by Mike Arsuaga
“You needn’t worry. I’ll give you a note explaining the absence.”
“You’re not serious? Do you think we’re in grade school? They don’t accept notes at OPD for unexcused absences. They hand out reprimands. Or pink slips.”
From under a square brow, two eyes of hard emerald took a moment to study her. “My notes, they will honor. I assure you. You need not worry about loss of job or pay.” The words emerged in the nature of a casual statement of fact, but in a tone leaving no doubt the subject was closed. “Now,” he resumed. “I have meetings. Should you require anything, there’s an in-house telephone at the bedside. The staff has placed necessaries and a collection of new clothes in the closet. I hope you find them acceptable. I chose a few of the outfits myself.”
I can imagine what those must look like.
Aloud, she gave him quick thanks, along with a perfunctory smile.
“The room you’re in is special. I asked the staff to place you here. For nearly fifty years, it belonged to my grandparents. My earliest memories were of playing on the floor around the very bed you spent the night on.
“Karla will call for you at noon for lunch. My son Ethan, whom you met last evening, is scheduled to escort you to dinner. I’ve tasked close members of my family rather than employees to attend you, so you may learn about us before we meet for dinner.”
What an elitist stuff shirt!
“Shall I invite my Gran to fill you in about me?” she snapped.
Almost nonexistent lips curled up at their respective ends. “The corporation has vast resources, but even we are unable to get her here from Mars in time for dinner.”
Realizing he’d indeed completed a thorough search, she couldn’t help smiling. “Then I shall see you tonight?”
“At eight. Until then, explore the room and try to enjoy your stay.”
The television screen went dark.
Lorna observed the surroundings.
What did he mean by “explore the room”?
As a piece of history, sure, of interest to other lycan and vampire historical buffs, but that group didn’t include her. Dismissing the comment, she walked to the closet.
Two spaces, each the size of a respectable-sized bedroom, opened into a mirrored hallway between. The mirrors were on the back sides of sliding doors that accessed the closets. At the end of the hall, under lights blazing in violation of a dozen utility conservation laws, sat a makeup vanity with a comprehensive selection of new-in-box cosmetics for her use. Lorna examined a few of them. The colors were right, but the brands were well above her price range. Heck, she still fished around in the depths of her present lipstick with a Bobbie pin to get the dregs of gloss in order to postpone another purchase.
Opening the first panel of the closet door, she peeked in. The space had room for ten times more clothing than she found. A dozen dresses, skirts, and gowns hung together, occupying a fraction of the long mahogany pole. A built-in dresser contained underwear, hosiery, lingerie, and belts. Another hanging rod held blouses, all brand new. A shoe rack covering the long side contained a half-dozen pairs of shoes, arranged with preciseness in the middle. Lorna had to admit, someone had done an excellent job of color coordination, but more to the point, they’d known what she liked. The collection boasted a lot of green, her favorite color.
She had to admit. A closet full of expensive, attractive clothes went a long way toward relaxing a contentious situation. Lorna decided to postpone pursuing further plans to escape, at least for a while.
With inspection of the wardrobe complete, she returned to the main part of the bedroom, taking off her clothes and spreading them around. She wanted to stake the space out as her territory with objects containing her scent, if only temporarily. The newer, bolder aromas she brought would overwhelm the older, faded ones already there. Out of curiosity, she concentrated to sort and decipher the indigenous traces. More than odors answered. Sensations flooded her, telling of immense, sustained happiness witnessed by the room and its furniture. The joys of love and family burnished by the fullness of time. Sagas, of loyalty, faith, and trust crossed generations.
Binding all together, she perceived the enduring passion between beings who loved deeply. The outpouring overwhelmed her. She hurried to retrieve her things and put them in a small pile, returning the room to the spirits who rightfully owned it.
By contrast, the essences from her life reeked of anxiety combined with resentment, first over the burden she presented her parents, and later after coming to live at Gran’s house because there was never enough of anything.
