed!
Sirens wailed in the distance, and behind her confusion and commotion were on the verge of spilling onto the sidewalk. Shedding Sally’s wrinkled brown raincoat, but imitating her timid, hunched walk to appear more innocuous, Christine crossed the street. She hailed a passing cab and told the driver to take her uptown to the shabby Yorkville apartment Sally called home. Christine figured she had a little time to regroup; especially since—she glanced at the cheap chrome watch on the body’s left wrist—it was now officially Christmas Eve. A big day for Italians. Or so Mr. Vinny had said, and Christine decided there was no reason to doubt him. In the meantime, she twisted the watchband over her hand and, chuckling, switched it to the right side. Unlike Chris, Sally was a righty—and Christine guessed the ex-Mafia man had probably taken note of that little factoid; but at least for now, she was in control and she had every intention of being comfortable over the next few days. Or better still, she thought, the next few decades.
Christine had been watching Sally—and intervening—since Sally was a kid, she reflected, adjusting the wadded up hem on the flapping mu-mu Sally laughably considered a dress, and settling against the taxi’s lumpy upholstery. But Sally didn’t know shit about what Christine thought or did. In the past, she often let Sally regain control when some situation arose that Chris didn’t want to deal with. Like the failed exam years ago in freshman comp. (Sally was the bookworm, all that literary stuff bored the bejesus out of Christine); Sally had “come to” sputtering over the big red F on the first page of her essay test, her eyes misting with confusion and sorrow, while Christine went to the little interior space she privately called “the cove” and took a nap. She could watch Sally whenever she wanted, but naturally there were plenty of times she had no interest in what Sally was up to—watching some sappy movie like You’ve Got Mail or writing her stiff, gray poems about November fields and desolate cemeteries and weeping willows. Ugh.
She could—and often did—imitate Sally to perfection when it was necessary. Just now it would be necessary to pass herself off as old Sal’ for Mr. Vinny the former hit man and Cleckley the shrink—especially the latter. Sally, she knew, had scheduled so many goddamn psych appointments over the dreaded holidays, it was practically in-patient therapy. But that was okay—she could handle the fake scare tactics and muscle imposed by one, and the sheer monotony doled out by the other. After the first, it was going to be a New Year. Yes, indeedy, a new year and a new life. Sally was a wimp. Tough luck, Sal. Christine knew—and didn’t care that she herself was what was politely called “not a very nice person.”
The dented cab pulled up in front of Sally’s crumbling building and Christine thought: This might be the very last time I ask anyone to drop me at this piece-of-shit address. She slammed the bright yellow taxi door behind her, and on the heels of that rising determination to grow and prosper, a very Sally Grimshaw-like reference spontaneously popped into her own mind: Now, gods, stand up for bastards!—and bitches, too, while you’re at it, she revised.
Christine sat on Sally’s narrow bed and pulled the ugly mu-mu over her head; she tossed it in the general direction of the straight wooden chair that sat in front of the scarified library table Sally used as a desk. She sucked in her stomach and pressed her breasts together. Sally thought she was fat—wrong. Just curvy, but Sally was too dumb to know better. She kicked off a pair of black loafers and looked at Sally’s closet door, then up at the painted tin ceiling tiles briefly; but she was too tired tonight to climb on furniture and open up her secret stash space to retrieve a nightgown—one that didn’t look like something a baggy grandmother wore in the dead of a Vermont winter.
