Flickers

by Arthur Slade

  Beatrice did so, gently placing her tanned fingers on her sister’s pale skin. She felt as if she were somehow taking the weight from her.

  Is the connection between us stronger when I touch her? she wondered.

  She sent the message: Isabelle, say thanks for the massage. No, that wouldn’t be a proper test of their connection; she might say thanks anyway.

  Isabelle, mention our parents. Mention Mother and Father.

  This was not as common a topic of conversation. They were from so far away and long ago that it was as if they had only existed in fairy-tale land.

  Mention them. Tell me you miss them. Mention them.

  “Do you think Mother could have been an actress?” Isabelle asked.

  Beatrice took her fingers away.

  “Don’t stop, Beets.”

  She kept massaging. “Maybe. She was very pretty.” The only picture they had of their mother sat on Isabelle’s side of the dresser. The photo could have influenced the question, Beatrice decided. I should have asked her to talk about polar bears or airships. Just to eliminate coincidence.

  “All this skill came from somewhere,” Isabelle whispered. “Mr. Cecil says it’s in my blood and bones. And Mother is where I got the blood and bones from.”

  Beatrice glanced at the picture of their mother. Beatrice looked nothing like her. Her mother had given everything to Isabelle.

  1.My birth killed my mother. Fact.

  2.It was not my intention. Fact.

  3.If I didn’t exist, my mother would be alive. Fact.

  Beatrice took her hands away from her sister. “It’s time to sleep. You have a big day tomorrow.” She stood up and got into bed.

  “Don’t I know it. There’s one more thing I have to tell you, sis.”

  “What?”

  “There’s going to be a surprise in this movie. Something in it just for you. Well, it will surprise everyone else who watches it, too. It’s going to be amazing.” She giggled. “And you’re involved.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, Beets. It’s a secret. Mr. Cecil made us all take double-dog-dare vows of secrecy. But it’ll knock your socks off.”

  Beatrice turned out the light, then slid back under the sheets.

  “It’s funny,” Isabelle said. “Seeing Aunt Betty pretending to be dead got me thinking. Do you ever wonder what happens when we die?”

  “Our hearts stop beating,” Beatrice said. “Blood no longer pumps to the brain. Our thoughts go out one by one.”

  “Ugh! You’re such a spoilsport. I know what heaven is, Beets. It’s a place with bright lights and it’s full of love and adoration. And you float in all of that for eternity. I’m one hundred percent certain about it.”

  “That sounds boring.”

  “No. It sounds heavenly. I’d do anything to get to a heaven like that.”

  12

  August was dead. September was rising up and bringing slightly cooler air. Beatrice stood watching the waves on the endless Pacific Ocean instead of doing her math. The garden where the party had been four days ago was spotless. Lost in thought, she finally turned and went to the opposite window. Santa Monica lay below her, beyond that Los Angeles, and far, far out of her sight were the Hollywood Hills and the Cecil Productions studio. Isabelle was in that studio right now, trying not to let one bead of sweat scar her makeup. Beatrice wished she could see that world through her sister’s eyes. Impossible! We can’t seem to share a single thought telepathically unless it involves cream puffs.

  A glint attracted her attention. A small car was coming down the estate road: a police coupe two-seater with a red light on top. The light was not flashing. The coupe turned away from the mansion toward Mr. Cecil’s cottage.

  She made a gut decision. She carefully opened the door and crept down the spiral stairs and out into the yard. She avoided the main path to Mr. Cecil’s and instead followed a trail through bushes and shrubs.

  The walls of Mr. Cecil’s cottage formed a perfect circle. The windows were more like archery slits and the house itself looked to be constructed from black shadow. Though the place was shadowy, Beatrice admired its simplicity.Mr. Cecil had enough money, he could have built the Tower of London, but instead had chosen this spartan home. He knew how to put on a show, but wasn’t ostentatious. Perhaps it came from his modest background. He’d been a poor immigrant from somewhere in Eastern Europe, after all.