I wonder if Ed White appreciates how lucky he is.
* * * *
The scents of Floubert’s, the limousine interior, along with the last of scumbag Jerry Pease trickled down the drain in the luxury of a shower not tied to a timer, but the habit of working against a ticking clock was too ingrained. She tried her best, but couldn’t make the ablution last longer than five minutes. Still, it beat the hell out of the thirty or forty-five-second specials back home. After finishing, she wrapped in a towel capable of soaking up water instead of having to practically scrape it off with the meager, hard cloths the rest of the world used. Choosing a green outfit, she began to dress. Pink lip gloss soon complemented the ensemble. From the selection of eye shadows arranged on the vanity, a soft peridot green with a pink highlight called out. The shading made her eyes sparkle, and the thin black eyeliner enhanced the size in some indefinable way. Her hair fell more or less into shape, framing her face in the familiar, close fitting pageboy cut. The strands hung down as if weighted at the bottom with lead—so drab, so ordinary.
If there were something I could do with it.
“Yes ma’am?” inquired the neutrally-toned voice.
“Do you have a hair stylist available?” Lorna asked into the telephone, fingers crossed behind her back tight enough to cut off circulation.
“Yes, ma’am. Donatello can be to your room in five minutes. Will that be satisfactory?”
‘Yes!’ she mouthed with excited silence, high-fiving with an invisible partner. Aloud she said, “Perfect.”
Donatello was a plump male African lycan about her height, close to two hundred years old, with the first shimmer of gray appearing in hair that had been jet-black during FDR’s administration. “What may I do for you, darling?”
“This hair,” she answered, lifting parts of it from her head, offering him a closer look. “Can you do anything with it?”
Holding the short tresses with a light touch, he let the strands slide across stubby chocolate fingers, applying a critical eye. “Police Department Regulation makes me cringe. It’s so blasted butch.” Conducting a slow walk around Lorna, he arched a charcoal eyebrow at anything he found interesting about her wardrobe and makeup selections. “Very nice,” he said at length. “Very nice, indeed. I wouldn’t change a thing. Where did you learn such style?”
“I get it off the Internet. The principles are pretty logical.”
Donatello peeked at the ornate timepiece hanging from a chain around his neck. “Oh, look at the time. Ms. Karla will be here in twenty minutes.” To the gathering disappointment on Lorna’s face, he said, “I promise to come back this evening in plenty of time to get you ready for dinner with the Chairman.”
“Dinner with the Chairman?”
“Yes ma’am, that’s what we call Mr. White. I’ll have you as prettier than Cinderella by then.” Clapping two pudgy black hands together, he smiled and turned to leave. “Think of me as your fairy godmother.”
“One more thing,” Lorna asked of Donatello’s departing back. “Does your chairman often have women to dinner as guests?”
The hair stylist paused at the door, turning. “I never really thought about it, but now that you mentioned it, no he doesn’t. In fact, there’ve been none outside of business. You’re the first real guest in over a year.” Surveying the room, he appeared to realize for the first time where he was. “Come to think of it, you are the only one he
put in the First Parents’ room outside of immediate family.”
“Aromas tell of a powerful family presence here.”
Donatello’s expression grew serious. Taking Lorna’s hand in both of his, he asked, “The room spoke to you?”
“Yes, in a manner of speaking. I believe it has lingering old scents.”
Secretly, she believed what she sensed had been more than olfactory stimulation.
“My dear, this room has never done that. You must be special in some way. When I return, we will speak more.”
After his departure, Lorna speculated on how she could be special to the family White in any way. A notion chipped away at the back of her mind.
Is this what Ed White meant when he said to explore the room?
The digital clock on the carved teak dresser rolled to twelve noon, bringing a soft knock on the door. “Ms. Winters,” said a frail voice from beyond the closed door. “Karla May here. Are you ready for lunch?”
