Enchanted Again

by Nancy Madore

  Pansy was all at once exultant again. How perfectly just that Tom should feel the burn of being accused for something he didn’t do. How many people had felt that same burn because of him, including possibly even Jack?

  Pansy deliberately fell into a routine of inertness in the weeks that followed. She spoke almost never, steering clear of everyone and everything. The uncertainty of what might happen kept her in a constant state of acute watchfulness, and her worst fear was that Tom would not be linked to the murder after all. She knew firsthand how bungling and corrupt the men of her husband’s precinct were, and it seemed more and more probable that the many subtle hints she had dropped would all be for nothing. Often she remonstrated with herself for not leaving some small possession of Tom’s near Jack’s body, but she had not wanted to make it too obvious, bringing suspicion in from the other end.

  Just when Pansy had all but given up hope, John Foreman’s murder investigation at last took a turn in Tom’s direction. She could hardly believe her good fortune when at last they took him away. She remained quiet and thoughtful throughout the investigation and ensuing trial, appearing to all who observed her as the grief-stricken wife. She testified reluctantly of her inability to fully verify Tom’s whereabouts on the night of the murder, and her reluctance was at least partially genuine, for she was absolutely terrified that she might slip and say too much. The prosecutor had to drag every last word from her quivering lips, and this too made it all the worse for Tom.

  As for Jack’s threat about a video, Pansy need never have worried about that. There were no videotapes, and no one ever came forward to link Pansy with Jack on the two occasions when they had met in hotel rooms. She had even worried that a stray hair of hers may have appeared on Jack’s body or clothing, but if such a thing had existed, the police never bothered with it. The police, who were Tom’s peers and cut from the same cloth as him, had set their minds at the first hint of culpability upon his guilt, and once their minds were set they, like Tom, were loath to change course. It was, for them, a staggering tragedy, and they were equal parts sad and superior, shaking their heads at the difficulty of being a police officer and the statistical likelihood of it driving a person over the edge.

  Tom was ultimately obliged to spend the rest of his life in solitary confinement, evading aggrieved convicts as he pondered what had happened.

  “I would visit, Tom,” Pansy told him one day over the phone. “But let’s face it. There hasn’t been anything between us for a long time now. To visit you would be to prolong the inevitable. You should just get on with your new life there.”

  But Jack was not so easy for Pansy to forget. She thought of him often, especially the last few moments they had shared together, when his thoughts had been for her. She came to think of their short-lived relationship as a great love affair, all the more poignant for having ended so tragically at the pinnacle of their affection.

  Eventually Pansy was moved to go out and date, out of sheer dread of living alone more than anything else. One of Tom’s associates at the precinct had expressed an interest, catching her off guard. She was charmed by his bemused demeanor and awkward advances. She sympathized with the challenges he faced, working so many unrewarding hours at the precinct and having no one to properly care for him. Surely with her help, he would have more success with his cases and perhaps even lose some of the excess weight he had put on from constantly eating in fast-food restaurants. Here, at last, was her second chance in life, and Pansy decided to seize it.

  Perhaps things would be different this time.

  CURLY LOCKS

  Curly Locks, Curly Locks,

  will you be mine?

  You shall not wash dishes,

  nor feed the swine.

  But sit on a cushion

  and sew a fine seam,

  and sup upon strawberries,

  sugar, and cream.

  Carol sauntered into the café and flipped her curls confidently as she looked around the room. She quickly caught sight of Mary and Jane, sitting at opposite ends of a small round table. She was, as usual, the last to arrive.

  “Ladies,” she murmured without apology as she approached the women.

  “Well! Here she is at last,” said Jane. She eyed Carol with mild reproach, adding dryly, “And looking like a million dollars, too, as usual.” Coming from anyone else, Carol might have interpreted such a remark as jealousy. But Jane, she knew, was neither impressed nor envious of her appearance. On the contrary, such comments were of a condescending nature, carrying within them an intonation of reproach for time wasted on frivolous and pointless endeavors. Carol had tried time and again to explain to Jane the importance of maintaining an image of beauty and femininity, but she soon realized that those were the efforts that were wasted. She once spent a full hour, for instance, outlining the merits of having acrylic nails applied and maintained on the tips of her fingers, but in the end it was a futile conversation that left Jane—who simply cut her fingernails with a nail clipper—more frustrated than ever with Carol, and vice versa.

  In truth, Jane was as different from Carol as a person could be. Each was an utter enigma to the other; Jane being a staunch feminist who exhausted most of her energies fighting—or more specifically, complaining about—the battle of the sexes, and Carol refusing to believe any such battle existed. Men were, to Carol’s mind, easily won over without a battle, and if there were any inequities between her and the men in her life, she was satisfied that she had somehow managed to tip the scales in her own favor after all. Women who felt differently were, in her opinion, simply not making the most of their opportunities. Carol felt that Jane, for instance, would get a lot further with the opposite sex if she expended some of her energy on her appearance, and less on fighting for equality.