  She’d observed Mongo bringing many deliveries to this door. Sometimes he’d arrive in a truck and strange, swarthy workmen would help him carry in large wooden boxes. Uncle Wayne had told her the boxes were stuffed with the parts Mr. Cecil needed to create his many cameras and projectors. There had been a particular flurry of packages over the past few months for his Cinétone recorder.

  Though Beatrice had watched Mrs. Madge, Uncle Wayne, and Aunt Betty walk into Mr. Cecil’s home, he had expressly forbidden her, Isabelle, and any other children from entering. He never gave a reason why.

  The officer was standing outside the front door of the cottage, his coupe glinting in the sun behind him. Beatrice stopped and crouched next to a statue of Minerva. The policeman was built in the shape of the letter O: a neckless egg with a head, arms, and legs. His uniform was a dark bruised blue and there was a gun in his leather holster. Beatrice was mostly used to seeing police on the silver screen.

  The door opened and Beatrice ducked down farther.

  “Thank you for calling ahead, Sergeant Muckler,” Mr. Cecil said.

  “It’s a courtesy, sir.” The officer’s voice was deep and gravelly. “I know you’re a busy man. I just have a few questions.”

  “I’ll do my best to answer them.”

  “Well, a family has insisted on an investigation into their missing relative. Robert Russel. He’s a newspaperman who was last seen at your party.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that he’s missing but the party was only a few days ago. And this is a town where—how shall I put it?—people often disappear into dens of iniquity for weeks at a time.”

  “Oh, don’t I know it, Mr. Cecil,” the sergeant said. “This photographer pal of his says he couldn’t find Russel, so he went back to the office around ten that night to make some photo-filing deadline. When was the last time you saw Russel?”

  “At around eight P.M. I spoke with Mr. Russel along with the other reporters, but I retired from the party early in the evening. He may have found a ride to another celebration. You’re welcome to search the grounds.”

  The sergeant cleared his throat. “Not necessary, sir. He won’t be the first to run off with some wannabe starlet.”

  “No, sadly he won’t.”

  He’s not that type, Beatrice wanted to say.

  “None of your actors saw him in distress or acting in an odd manner?”

  Mr. Cecil crossed his arms. “There was some talk that he overindulged. I don’t want to be spreading rumours, though.”

  “He won’t be the first to have done that, either, sir. My theory is he found another party. Then another. He’s probably still sauced.”

  Beatrice peered around Minerva’s leg. The sergeant had shifted position so that his face was visible. His nose looked as if it had been broken and reset without any thought to its original shape.

  “Well, I do hope he’s found,” Mr. Cecil said. “For his family’s sake.”

  “No stone shall be left unturned. I just wanted to make you aware of developments and such and let you know that the case has been assigned to me. It’s early on in the investigation and these sorts of things can stretch on for, well, years.”

  “I’ve always appreciated your discretion, Sergeant Muckler. Especially your sensitive treatment of the pool accident.”

  “Only doing my job, Mr. Cecil. I’ll keep you informed if anything else comes up.”

  Mr. Cecil drew a grey envelope from his coat and handed it to Sergeant Muckler. The sergeant stuffed the envelope into his trouser pocket. “How is Mrs. Muckler these days?” Mr. Cecil as
ked.

  “She’s doing swell, sir, thank you for asking.”

  “And your children, Jack Junior and Susan?”

  “Also swell, sir. I really appreciate your time. I’ll take my leave now.”

  “Wish them my very best, Sergeant.”

  The officer turned and got into his car and drove away. Beatrice sat perfectly still, leaning against the statue. The goddess’s toes poked into her back. She waited a full five minutes but didn’t hear the door close. She pulled herself up using Minerva’s hand. Her legs had gone to sleep. Mr. Cecil was back inside his house. She made her way along her secret path.

  The idea that Robert Russel had disappeared into a den of iniquity was illogical. He was not the type, though he may have imbibed just to get more information for his column. He could’ve had a heart attack and be lying in some bushes, dead. No, the groundskeepers would have found him by now.

  Mr. Cecil had given Sergeant Muckler an envelope. It had to be money. Perhaps some sort of bribe. But Mr. Cecil wasn’t the type who needed to bribe anyone. He never broke the law.

