by Arthur Slade
“Yes, you’re so brainy. I’ll wear a scarf. Do you have any extra ones?”
“Oh, ha. A neckerchief will do, of course. And you should get some antiseptic on it.”
“We have gallons of antiseptic,” Raul said. “Gardeners get used to insect bites. And a neckerchief will make me look like a cowboy. Mexicans are the real cowboys.” His tone was light, but there was strain in his face.
“I’m sorry I got you into this, Raul.”
“I am, too. Sometimes I let you get under my skin too much.” He shrugged, then winced at the movement. “I didn’t have to climb up there. But I wanted to. You were seeing things that I really did want to see.”
They walked to the front door of his cottage. “Can you make it back to the house on your own?” he asked.
She nodded. And then she didn’t know what came over her—maybe she wanted to thank him properly: she kissed him on the cheek. Perhaps she did it because they had been so close to action, possibly to death if they’d been bitten enough times. Or maybe the venom was driving her mad, making her brain think crazy things and making her body do them. For a moment she no longer felt her leg. Only his warm cheek.
He blushed. She laughed. “You look like you’re going to hell in a handbasket, Raul.”
“It’s the latest style.” He leaned against the cottage’s stucco wall. “Thanks for the adventure, friendbird.” He opened the door and turned back to say, “I hope your sister isn’t hurt.”
“I hope so, too.” With that, Beatrice limped along her secret paths. Her body was arctic cold, her whole leg a frozen chunk of meat. Then her flesh became so hot she thought she’d melt. Every pore dripped sweat. She crossed the closely cropped grass, cut by Raul’s father and the other brown-skinned men. She forced herself through the Pomona garden, up the stone stairs one at a time, and finally, she shoved open the French doors. The long spiral staircase inside the west wing felt as high as Everest.
She hobbled to the washroom and pawed the toiletries out of the cupboard, letting them fall on the floor, until she found the tin medical kit. Then she sat down, the cold of the toilet seat shocking her bare legs. She opened the kit and found gauze, scissors, and a glass bottle of Sparkers Antiseptic.
Beatrice’s eyes were blurring. Each beat of her heart made the sting throb. She looked at her leg. A tangerine-sized lump had formed on the side of her calf (with a jagged hole in the middle). Pale green pus was already leaking out.
The longer she stared, the more familiar the lump appeared. She had, of course, recently seen one on Raul’s neck. But she had seen something like it before that, too. She had categorized so many bug bites in her notebooks, mostly from first-hand experience. But she could not place where she’d seen this type before.
Beatrice lifted the empty red Mavis Talcum tin and pulled off the lid. She reached for a pair of tweezers. A stinger stuck out of the wound. It looked like a long, sharp grey serrated needle. She tried twice to squeeze it with the tweezers, but failed. On the third try she was pretty certain she had a good grip. She pulled. It was as if she were fish-hooking a whole pound of flesh from her leg. Beatrice grunted with the exertion. She didn’t want to faint; it was what the delicate women did in the British novels she read—passing out at the sight of blood or a sudden shock of fear. She’d always yell Get up! at the book—at them—whenever that happened.
Darkness blossomed in the centre of her vision but she continued to pull. Then, with a last tug, the stinger came free. It was about an inch long and the thickness of a bobby pin. Sharp barbs poked out all along its sides. It curled and flexed as if it were still alive. She tossed the stinger into the tin can. Thunk. She screwed the lid tight.
The stinger started banging against the side of the can as she set it down.
Beatrice grabbed the bottle of Sparkers Antiseptic. Just seeing the dark orange liquid sloshing inside the brown bottle made her grit her teeth. Mrs. Madge had applied this burning antidote several times throughout Beatrice’s childhood, usually when she’d had rather bad scrapes from crashing her bicycle on the driveway. It was like pouring acid on a wound.
Beatrice dumped a healthy amount of the Sparkers onto a white face cloth, staining it orange, and held it against the sting. It took all her strength not to scream. When she pulled away the cloth, the pain slowly subsided. She began to pour the Sparkers directly into the festering sore, clamping her teeth together. She grew dizzier. Now her whole leg was burning, as if the lump were fighting the antiseptic.