  Excluding these differences in opinion, Jane’s feminist viewpoint had benefits. She made the perfect friend, having ready at all times an endless supply of rationale for just about every feminine behavior, while at the same time possessing a wealth of incriminations and suspect motivations for those behaviors that were male. This aptitude for adapting all her conclusions to her feminist viewpoint was wondrously supportive, especially in matters relating to her friends’ relationships with men. No matter what scenarios Carol or Mary presented for discussion, it was already preordained that they—the women—would be the innocent victims, while the men would be cast as insufferable villains. She had come to rely on Jane for these little affirmations about her correctness in all that she did. And aside from these very supportive endorsements from Jane, there was the added benefit of appearing so much more attractive by comparison whenever Jane was around.

  “When you have a million dollars to spend…” teased Mary, who openly envied Carol’s many good fortunes, but in such an innocuous manner that it was flattering instead of threatening.

  The waitress came over when she noticed the last of their party had arrived. “Drinks before you order?” she asked.

  “Oh my, yes,” cooed Carol happily. “I definitely think a drinkie is in order. I’ll have a Sex on the Beach, and oh…if you could supersize it I would be ever so grateful.” The women giggled at the suggestively made remark. Carol brought a genuine merriment to her jokes that infused even the most repetitive ones with new life.

  “I’ll have an iced tea,” said Mary, and to Carol’s disapproving look she added, “Some of us have to go back to work, you know.”

  “Nooo!” whined Carol, childishly clinking her bracelets on the table. “Come on! How often do we get together like this?” Although it was actually every week, Mary conceded.

  “Okay,” she said to the waitress, rolling her eyes with feigned reluctance. “One drink then.”

  The waitress didn’t appear to care whether she had one or fifty. Trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice—clearly implying that she was not a mind reader—she asked, “What will you have?”

  “I’ll have the same as her,” Mary said, blushing slightly. “A Sex on the Beach
.”

  “Make it three,” Jane told the waitress, and the woman left them.

  “Whoa!” Carol laughed. “What an attitude on that one.”

  “So much for her tip,” Mary added, slightly miffed.

  “Is that very nice, Mary?” scolded Jane with a laugh. “Think how you would feel in her place.”

  “I think I would make a little more effort if I expected a tip,” mused Mary.

  “You know,” Carol interjected thoughtfully, “I bet I would make a damn good waitress.” At this, all three burst into loud laughter, but a moment later Carol was mildly offended. “Seriously,” she said.

  “What do you care?” asked Mary, who candidly and regularly expressed her belief that Carol had no cares or worries worth considering because she had a husband who was rich.

  Jane, on the other hand, was of the opinion that Carol was wasting her life by living vicariously through her husband. As always, she took up the opposite viewpoint from Mary’s, and said, “I think Carol would make an excellent waitress.” But then she added as an afterthought, “God knows she’s accustomed to serving her master.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Jane,” said Mary. “She doesn’t work half as hard for her money as we both have to.”

  “Um, excuse me, ladies,” interrupted Carol. “I’m sitting right here.” The waitress arrived with their drinks. Carol thanked the woman profusely. “You are an angel,” she gushed happily. Then straightaway she swallowed several mouthfuls of the tangerine-colored liquid and instantly felt better. Their conversation would be easier to take after a few of these. “Actually,” she continued once the waitress was out of earshot, “if I were a waitress I would at least make an effort to bring some fun to my customers, along with the food and drinks, of course.”

  “And think of all the experience you have,” said Jane, bringing the topic back around to her original point, “from waiting on Harvey hand and foot.”

  This kind of remark, which usually rolled right off of Carol, corresponded a little too closely with her own thoughts of late. She had been feeling that perhaps her life was going nowhere, and it seemed appropriate that her husband was the reason. After all, hadn’t he been the main preoccupation in her life all these years? What might she have done with her time if not for having to always be thinking about him?

  “Hand and foot?” echoed Mary. “What a crock!”

  As usual, Carol’s two best friends were at odds. They both were peculiarly interested in her life. Jane seemed to feel that every woman should be burning her bra while climbing mountains—both of these things made Carol shudder—while Mary was in the unpleasant position of already having to climb mountains in order to survive—and she wasn’t feeling very liberated by it.

  “Come on,” replied Jane. “She sets her clock by the man. ‘Oh dear, is it four o’clock already!’” she mimicked. “‘I had better get home to Harvey!’”

  “Well, what of it?” interjected Mary. “Don’t the rest of us punch a time clock, too? I recall mentioning that I have to get back to the office.”

  This dispute might have gone back and forth in this way throughout their lunch if Carol had not abruptly interrupted them.

  “Do you girls think I’m wasting my life with Harvey?” she asked.

  They were both so unused to Carol sounding uncertain about anything, that they at first only stared at her, stunned. Then both of them answered at once.

  “Yes,” said Jane.

  “No,” said Mary.

  “Do you think you’re wasting your life?” asked Jane, excited by the prospect of Carol reaching the epiphany Jane felt she should reach.