  She went back up the marble stairs to the top of the tower. She had an Animalia arthropoda insecta odonata epiprocta anisoptera waiting in her killing jar: a big red skimmer dragonfly. A particularly handsome catch.

  She stopped at the door to her schoolroom. Mr. Cecil was sitting in the wicker chair with his back to her.

  “Please come in, Beatrice,” he said without turning. “I’d like to talk to you.” She walked in and sat at a desk across from him. He was not smiling. “Did you hear anything interesting?”

  “When? I was just in the India room drinking tea.”

  “Please don’t lie. It’s beneath you. You overheard that the reporter is missing.”

  “Yes. I did. I . . . I was eavesdropping.”

  “I’m glad you’re not lying to me now. But you did lie to me before.”

  “I did?” She bit her lower lip. “When?”

  “On the night of the party. You said you hadn’t spoken to Mr. Russel. But he himself mentioned your discussion on that very same night. He threatened to write an unflattering story about you. He even had a headline: ‘The Medusa Twin of Isabelle.’”

  “He’s not that mean.”

  Mr. Cecil straightened his tie. “His job is to sell papers. When he wakes up in some brothel, he’ll remember his conversation with you.”

  “He wouldn’t be in a brothel!”

  “You’re young and idealistic. He will write a story.”

  “Wh—what’s wrong with that?” she asked. “Don’t I deserve to be known? By people. By anyone?”

  “Oh, Beatrice. You do. You do. And I . . . I can only guess at what’s going on in your head. He’s a handsome man. Clever with words. And you. Well, you’re good with words, too. Maybe he was able to pry some of those words out of you.”

  “We just chatted, Mr. Cecil.” She crossed her arms. “He wouldn’t write a mean story.”

  “If I had a dime for every time I’ve heard that from one of my ex-actors, I’d own a hundred studios. You may see him as a friend. Even as a romantic figure.”

  She found no words to refute his claims. And she couldn’t stop from blushing.

  He set his hands on his knees. “I’m here to protect you and your sister.”

  “I don’t need protection.”

  “You do.” This was nearly a whisper. “I won’t let these people hurt you. It’s important that you have no further contact with Robert Russel. I won’t make you promise, Beatrice. I just want you to know that I am on your side. Always. I wish I could make you see that.”

  “Why did you give that policeman money?” she blurted. “Was it a bribe?”

  “A bribe?” He recoiled slightly from her words. “Do you think that little of me? You’re old enough to know that not everyone walks the straight and narrow. Years ago, Sergeant Muckler fell on hard times. Alcohol. Gambling. His family would sometimes go without food because of his addictions. But I took him under my wing. I helped him to stand up straight. To get a good job as an officer of the law. And I continue to pay his debts.”

  “Oh,” Beatrice said. “That’s good of you.” It certainly sounded like a plausible answer. Believable, she decided. But it also rang hollow.

  “It was the right thing to do.” Mr. Cecil stood up and straightened his suit jacket. “I’m always trying to do the right thing. I must return to work. When this film is finished and there’s time to relax, I’ll take you out hunting for insects, Beatrice.”

  “You’ll take me off the estate?”

  “Yes. Soon. Perhaps to Mexico’s oyamel fir forest where the monarch butterflies gather.”

  Her jaw dropped. “That would be amazing.” She wasn’t certain if she even wanted to hope for such a trip.

  “Then we’ll make it a reality. You just need to be patient.” He crossed the floor and patted her shoulder. “Isabelle is doing extremely well today. She’ll be home late. I do need you to support her. I know you always do, Beatrice.” He strode out of the room.

  She went back to her insect collection. The dragonfly had been in the chloroform too long and broke into pieces when she tried to pin it.

  13

  It was the last day of shooting—the day the scream would be recorded forever. All the electric fans would be turned off so their noise wouldn’t be picked up by the Cinétone. And because it was a boiling-hot day it meant it would be a double boiler of a day inside the studio under the lights. Beatrice felt some pity for her sister.

