by Lee Baldwin
“Two eggs. So I am twins, in one body?”
“That’s what it looks like. As I say, the other father must be tested to be certain.”
“So who is the other father?”
“We can’t tell you that. If you know someone who has similar traits or characteristics, someone your mother mentioned perhaps, he might be a candidate for testing. You might know this person yourself.”
“My mom died. She’s not saying much.”
“Right. Perhaps you can go back through old photos, talk to any family.”
“I have an aunt. How good is your test?”
“It’s a 21-marker analysis with a gender marker and overlapping genetic systems. It provides a double-blind test for every sample. Because Mr. Porterfield is not excluded, as we say, there is high likelihood he is your father. Or one of them.”
“One of them,” she mutters with distaste. Hops off the table, shakes hands with Doctor Munoz, and leaves the office. Walking through warm sunshine toward her car, Tharcia‘s mood is dark. Mom, you dumb cunt. How could you even like him?
As she hurries between cars in the clinic parking lot, images of her dream-twin come. A woman who in her stature and coloring looks a lot like her mother. My secret twin. But it comes to her she is thinking about this all wrong. She is letting events control her. It’s time she learns how to push back.
As she drives away, Tharcia decides she must visualize her own future reality, not as dream, but as her firm intention of events that must take place. She focuses her mind on a single question.
What is it I want?
Unknowable Outcomes
Father Gary Tilton tiredly folds shut his laptop, slumps in the high-backed swivel chair in his office at Sacred Heart Catholic Church, closes his eyes. He needs a moment to consider what he has just read. A fellow priest sent him to a blog about the mysterious demise of the singer, Annetka, by a fashion critic calling himself Carrion Gray. Tilton surmises the blogger’s name is made up. But the details resonate. In all Tilton’s study and research into supernatural beings, useful in his work as exorcist, he’s seen descriptions of Angels which correspond with some facts in the blog entry.
In many mythologies, Tilton knows, depending on sources, translations and accounts, angels can appear on Earth as humans. Only the white angels, he reminds himself. Dark angels cannot take human form, or ever conceal their wings. Descending to Earth for white angels is a one-way process, they cannot go back. They lose their wings and become mostly human, although they retain many of the super-being qualities which all angels own.
If the blog is accurate, Tilton ponders, what was this angel, Annetka, doing here? Was she captured by pride, wanting a privileged ride among humans? Did she have a heavenly mission?
If Annetka was an angel on Earth, what killed her? And why? He’s heard one darkly suggestive rumor: that the time of her murder is roughly coincident with the arrival of the mystery man in the Pentagon courtyard. Tilton knows that Lucifer has many enemies among angels. Folkloric myth suggests that Lucifer is allowed on Earth but rarely, or completely forbidden. His presence here would cause violent activity, revenge and retribution. Angels can be a bloody lot.
Tilton, as millions of others, saw on news feeds today the blab-tab story from Annetka’s manager, who had first arrived at the murder scene. From her bed in a New York City psychiatric hospital, she’d told how the big living room window splintered outward into winter sunlight, described the spread-winged thing poised in midair for a split second before it winked out of sight. Awakening from her induced coma, she screamed out, “It has wings! Scales! Wings and claws! It has a dick and it has wings!”
Tilton’s meeting with the Harrison girl nags him. A young woman using random spells to conjure her mother as though she were a demon. Tilton shakes his head dubiously. The rules of demonology are complex and hazily documented. He admits it’s bizarre enough to possibly work. But with what results?
Texts and emails in the last hour inform him that numerous priests among the Vatican’s trained and experienced exorcists are being summoned to join a convocation for assignment in Virginia. With a sick lump of foreboding, Tilton decides there could be a connection with the girl. He sees her as too peculiar to be a victim, but rather a motive force, focused with intensity on achieving her result.
In Tilton’s view, Satan, even in in the 21st century, is admitted more broadly than among Christians who follow a literal Bible. Satan is a clear concept in mainstream Churches. Two years ago, Tilton attended a conference of U.S. Catholic bishops, participated in an extended debate over growing demand for exorcism, and the shortage of qualified priests to work with the possessed.