Fucked up Eve White in the Joann Woodward flick was a sap just like Sally, whining when she came to and found a teapot broken or a new dress in the closet. Wouldn’t you think after more than twenty friggin’ years, a new goddamn dress with some beads or spangles wouldn’t be a life-shattering shock for god’s sake? The movie was dullsville, but one thing Chris learned was to hide her own select wardrobe well, and it was a happy day when she found the space in the ceiling behind a few of the looser tiles. The glamour dresses, high heeled shoes, and trendy accessories were all up there. Along with the monthly bank account statements that were in—note—her own name: Christine Sizemore. Sally Grimshaw scraped along financially, but over the last few years, with some judicious small-time finagling and plenty-big heaping doses of befuddlement conferred on Sally when necessary—say, every third check that arrived from Sally’s parents—she, Christine, had saved up a tidy sum. By itself, it wouldn’t be enough to get Chris where she wanted to be (moved away from the dump, out of the reach of Vinny and Cleckley and the Grimshaw brood alike) but she’d had the good fortune to win $18,000 in the lottery a few weeks ago. Still small potatoes, but enough potatoes to buy some good clothes and, most importantly, drinks at the upscale bars in the tonier hotels—like Bemelmans at the Carlisle on Madison Avenue—where it had been easier than she ever imagined possible to snag a rich Mr. Right—or in this case, a forty-something divorcee named Richard Morrison.
So screw the sultry nightgown, Christine thought, yawning and sliding under the covers. She was an adult and she could sleep naked, for god’s sake. She smiled. There was a new black cocktail dress in the foot-high makeshift storage area behind the ceiling. Richard adored a very chic white faille she’d worn once or twice, telling her he just loved the way she’d been poured into it. Wait till he saw her in the daring little Isaac Mizrahi—he’d be gaga. On the verge of sleep, a small nagging voice spoke up: You have to be more careful; you have to pay more attention! Daydreaming in the cove about hot sex with Dick Morrison—and simultaneously tuning out Sally—had led directly to the meeting with Mr. Vinny, psych counselor un-extraordinaire. Chris had assumed old Sally G. was merely visiting another wigged out mental guru—no reason to tag along on that trip, she’d decided. “It was one time,” she told the voice, “so shut up. Nothing to worry about,” she muttered. “I’m in control.”
The day after Christmas Sally had a scheduled appointment with her annoying shrink—in the bright and early. Well, the bright and early for old sad sack morose Sally, Christine thought, which was three p.m. When she had the body, she liked waking up early and eating a big breakfast—not the weak tea and bagel thins Sally munched half-heartedly. The thing was, she was supposed to meet Richard at 4:30 p.m. for early cocktails at the Bull and Bear—one of the three greatest bars in the world according to the New York Times—at the Waldorf on Park and 50th—and the goddamn shrink’s office was way downtown. Not even a taxi could get Christine home and to the hotel on time. And worse, what was she supposed to do about wardrobe? Show up in one of Sally’s drab A-line skirts and a long-sleeved beige polo shirt? The girl ate like a sparrow—and worse in Christine’s opinion, dressed like one, too.
She could skip Cleckley—or Cluckley, as she privately called him—and his droning, indefatigable natter; the problem was Mr. Vinny might’ve set some low-level stealth-meister to keep an eye out for Sally’s ass. Even if a few years ago a female shrink had been knifed by a psycho right here in New York City, Christine didn’t think Mr. Vinny would try for a hit in Cluckley’s office arena. It would be better to show up—as if eve
rything was normal. Chris groaned. Normal meant the ugly clothes, the cheap metal watch and PayLess shoes—and not enough time to doll up for her paramour. “Christ,” she said. “I’m going to have to double-dress. Just like they do in prison movies. Well, this is a prison, Sally,” she shouted. “You’re my goddamn ball and chain. And I cannot fucking wait to break out.” Christine got on the phone and—lucky break—rescheduled Sally’s appointment for two p.m.
Leave the good bag with the receptionist, Christine reminded herself as she stepped from the cab in front of Cluckley’s office building. It wasn’t flashy—not like the tiny red-and-black Prada clutch stashed inside the tote—but it was a brown leather Ferragamo satchel (bought, like the Prada, for just a couple hundred on eBay) and she wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen by Dick carrying it. Christ, even my pocketbook has to double dress, she thought, pushing the elevator call button.
“How was your holiday, Sally?” Cleckley, shaved bald head gleaming, brown eyes atwinkle, sat across from her, one urbane ankle crossed on the other knee, a steno pad and pen in hand, poised to write.