“Come in, Ms. May.”
Two females stood in the open doorway. The elderly one, she’d expected. The tall, striking one, she had not. “May I present my daughter, Cynthia?”
“You named her after your mother?”
“Yes, and the resemblance between them is strong, is it not?”
Cynthia’s forbearance toward at the comparison went over her mother’s head, but not Lorna’s. “Mom, you’re putting our guest on the spot.”
Although more than seventy years had passed since the older Cynthia’s tragic death, not a week passed without some kind of reference to her through the entertainment streams. A still picture or news footage commemorated a career milestone, a love affair, or one of the legions of good works she accomplished in her short life.
The lycan namesakes shared the same coloring—chalk-white skin with a touch of pink in each cheek, black hair and eyes, set off by pouty red lips. The Cynthia in the doorway stood six feet tall. Lorna had no way to vouch for the height of the older one, but had seen enough film clips and pictures to estimate a similar height. The young Cynthia, while lovely, lacked a subtle clarity of feature that set her grandmother apart from all other females of her time, and maybe any other who ever lived. Lorna understood, however, that for Karla, only one correct answer existed.
“Yes, like two peas in a pod.” Using lycan senses, Lorna gauged Cynthia’s controlled discomfort, and wondered about the peculiar hells associated with living in the shadow of a legend.
Karla accepted the kind lie, a satisfied expression sweeping across a well-preserved face in the latter laps of its course through life. Too soon, it would arrive at the finish line.
“Come,” Karla said. “Lunch is on the veranda. The chef prepared his specialty.”
They walked down the six-foot-wide hallway at Karla’s deliberate pace, passing several more bedrooms. None of them were as large or elegant as the one where Lorna had stayed, but still, they were impressive. The hall had varnished oak chair railing. Below, more lacquered oak tongue-and-groove paneling exuded the scent and gloss of recent waxing. Above, pale yellow plaster stippled the walls to a distant ceiling. Spaced along the way, portraits representing various branches of the White clan hung from the plaster. The massive life-sized, wood-framed paintings had needed a work crew to hang each one.
“Those are The First Parents,” Lorna remarked.
“Yes,” replied Karla. “Jim and Samantha, with their first litter. There is my father Edward, Senior, along with his sisters—Claire, the dark-haired one, and Cassandra, with the red hair.” Her voice acquired a muted tone of sad acceptance when she added, “The children were all hybrids and are gone now, but the First Parents still live.”
Lorna remembered the bundled letters. Claire had written them to Cassandra. The dates were in the right timeframe. What did two of the most famous sisters in the world say to each other? Lorna was dying to know.
The hall ended at a set of twelve-foot-tall French doors, which opened onto a sun room. Mature trees shaded the glass-walled space. The distant surface of the lake shimmered in a tropical breeze. Lorna concluded they must be well south of Orlando, maybe near Miami, or even The Keys. Someone opened the louvers to let in the warm, rich outside air. Beside a round table stood an elderly human addressing his attention to the simmering food on the dumbwaiter in front of him.
“This is Max, a very talented chef,” said Karla. “He’s been in our service for nearly fifty years.”
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, extending a hand exuding human scent, like raw peanuts.
“A familiar?” Lorna asked Karla.
“The term “familiar” is no longer used. They are called employees now.”
Another employee seated Karla. Cynthia and Lorna fended for themselves.
After the appetizer—a beef tartare—Karla initiated conversation. “We are ever so grateful for what you did to get our papers returned.”
“I was happy to help. But I do have a question.”
Karla dabbed her mouth with a linen napkin. “Certainly.”
Lorna paused.
Didn’t Ed say he wanted me to learn about the family?
Taking a breath she asked, “What’s the story behind the safety deposit box?”
Karla gaped at Cynthia. The question took them by surprise. Lorna feared she’d blundered into something private. “If my question is intrusive…” she began.