She wiped up the wound as well as she could. The moment she stood, the pressure on her leg sent a pain shooting through it. Despite that, she put the bathroom back in order. No point having Mrs. Madge snoop around here. She’d report anything she observed directly to Mr. Cecil.
She carried the antiseptic-stained face cloths back to her room in one hand, the can in the other. The stinger continued to rattle.
Why is it doing that?
It had to be a dying electrical signal. The stinger couldn’t still be alive. It would wither on its own. Maybe her blood was somehow keeping it alive. An ant’s legs would still move for a while if you pulled off its head.
She took the can and stained cloths and stuffed them under a pile of clothes in the back of the closet, then set Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire on top of them all. She closed the closet door.
She glimpsed herself in the full-length mirror. She was pale and stupid looking—stupid because she was still in her bathing suit, the bathing cap on her head. As if she’d been out for a jaunty swim. Her birthmarks stood out; her legs were alabaster white, as if the blood had been drained from them. She carefully changed from her bathing suit into her khaki trousers and shirt. As she was pulling a scarf tightly around her head she heard, through the open window, the clunking of the front gates.
Beatrice went to the window. The gates stood open, as though allowing passage of an invisible car. The nose of the Lincoln Town Car appeared in the far driveway. It approached the road that wound its way up the hill to the mansion, moving slowly, as though leading a funeral procession.
Isabelle was coming home.
18
Beatrice lurched to the stairwell. Each movement felt as if she were stepping on a land mine. There were seventy steps in total. At the bottom she stumbled awkwardly across the foyer’s marble floor. She shoved open the front doors of La Casa Grande and swayed into the bright light, shading her eyes with her hand.
The Lincoln Town Car rolled silently along the road and came to a stop on the brick driveway. Mongo stepped out and lumbered around to the passenger side of the car. He looked down from his mountaintop head and his eyes met Beatrice’s. Perhaps there was a gentleness in his scarred face. Then he opened the car door and Uncle Wayne stumbled out, his face pale and dotted with perspiration, the smell of sweat and whisky clouding around him. He’d clearly been helping himself to the selection of hard liquor in the Town Car.
“What happened?” Beatrice rasped.
“Shh,” Uncle Wayne hushed her. He reached back into the vehicle. When he turned again he was carrying Isabelle. Her white dress was draped over his arms, her skin as pale as her gown, her body limp.
Aunt Betty wobbled out of the car and dabbed at Isabelle’s forehead with a handkerchief.
“Izzy!” Beatrice reached out and touched the side of her sister’s neck. Isabelle’s eyes fluttered open long enough to reveal that they were only white, as though her pupils and irises had faded away.
“She got all fainty on-set,” Uncle Wayne said. “She just needs rest, so I’m taking her up to her room. Mr. Cecil promised she’ll be fine.”
He stepped around Beatrice and carried Isabelle through the mansion’s double doors. The train of Isabelle’s dress dragged along behind Uncle Wayne as he ascended the spiral staircase. Beatrice and Aunt Betty followed. Aunt Betty stopped on the tenth step, holding her chest and breathing heavy. “I can’t go no farther. It’s been a horrendously hard day.”
Beatrice pushed past her and made it to the bedroom door in time to see Uncle Wayne gently lay Isabelle on the bed.
“I need to know exactly what happened,” Beatrice said.
Uncle Wayne brushed at the slick hair on his forehead. “It was the oddest, most amazing thing. She . . . she became Rosella.”
“She became who?”
“Rosella. Rosella Frankenstein. It happens to actors sometimes, you wouldn’t know about that—you don’t do our work. They . . . we . . . well, we act so convincingly that we believe—we believe we’ve become the character we’re playing and that everything around us is real. That’s what happened to Izzy. She became Frankenstein’s daughter.”
Beatrice clutched her sister’s hand. Her fingers were five icicles. “The fire needs to be lit!” she said.
“We need flames!” Uncle Wayne shouted as if he were on-set and there were invisible set dressers within earshot. “Now!”
Beatrice limped over to the fireplace and lit the gas. Blue-green flames came to life behind the ceramic radiating element. “What knocked her out?” she asked when she returned to the bed. “Did she bump her head?”