Eyes down, keep both hands on the unravelling dirty tan handle of Sally’s ancient purse, Christine instructed herself. Fidget—but just a little. “It was okay, Dr. Cleckley.” Half-smile, half-grimace.
“Good.” Pause. “Well, what did you do? Did you spend it alone or with family?”
What did I do, Doc? After I got on eBay and had to pay for overnight shipping just to keep this fucking appointment so my boyfriend wouldn’t see me carrying a twenty-year-old Macy’s purse and dressed like an extra in a film about the homeless, I sexted Richard on my hidden cell phone and he sent me a close-up of his cock with a red Christmas ribbon tied around it, and then he said it got him so hot he called me, and we went live—or as live as we could—over wireless, and we pretended we went down on each other while we both beat off. He loves the way my hair feels when it’s dangling against his thighs. We couldn’t hook up at his penthouse like we usually do. He had to spend Christmas, naturally, with his kid in Connecticut. And thank Jesus the little bastard went to bed early.
“I made a little turkey, Dr. Cleckley.”
“Good, Sally. Excellent.”
“Well, it was just a slice of a Butterball turkey half-breast, but I did thaw it and cook it, and I had mashed potatoes and gravy and peas and a pumpkin pie from the A&P.”
“Well, that’s better than two years ago when you spent the whole day in bed and last year when you couldn’t even bring yourself to heat up the Swanson’s frozen lasagna, isn’t it?”
Nodding.
“And did you call your mother in Pennsylvania?”
I called Richard a hot piece of ass with a dick that drove me wild.
“Uh-huh.”
“I can tell by your expression that the conversation went well.”
“You bet!” Watch it, Christine. “I mean both of them got on the phone and I thanked them for the $500.” And just in time to cover what I had to spend on eBay, thank God. “And here, Dr. Cleckley, I have a check for you for today’s appointment and I’ll make up the rest next week—”
“Just give it to the receptionist on your way out, Sally.”
That went well, Christine thought, ducking into the ladies room on the first floor of Cleckley’s building. It was too bad, but she was going to have to accidentally on purpose leave the bathroom key the receptionist had given her on the sink—wouldn’t do at all to be seen dressed to the nines and wearing make-up when she was supposed to be draggy-ass Sally Grimshaw. Sally forgot everything anyway, so the key would be no big deal. Except, of course, the nagging voice Christine sometimes called MomGhost—the voice of Christmas-hell-past—spoke up: If Sally locked the door she’d go right back up to the third floor and tell Cluckley’s receptionist. She’d be all sheepish—a regular sheep—but she’d let Mrs. Davis know.
“Too bad,” Christine said, pulling off Sally’s sweater and stuffing it into the worn purse.
“And didn’t you notice,” the voice chimed in. “Didn’t you see good old Hervey M. Cleckley, M.D., Ph.D., when you tried to hand him the check with your left hand, and looking at your wristwatch? Your Cartier tank watch on your right arm?”
“Big deal. I’ll tell him Sally inherited it from her Aunt Martha or her Aunt Asshole and auntie sent it for Christmas—so she could know Sally was enjoying it before auntie kicked the bucket.”
“It’s a big deal, all right, Christine. You just don’t know it. Just like you don’t know—because you almost never pay attention—Cleckley’s been using hypnosis on Sally and he thinks there’s another personality inside her—an alter—short for alternating personality. Not you—he doesn’t know about you—”
“Shut up, Moms—okay? Just shut up.”
Richard wasn’t there when she got to the Bull and Bear. Christine sipped a brandy Alexander as slowly as she could, stirring the drink into a watery tan slush. An hour oozed by. She checked her watch for the umpteenth time, frowned at the dark, silent cell phone sitting on the wooden bar to her left. He was never late. She passed a damp, clammy hand across her forehead. No, it was still pretty early—by Wall Street standards—maybe he’d gotten held up at work. Why didn’t he call? Maybe he was stuck in a meeting or in some out-of-the-way, subterranean spot where it might as well be the 19th century as far as wireless was concerned. Maybe he stopped to buy flowers or some other little surprise for her—just last week she’d been gushing over a modest sapphire bracelet in Tiffany’s window while he’d been walking arm in arm with her, strolling past.