  Beatrice changed into her maillot swimming suit. The style showed her muscular arms and the skirt only covered halfway down her thighs. Farm-girl legs, that’s what Isabelle had called them. Beatrice preferred to think of them as sturdy. She stopped briefly to run her callused hands over her pockmarked skull, then pulled on a swimming cap, grabbed a towel, and trotted down the spiral staircase and out the glass doors to the Neptune pool. It lay exactly between the two wings of the mansion.

  She stopped at the pool. This was where Jolly had drowned.

  Hypothesis:

  Repeatedly facing your fears will erase them.

  Proofs:

  For the first two years I couldn’t swim here. First I sat in the chair next to the pool. Then months later I sat on the edge of the pool and dipped my toes in. And now I can swim without fear.

  The memory of Jolly burned more brightly than any other poolside memories from all her years of swimming.

  Beatrice had spent the whole day of the one and only Orphan Party watching through her telescope from the tower as the orphans in their white dresses and white slacks and shirts trotted and traipsed around the estate. Many of them walked in pairs, holding hands as they strode up the hill to the Pluto Zoo.

  Beatrice found herself staring at the tallest of them all, a girl with one white feather in her headband—it made her look like a young flapper. She was obviously saucy, her hair was bright red, and she had a rash of freckles, the cousin to birthmarks, across her face. At one point she looked up at the tower and waved.

  Beatrice had hidden beside the window for several minutes after that. The girl noticed things. Had noticed her! And had waved.

  Later, the group had a picnic lunch on the grass, where photographers from several papers took pictures of Isabelle and the orphans. It was all for show, as Isabelle was playing a street urchin in The Gypsy Ghost and these snapshots would appear in all the major papers.

  At the end of the party they all ate cake with freshly churned ice cream. Beatrice salivated. Mrs. Madge brought up a piece of cake with ice cream.

  The party had ended in the late afternoon and a large red convertible bus came to return the orphans to the Cecil Orphanage for Opportunities building in downtown Los Angeles.

  “What was the tallest girl’s name?” Beatrice had asked Isabelle as they lay in bed that night.

  “Oh, her? Jolly. She was the only one who didn’t smell so bad.”

  Somehow Jolly had not ended up on that veh
icle. She’d hidden herself on the estate.

  Later in the night a girl’s crying had awakened Beatrice. She’d gotten out of bed and stared down at the pool. She could see the glittering water, but couldn’t spot the source of the distress. Beatrice dressed and descended the stairs and went out the French doors.

  She found Jolly floating face down near the edge of the pool, her feathered hairband stuck to her skull. The roar of the ocean slowly began to fill Beatrice’s ears. Nothing else. No thoughts. The closer she got to the body the louder the sound of the ocean became. She reached out and touched the girl’s arm and the sound stopped. The flesh was cold. The girl didn’t respond.

  “Wake up,” Beatrice whispered. “Wake up.” Jolly did not wake.

  Jolly’s arms had several unsightly red welts. The girl looked so much like a wet doll that it was hard to believe she’d been walking and crying only a few minutes earlier.

  Mongo came around the corner of the mansion and gently lifted Beatrice, then set her down on the chaise longue. He then picked the wet body out of the pool, water dripping from the girl’s hair and her white dress. Mongo pointed back to the open door of the mansion and a guttural noise came from that tongueless mouth. The message was clear: he wanted Beatrice to return to bed. Lights were coming on in La Casa Grande. Beatrice slowly climbed the stairs and went to bed in her clothes.

  It was such a bright memory she could nearly touch it. Could nearly go there.

  But she had to forget it. To fight against it every time she came to the Neptune pool. She dropped the towel, dove into the turquoise water, and swam as far as she could under water, surfaced, then did several lengths without stopping. With each stroke she had the sense she was swimming away from something dark.

  In time Beatrice climbed out of the pool and lay on a chaise longue in the sun to get rid of the chill that had overtaken her. She leaned back and sighed. The sun had darkened her skin and had also made the birthmarks larger. They are my armour, she told herself.