  “Well…I have wondered lately,” Carol admitted.

  “What could you have done without Harvey that you haven’t done with him?” Mary asked her sensibly. “Or, even more importantly, what would you do without Harvey?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Carol. “Maybe I would become a waitress.”

  “In that case, I think I would blow Harvey tonight,” Mary told her.

  “Oh, that’s nice, Mary,” Jane said. “Encourage her to further subjugate herself to him.”

  “Do you have any idea how much ass Carol would have to kiss to get the same kind of cash from waiting on tables that she gets from Harvey?” Mary asked her.

  “Money isn’t everything,” said Jane piously.

  “It isn’t?” Both Mary and Carol asked this at once.

  “No!” said Jane haughtily. “It’s about self-respect.”

  “How much self-respect do you suppose that waitress has while putting up with our shit?” Mary asked her, forgetting for the moment her own earlier resentment for the waitress. “Or, for that matter, how much self-respect does a working mother have, when she is guilted into showing up for work instead of staying home with her sick child? Or a secretary who is browbeaten into picking up her boss’s laundry?”

  “Self-respect comes from within a person,” said Jane in a sanctimonious tone. She had that untouchable sense of correctness that was as formidable as any religious faith. “You just know you are doing the right thing because you are doing it yourself. Self-respect comes out of that.”

  “Mmm,” thought Mary. “You mean like when you borrowed money from Daddy to start up your business?”

  “That is entirely different!” stormed Jane, becoming overly defensive all of a sudden. The vehemence of her tone caused Carol and Mary to exchange glances. Getting help from her father for the business had always been a sore spot for Jane, but lately any mention of her business at all seemed to have the power to upset her. They watched as Jane gulped down half her drink in an effort to compose herself. When she put down her glass she frowned at Mary. “I did not have to subjugate myself to my father for that.”

  “Perhaps not, but you can hardly sit there bragging that you did it entirely on your own, either,” replied Mary in a gentler tone. “And besides, when did sex with the hubby become subjugation? Some of us would be pretty happy for a husband to screw right about now.” Mary had a very simple and explicit viewpoint on things, and the reasoning of a woman who spent years being single and struggling on her own. Though she tried forming relationships with men again and again, she had never been able to capture the attention of one long enough to retrieve any sense of security or strength from him, let alone to form the kind of commitment required for marriage. Most people who knew her agreed that it was not any deficiency in Mary that caused her relationships to fail but, rather, it was simply that she longed for a relationship so wholeheartedly that it terrified the men who came in contact with her.

  “Will you just be quiet for a minute and let Carol put in a word?” remarked Jane. Turning to Carol, she continued, remarking condescendingly, “I’m sure there are many dreams Carol had for her life that Harvey has squelched.” She stared at Carol expectantly.

  Carol paused, sipping the last of her drink noisily as she thought about it. The conversation was becoming a little more intense than usual, but Carol thrived on the attention. It was, perhaps, the glue that held the three together, that Mary and Jane were content to discuss Carol’s life. Mary’s issues were, although more real and pressing than Carol’s, rather tedious and impenetrable, and Jane, on the other hand, never wished to discuss her problems. “I’m not really sure,” Carol admitted at last. No squelched dreams appeared to come to mind.

  “You see that,” said Jane. “Harvey has her so engrossed in his life that she doesn’t even know what she wants anymore.”

  “Jesus Christ, Jane!” Mary exclaimed. “Is that what you call women’s liberation? To simply blame everyone else for everything?”

  And in the next instant their friendly luncheon had become a heated debate between Mary and Jane about what feminism was and was not, and when the meal was over Carol left the café more than a little tipsy and considerably less than content. Usually these little gatherings cheered her, but this time she came away feeling depressed. Suddenly the emptiness of her life seemed to spread out be
fore her in a wide expanse of nothingness that left her feeling desolate. What was there to look forward to?

  She got into her car and drove, but she didn’t want to go home. She set out on the highway heading south, her destination for the moment undecided. She felt an overwhelming sense of dissatisfaction with everything. Was it possible that Harvey had squelched all her dreams? Why couldn’t she remember any dreams? All her thoughts and wishes had, for as long as she could recall, been connected to shopping, or getting her next corrective surgery, or attending her next party. But what did it all mean? Wasn’t she supposed to have a purpose that extended beyond making herself happy in the moment?

  Her melancholy was abruptly interrupted by an unfamiliar and eerie awareness creeping over her, even as her car simultaneously began veering inexplicably off to one side of the road and out of her control. Little by little her consciousness registered the sounds of crashing metals and breaking glass, and she could feel the sharp and shocking—yet peculiarly unreal—punctures to her flesh. Even as she comprehended these things, which appeared to be happening in slow motion, there was a violent rush of chemicals flooding through her bloodstream, giving the situation a supernatural effect that removed, for the moment, all terror, and put in its place an almost detached curiosity in the events as they occurred. At length, other cars rushed in all around her, and Carol felt her vehicle being slammed and twisted in all directions.