At the same time Christine reluctantly ordered her second drink (Where the hell was he?) and it arrived with a thump on the cocktail napkin, her cell phone buzzed and lit up neon blue. She jumped. “Hi, Richard,” she shouted into the phone.
A voice that—for a moment—wasn’t recognizable because Christine had been so sure it was the wavy-brown-haired, thoroughly smitten Morrison on the other end of the line, said calmly: “Sally, old sock; it appears we’ve still got some business to attend to—”
Her face went slack and she blinked once slowly.
The last thing Christine recalled was wondering where Richard was, and how in the hell Mr. Vinny had gotten hold of her private number.
Jane could have told her.
She had taken over, first as Sally when Mr. Vinny phoned, and then as Christine when Morrison finally showed up.
Jane Beauchamp was what Dr. Cleckley called the “organizing personality.” True, unlike some cases the psychoanalytic community treated and wrote about, she’d only recently been “out,” but she’d been around—carefully observing—years before Christine Sizemore even existed. Just like—speaking of organization—she could’ve told her alter that “Richard Morrison” was an alias for an ex-Mafioso; that the guy Christine naively thought had marriage on his mind was actually a plant from the Lifespan Treatment Center. Jane had cornered most of this inside dope from a spy-sized, miniature camcorder she found in his penthouse. “Big Al Moretti” was a part-time counselor whose moonlighting avocation harkened back to his glory days as muscle for the mob. And he enjoyed infiltrating the straights (otherwise known as Lifespan’s clients) even more—as he told Vinny over anisette one night in the Brooklyn-based supper-club/ristorante called Roma! Roma! where most of their old cronies hung out. In his forties, brains had won over brawn; finesse was more fun than breaking fingers (or kneecaps or ribs).
“If it was good enough for those capicolls at the FBI—for friggin Joe Pistone to masquerade as Donnie “The Jewel Man” Brasco and to penetrate the Bonanno family—may the old man rest in peace,” he said, crossing himself, drink in hand, “what the hell.”
“When it comes to ideas—you know my motto,” Vinny said. “Learn from everybody, but steal from the best.”
“Yeah. And with the old man gone, it definitely don’t get no better than the FBI—”
“Al, I told you a hundred times, you gotta stay in character even when you’re not on t
he job. From what I read, Morrison is supposed to be an Ivy Leaguer—”
“Jeez, Vin, I’m sorry—”
“Just pretend you’re like, say, Brando—and live the role even when you’re off stage, okay?”
“Marlon Brando? Jeez, he was the size of the entire Sicilian town my grandparents were born in when he died.” Vinny glared at him. “I see what you mean though, I mean he was the godfather—”
“He was a method actor,”
“Huh? Oh. Right. Like James Caan playing Sonny Corleone.”
“Close enough,” Vinny sighed, “just tape everything, capisc’?”
“Sure, Vinny, sure ... no problem.”
“Salut,’” Vinny said, raising the small liqueur glass and signaling for another round.
But the twin to Moretti’s miniature spy camera, Jane discovered, cost a whopping $2,400. Sure, she thought, what did he care? He was on expense account from Lifespan and his idea of playing the Morrison big shot-pezzonovante role (even when he was off the job, as Mr. Vinny admonished) was to buy only the very best.
Jane knew that Christine could make Sally forget certain things. Unlike Christine, Jane liked learning and she read up on how Eve Black actually made Eve White forget the pain and bruises and the very beatings themselves some drunk bestowed—even when she retreated and left an uncomprehending Eve White to bear it all in her place. Now Jane needed Christine to forget certain things—including the fact that she, Christine, now had time loss and memory lapses too.