Callings and conjurings of demons emanate from deepest survival-sanity of unconscious drives, Tilton knows, the hindbrain field reaching out for whatever feels good in the moment, a mental underworld where arises addictive sex, alcoholism and drunkenness, wealth-lust and unstoppable greed, the depths of violence and the horrors of abuse. Tilton’s sense of the girl is she’s damaged in a way she skillfully hides. He doesn’t realize why, but knows he must warn her. And deep in Tilton’s unconscious, unknown to him, replays the memory of her slim hips, climbing stairs before his captivated eyes in her white, snug little jeans. A woman like that could cause great damage, if she has not done so already.
A new email dings in Tilton’s inbox. From the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Chicago. Tilton reads with pride overlaid by anus-clenching terror. He is to join the priestly convocation that will depart for Arlington, Virginia, early tomorrow morning.
The Vatican thinks this is real.
Pickup Lines
Pool balls click amid a cascade of voices at the Sea Snake Brew Pub in Santa Cruz. Clay orders a Pelican, grabs a spot at the bar being vacated by a young couple. Waitress hurries up with his pint, couple older surfers squeeze in beside him.
Place is too loud to talk, the singer and her backup band are wailing. Clay checks the place out, glimpses in the back bar mirror a real stunner. Intelligent and sultry face, drinking a daiquiri and talking into her phone. Reminds Clay of Tharcia’s mom, dark eyes, dark hair framing pearl-skinned face. The stool beside her is vacant.
A guy materializes at her elbow, Clay watches him chat her up. The whole thing takes fifteen seconds. First the dude’s shoulders droop, he says something more, then turns away. The whole time she doesn’t look at him. Stool beside her stays empty.
Clay is nodding, yeah, getting a half smile as he sips his pint. Doesn’t take long, scene replays with another guy, tries to sit next to her. Twenty seconds max, he’s out of there. The action subsides then for about five minutes, until somebody new comes along, makes his attempt, walks away staring daggers at the carpet.
Clay laughs to himself. Now this looks like fun. In his imagination, puts himself in the position of a glamorous woman sitting alone in a crowded bar. Sees exactly what she is doing. She is there to be picked up, sure, but it’s Saturday Night and she’s in no rush, making a game out of it. Playful. All right. Walks to where she sits with her phone and her drink. Stands behind the empty stool, doesn’t look at her, signals the bartender, shouting above the noise, “Two shots of your Tezon Blanco.”
Clay doesn’t sit, keeps his eyes moving around the room, watching the scene, the singer, follows the bartender’s graceful stretch for the Tezon on a high shelf. Doesn’t glance at the woman eight inches from his elbow, mostly keeps his back to her.
“I don’t drink tequila,” says a smooth voice next to him.
Clay doesn’t look over. The shots land, Clay throws down some bills, turns back to where he was sitting, elbows his way in between the surfers, one of whom is about to take his stool. Clay downs one of the shots, feels the hot blue fire make its way down his throat.
“She put you away pretty fast, dude,” one of the surfers says with a guffaw.
Clay laughs. “Didn’t hit on her. Dude.”
The surfer shoots his mate a puzzled expression.
“That’s what she’s here for,” Clay yells into the club’s roar. “See how many guys she can shut down. I just iced her.”
Guy laughs, “Gnarly.” His back to her, Clay tosses down his second shot, thumps the glass on the bar, strides out the front door.
Fifteen minutes later he is back. Seat beside the dark-haired woman still empty. Beside her half a daiquiri, she’s texting on her phone. Clay does the same again, stands close, jostles her elbow without noticing, calls out his order for two tequila shots.
“I could switch to tequila,” she says calmly. Although her voice is soft, Clay hears her easily in the uproar. Looks over, nice smile waiting. He shrugs, slides one of the shots across to her. When she lifts the glass in toast, her eyes over the rim are intelligent, full of play and mischief. They toss it back. Now Clay gets a closer look. She’s a few years older than him, a total goddess. He smiles, tilts his head toward the bar.