“From the moment the final scene started, Isabelle had a scared-rabbit look in her eyes. She ran down the stairs, just as she was supposed to—she hit all her marks. Her timing was perfect. Her nervous glances over her shoulder, the grimace when the rats ran across her bare feet—the cameras captured it all. Then she was cornered in the dungeon and she turned and saw the monster.”
“There was a monster?”
Uncle Wayne rubbed at his jaw. “Well, that’s the thing. Usually on-set it’s just rubber and fake googly eyes and, well, the monsters can look somewhat ridiculous. Mr. Cecil fixes it so they’re truly scary in the film. But today no one was chasing her. Mr. Cecil wanted the horror to play out in her imagination. And when Isabelle turned—and the look over the shoulder was so perfect, her face so pale, her mouth opening to scream—she clearly believed something awful was there. She saw it for real! She had become her character.”
“But what knocked her out?”
“She screamed herself unconscious. What a scream! The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Everyone shivered, from the cameramen to the gaffers and the best boy. Even the set shook, I swear. It was horrible to hear. It hurt the ears. She so completely believed in whatever it was that she was seeing. The ‘scenic truth’ that Mr. Cecil always talks about. It was all captured on his Cinétone recorder. Then she collapsed. We just stood there watching until Mr. Cecil said, ‘Cut.’ Marge went up to congratulate Izzy and maybe apply more greasepaint, but Isabelle wouldn’t wake up. Not even smelling salts worked. So Mr. Cecil told me to bring her home. He said she wouldn’t need a doctor. He promised she’d be fine.” He paused. “And I believe him.”
Beatrice put her hand on her sister’s cold forehead. The gas fireplace was just beginning to heat the room. “But why isn’t she waking up?”
“Exhaustion. That’s what Mr. Cecil said. She doesn’t need a doctor.”
“Stop repeating things!”
He wiped away slaver that had gathered on his lower lip.” She gave everything today. It really was a wonderful performance. She’ll win awards, I bet. The film is a home run.”
“Where’s Mr. Cecil? He should be here.”
“He has work to do. This was the last scene. Everything else in the movie has been shot. We’re done!”
“You mean her screaming was the end of the movie?”
“No. No. Beatrice.” He chuckled. “You don’t know much about the business, do you? Too much time killing bugs, I guess.” He ran his hand through his hair again. “We shot the final scene days ago. It was the big scream scene that we saved for last.”
“Is she alive in the final scene?” Beatrice asked. “The scene you already shot.”
Wayne was flummoxed for several seconds by the question. “Yes, yes, of course. It’s a family reunion. I don’t live through to the final scene—Dr. Frankenstein, I should say, doesn’t. He gets torn in two and thrown off the highest tower. It’s all shown in shadows, of course. You don’t want to shock the audience too much. I argued with Mr. Cecil about my death. I really felt the father should defeat the monster. But Mr. Cecil said the caretakers have to die to make the protagonist more vulnerable. It’s some rule of storytelling.”
“Then who does she reunite with?” Beatrice asked. “You said it was a family reunion.”
“It’s her mother’s twin sister. That’s the twist. Her aunt gets out of the hospital. It’s the first time the sun appears in the movie. Right at the end it rises and they look up at it, their skin lit by the sun. It’s symbolic.”
Beatrice grabbed a pillow and held it tightly. “But Isabelle’s character survives, right?”
“Yes! Yes. I said that. She survives.”
“Well, that’s something at least.”
“Why?” Uncle Wayne asked.
“Because if she still believes she’s Rosella then maybe she’ll actually wake up for the happy ending.”
19
One hour ticked by on the clock. Then two. Then three. The sun continued to shine on the estate and through the windows of the mansion.
Shortly after the sun set, the bedroom door opened.
“I brought you beef-dumpling stew,” Mrs. Madge said, holding a tray containing a large bowl and a glass of milk. Her grey-streaked hair was, as always, tied in a bun.
“Oh,” Beatrice said from her position next to Isabelle. “That’s nice of you. I don’t know if I can eat.”
“The stew will give you strength.” Mrs. Madge set the tray on the bedside table. “You must be worried about Isabelle. She will get better.”