“No, it’s all right,” Karla answered. “The box belonged to Aunt Cassie. How can I put it? She was a troubled soul. She couldn’t accept being a hybrid. She believed herself cheated by having a human lifespan. The issue arose in adolescence, remaining an on-and-off point of contention for almost her entire life. She accused our grandparents of terrible things. First for bringing her into the world, believing they did so knowing what her fate would be. The truth was no one realized hybrids aged in this way until the First Litter, which included Cassandra, reached puberty.”
“I grew up with the same issue, but from the other side,” Lorna said. “My parents were hybrids. They dumped me at the corporation orphanage.”
“You poor dear,” Cynthia said. “It must have been terrible for you.” A slim hand covered Lorna’s.
Karla picked up the thread of the narrative. “Later, when we learned hybrid matings yielded a percentage of The Others along with more hybrids, Cassandra asserted her kind served as no more than a breeding vessel for lycans and vampires. Her accusations broke our grandmother’s heart because they were so dear to one another when she was little. While the other children remained close to the family, Cassandra pulled away. After showing exceptional marksmanship the plague of 2026, she joined the Army, remaining over twenty years. Contact with the family stayed sketchy at best, mainly because of arguments over drinking. When drug abuse entered the picture, the break became complete. She obsessed over putting everything she could into the time she had left. Claire never gave up on her, writing the letters you found.”
A nurse approached the table with a shawl for Karla.
“Get that thing away from me.” She scowled, drawing back from the woman.
“Now, Mother, Frieda’s right. You might catch a chill.”
The older woman leaned forward, grumbling. The nurse wrapped her shoulders and left. “Where was I? Oh yes. Claire’s letters were never answered. She never knew whether the addresses were good. At last, Cassandra, in failing health, returned home. For reasons that aren’t clear to this day, she reconciled with the family, especially Grandmother Sam. Family lore attaches supernatural influences to Cassandra’s change of heart, but no one knows for sure. By all accounts, her remaining years passed in contentment. She found peace, and even love.
“A few years after Cassandra came home, liver failure claimed the poor dear. Her husband, with daughter Sadie’s concurrence, allowed our grandparents to bring her ashes to Mars. The box you found is called a Perpetuity Box. The record of ownership must have been lost in the Cyber Panic of ’45. All Fargo’s records showed were that someone p
aid in full through 2199. Finding Claire’s letters means a lot to this family.”
“Like every other family, our hybrids fall into two groups. Those comfortable with their lifespan, and those who see themselves living under a death sentence,” Cynthia said.
Lorna remained silent, but a saying Mike often used came to mind. Change the things you can. Accept the things you can’t, and be wise enough to know the difference.
After lunch, she went back to her borrowed room. She locked the door, sat on the bed, and returned to the scents. Would the room speak to her again?
Carefully, she delved into their secrets. Like an archaeologist she excavated through the layers, past the cavalcade of happiness, triumph, and shared love. Then she found what she searched for, faint and scattered throughout, almost obliterated by the volume of the others. Traces of a mother’s anguish for a child once close and now lost that culminated in a final image of reconciliation followed by mourning.
Cassandra might have died in this very bed.
CHAPTER SIX
The children slept in the next room. Two of them graced the clan now, Rigo, the male followed by the recent female, named Ampra. The boy had seen four summers. Cithara, delivered of the girl less than two months ago, again presented an image slim and taut as she’d ever been. They’d not mated since well before the birth. With a proper healing period past, Aliff sniffed, pawing after her like a rutting bull. On that night, he returned to their spaces from sentry duty. The clan had wintered in the high mountains, descending with the arrival of spring to an abandoned meeting place of a new sect, the so-called Christians.
The other clan female covered the windows to block out chilly springtime winds while the two adult males gathered firewood or hunted. They had to make do with game, for no human lived within fifty leagues. When little Rigo resisted being separated from his parent’s privacy, one of the pack males tempted him away with a new carved wooden toy.