“Yes. I’d like another.” Her voice is sultry-cool. Clay calls for two more, reminds himself that’s all the drinking he can do without a bottom on his stomach. Down the bar one of the surfers is giving him a WTF look with a big grin. Clay shrugs. Kitty whisperer. Told ya.
Clay sits, but keeps his attention moving around the boisterous crowd. The shots arrive and back they go. Clay sets his glass down. “Nice to drink with a class act. Bump into you sometime.” Twirls from his stool with a smile. She puts a hand on his arm.
“You hungry? I know where there’s a good jazz club.” Her look hints at other things the evening could offer.
Clay smiles. Hunger comes in many flavors. “Well, yah, I definitely gotta get food in me.”
“Come,” she says. When she gets off the stool their eyes are at the same level, spike heels set off her calves in the short leather skirt. As they leave she draws glares from guys who’d tried her, most others simply check out her style as she leads Clay out the door.
On the sidewalk she tells him, “There’s a nice place down in Pebble Beach with a jazz trio. Guy on keys is good. Friend of mine.”
Her car is a black Aston Martin, she drives it fast. Clay figures she’s got a radar detector or something expensive looking out for her because they do the stretch of Highway 1 from Santa Cruz to Pebble in 25 minutes, not a cop in sight. Clay sits back in the leather seat and watches, figuring the car has a dozen airbags and he’s drunk enough not to care. The road ahead is a video game of tail lights and highway signs whizzing past, the blurred center line. She doesn’t take chances, but keeps it above 90 most of the time, on a clear stretch the car hits 145.
“You really do catch the breaks.”
She flashes a game smile. “Make your own luck, I always say. What do you do?”
“Teach people how to not kill themselves in gliders. Rebuild vintage airplanes. Getting to know my daughter.”
“A daughter. I hadn’t figured you for the daddy type.”
“We knew each other in high school. She got pregnant, left town without telling me. By chance I bumped into her last year. Had a 19-year old girl just gotta be mine.”
“You’re not sure?”
“Well, our looks, for one. And the timing. And the rapport.”
“So are you all chummy with mommy dearest, or did she marry someone?” In her voice a cautious tone.
“Her mom died. Not long after we ran into each other. She swore the dad was some other dude, but it doesn’t figure.”
“I can tell you liked her.”
“Yah, back in the day. This time around, the attraction was there, but it didn’t seem like the deal. She’d changed.”
“That’s romance.”
“Her girl is taking it hard. Angry. Closes me out.”
“Do you see her often?”
“Every day. She lives with me.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“Well, it seemed ok. She was on her own, had a girlfriend. That one’s gone now. I offered the room and she wanted to. I hope she gets through this part. I’d like it if we were friends again.”
‘Hope it works.”
“How about you? And by the way, call me Clay.”
She laughs. “Man of the Earth. Lillian. I’m an insurance adjuster.”
“You traveling through, then?”
“From Virginia. Be out here a week or so.”
“Lots going on back there.”
“I don’t watch much news, what do you hear?
“Not so much the news, but something weird at the Pentagon. I get tweets it’s evacuated, but network news is vague about it.”
“Hmm. I wouldn’t know.”
“And there’s something about a whale with writing on it. Epidemics of people having laughing fits, one happened at a Santa Cruz mall. Saw a blog that rapes have gone way down.”
“Well I would vote for that. Do you know that rape was once considered a property crime?”
“Unbefuckinglievable. Where you hear that?”
“Same as you. Under the patriarchy law, the rape victim was the father.”
“No way!”
“Yeah. The father suffered loss of value. Or the husband or brothers.”
“Women are property? Those darn old white guys,” Clay says in disgust.
“You’re a white guy, and someday you’ll be an old one.”
Clay snorts. “My life is too exciting for old age to creep in. Twenty years, it’ll all be over.”
“Short and sweet, eh? But you would give up your power heritage?”
“In a second if it makes the world more tolerable. I’m not into domination.”
“Not at all?”