“Can you promise that?” Beatrice asked.
Mrs. Madge shook her head. “No. I’ve made too many promises in my life. But you sisters are good at bouncing back. Drink up the milk at the very least. It’ll settle your stomach.”
Beatrice lifted the glass, her hand shaking slightly, and drank half the milk. “Is Mr. Cecil back from the studio?”
“He returned a few hours ago.”
“He did?” She hadn’t heard his car. It occurred to her that if he’d been stung by the hornets, Mrs. Madge would be treating him right now. So he did know how to control them, Beatrice thought.
“Will he be coming to see us?”
“He never mentioned it.” Mrs. Madge crossed her arms. “Don’t worry about your classes tomorrow. Just rest. Both of you. Now, eat up, child.”
She left the room. Steam was still rising off the dumplings and carrots, along with a peppery scent. Beatrice took several mouthfuls, but was only able to finish half the bowl. It did make her feel warm inside. She wished she could somehow transfer that warmth to her sister.
With the food in her stomach, the itching and sharp pain in her leg felt a little duller. She wondered if it was because the blood was going to her intestines now. She leaned back.
She tried to read, but it was too hard to focus on the black letters on a white page. Her eyes would stray and she’d find herself staring at Izzy, wanting her to stir.
Once, when they were eight years old, Beatrice had caught influenza. It was not the Spanish flu that had taken so many lives a few years earlier, but it had been a particularly vicious strain. It had shut her body down, made every muscle ache. Beatrice could hardly lift her head. Mr. Cecil had acted as her doctor, as he had for any other illness. But at night, when the chills were the worst, she would feel Isabelle hug her close and warm her with her own body heat. There was no way to prove that had saved her, but she believed it must have affected the outcome.
The moon stared through the window. Time had passed in the blink of an eye. The gas fireplace was so hot that Beatrice began to sweat, but still Isabelle remained chilled.
I’m frightened.
Beatrice held completely still. Isabelle’s voice had spoken in her head. But her sister hadn’t moved or made a sound.
Frightened. Of
the face. Don’t leave me. DON’T! LEAVE! ME!
She touched Isabelle’s shoulder. “I won’t. I won’t. I won’t,” Beatrice whispered. She waited. There was no reply.
Beatrice’s leg continued to throb. She moved the sheets to the side and looked at the bandage. It was stained yellow. If she touched the skin nearby it sent pain radiating toward the center of the wound.
There was a quick knock and the bedroom door opened. Beatrice threw the sheets back over her leg.
“Hey, Beets!” Uncle Wayne came into the room, his shirt untucked, his chin shadowed by stubble. She was struck by a memory of being much younger and of him giving her whisker rubs and her squealing with laughter. “We’ve come to check up on the patient.”
Aunt Betty followed a heartbeat later, her step that half-lurch that indicated she’d been at the wine again. “How is the patient, Beetsy Weetsy?”
Beatrice bit back a retort and said, “Still sick.”
“Oh, Beets,” Uncle Wayne said. “You look so worried. She’s a strong girl. You’ve both got your father’s blood in your veins. Nothing would kill that old coot.”
But he died, Beatrice wanted to shout. He died in a fire.
Aunt Betty placed her palm on Isabelle’s forehead. “She’s cold. Are you sure she’s . . . you know . . . she’s alive?”
“She’s alive!” Beatrice hissed.
Aunt Betty backed up a step. “I didn’t mean it that way. Is she warm enough? That’s what I meant, Beetsy Weetsy.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“It’s just a nickname.” Aunt Betty gave a red-eyed blink and spoke slowly and carefully, “And don’t you talk to me like that. You show me respect. I’m a grown-up. I raised you. I didn’t want to, but I did. I could’ve had a different life.”
“How much have you had to drink?” Beatrice asked.
Aunt Betty lifted a hand as if she were winding up for a slap.
Uncle Wayne stepped between them. “Stop it!” He grabbed Aunt Betty’s hand and kissed it dramatically. “You two are so headstrong.” He lowered Aunt Betty’s hand, but still held on to it. “Mr. Cecil says it’s just a growth spurt.”