“Well, maybe. If it includes some light bondage art.”
She laughs. “Oh-ho. I know a few rope tricks. So it wouldn’t cut off your nuts for women to be in charge? The patriarchy is emasculated by powerful women.”
“Yah, cuz they look at women as sex objects first and people third. It’s simple prejudice. I read somewhere that the vote in Colonial times was available only to white males of wealth.”
“Interesting. Have you ever dated an ethnic woman?”
“How do you define date?”
“Social situations, interpersonal situations, sex, quality time, semi-attachment.”
“I get it. You’re fixing me up with a friend.”
“Comedian. Just curious.”
When they arrive at the restaurant, she lets valet take the car. Walks in with her hand on Clay’s bicep, carrying a small bag. Heads off to the restroom, comes back a while later in a one-piece slinky job that proves she doesn’t need lingerie.
Clay grins, seeing her. “Guess I made some luck myself tonight. Got us a table.” Smile she throws him, they both know it’s not about a table. They’re shown to a spot near the grand piano.
“Nice dress,” Clay says close to her ear. “Hugs the curves better than your car.” It’s lame and he knows it, but she buys it.
“Nutter.” She leans her head on his shoulder for a beat. Drinks arrive, the jazz trio starts a number, light and fast. Clay catches people in the crowded room checking them out, looking at the woman with him. And at him too. He gets it that the women here are older than the men they’re with. Some by a lot. Aha. Cougar club.
She sits close, body brushing his, both of them caught up in the music, the action in the room. Appetizers and food. Clay picks out a Napa Merlot which Lillian approves, raises her eyebrows at first sip. Clay tilts his chin at the a small dance floor, Lillian slides off her stool. Soon as they get going, everyone else wants to be dancing. Clay and Lillian find themselves in the press, between a couple doing a rhumba and another assuming they have room for an expressive tango. For a moment they’re unable to dance, but hold close. She slides a bare arm around his neck. “I know where there’s a party,” she whispers.
“Parties are always fun,” he says, grazing her cheek with his lips.
The party is held in the Presidential Suite of the Inn at Spanish Bay. As she uses her key to let them in, Clay realizes with scant surprise he
’s the only guest.
“Make yourself comfortable, I’m gonna shower. Bar’s over there. Fix me something.” She goes off toward the bedroom. Clay catches the glow of a fireplace before her door closes. Nice suite, comfortable sofas and an ebony grand piano. He slides the balcony door back, stands in the wind, the sound of surf. A scythe-bladed moon hangs over the horizon, shallow cup of the night’s wisdom. Looking at it, Clay’s meditative trance arises of its own accord. There I am. I am beautiful.
His phone plays chimes, Tharcia’s ring.
“Hey you.”
“Hey Stuka. What shakes?” She sounds good, connected, smile in her voice.
“Out for dinner with a friend. How’s by you?”
“Caught a few waves with a couple friends. Steamer Lane. When’ll ya be home?”
“Um. Might be a while.”
“Like, late?”
“Like I’ve been abducted.”
She laughs. “Where are ya?”
“Pebble. Spanish Inn.”
“Hoity-toity. She nice? I assume she’s a she.”
“She seems a very good conversationalist.”
“Well, don’t converse about anything I wouldn’t.”
“Nut case.”
“Guess I won’t see ya.”
“Tomorrow, looks like.”
“Mm. Well, I’m not going home, then.”
“How come?”
“Well, it’s fine if you’re there. Just that… deep freeze thing, you know. Doesn’t seem to affect the rest of the house, but still…”
“Well, if you want me to come back...” He lets the suggestion hang.
“Nah. You have fun. I have friends around. See ya tomorrow, Clay.”
“Tharcie?”
“Yeh?”
“Glad we can talk again.”
“Me too times two. Nite, Stuka.”
When he pockets the phone he’s smiling, notices Lillian standing beside the grand piano, watching him. She’s in a black floor-length dressing gown, lacy, looks like it’s from the 1930s, fits her well, where it fits her. A couple places leave little to the imagination. Clay goes inside.