Her nightmares were constant. Madeline—arising, coming to the window of the Starlite. Seeing a man with fire by her window, she runs to escape. She rushes toward the street and is slammed.
Stilled, ended, severed.
Dead.
Lisa sobbed. Her tears covered her body, Elaine, and the bed.
Elaine was pale and still. Her color faded quickly, even more, until she was the whitest she had ever been. She was withdrawing from Lisa, moving away from her as though she were tainted.
As if she were evil.
As if Lisa could have done that to Madeline herself.
“You knew about this?” Elaine backed away from Lisa as though faced with a loaded gun. “For how long … did you know?”
Lisa breathed heavily, sweat pouring from her face. “I don’t know … I guess it’s been nine weeks … or ten … or a little more … I don’t know!”
“You’ve known for a couple of months?” Elaine’s eyes grew wide in horror.
“Oh, God, Elaine! I did!” Her skin throbbed, as if she could jump out of it, escape, and watch it all from outside herself. She screamed into her blanket, shoving her face into the bed, and then she punched her fists into it hard. Her fit grew wilder, fiercer, until she had thrashed off all the covers. She thrashed with heavy force, in blows of her full strength.
Her hair hung in front of her face, and Elaine sat out of view.
Slowly she exhausted her reserves. The thrashing came to a halt. She sat down, breathless, gasping for air.
Elaine was quiet, watching.
Then she gulped, and her thin frame inched toward Lisa.
With a small movement, Elaine touched Lisa’s contorted arm. “So … tell me … are you still with him?”
“I’ve been pretending to be with him. One of his friends admitted it a couple months ago. I don’t want him to think I’m going to report them. They might retaliate.”
Lisa bawled and shook, and her face was aflame and swollen. She had been pretending for nearly three months now. Pretending while he kissed her good-night, pretending to be stupid. At the movies, she would snake her hand away from his grasp, slowly, so he would barely notice. She would spend time with his friends and made faint smiles at their antics, as if she were just the ditzy girl he was going to marry.
She was tainted with him; she was also trapped.
Elaine whispered, patting her back. “Was Billy trying to scare out Madeline too? Or was it only Mack?”
“I don’t know. I saw his car in that neighborhood that day. I don’t know what happened, but I think Mack was the one in Madeline’s window. But obviously Billy knew all about it. And his own father is scum—he set up Mack to do it! And Billy’s father is cheating on his mother too. I saw him on a plane when I was a stewardess. I’ve been hiding it all, Elaine! All of it!” She cried, more and more and more.
In the distance, missiles were pointed at them.
“Do you still love him?”
“I don’t!” This was loud, and the boardinghouse walls were thin. “I want to make it public. I want everyone to know what happened. But I don’t want to be a target. I don’t want to be the snitch. How can I? I don’t know what would happen.” Her nose and throat were compressed; she struggled to breathe.
“Is that why you were asking me about an investigative reporter?”
“Yeah.” She took sharp inhalations.
“What are you looking for, exactly?”
“I don’t know—someone who could follow them, stay with them, make them speak. Make it come out of them and publish it. The election is in two weeks. It has to be quick. It has to come out. Fred can’t win. He can’t think that he’s won—that he’s silenced her.”
Finally she stopped crying, slumping down, chills racking her body.
Elaine patted her back again, her hands unsteady.
Then she spoke, shakily. “There is one reporter I’ve become a bit friendly with. She’s actually one of the only female reporters. She’s shrewd, and she knows how to blend in. She’s a smart one, I think.”
A woman.
Yes.
They would never suspect that a woman might be a reporter.
“Can she come to a Halloween party in Bay Ridge?”
“I’ll have to ask her. We’ll see what we can arrange.”
It would be a new chapter in Lisa’s life.
She would be bringing in other people.
She would do something too. She had been saving up some of her tip money from the luncheonette in a little jar. She would empty the jar and use the money to buy tons of alcohol—drinks to make Mack and the boys nice and drunk.
They wouldn’t turn down free drinks.
* * *
A few days later, she met Billy outside his apartment.
The Brooklyn air was unseasonably warm, with clouds.
Clouds could hide the missiles until the final seconds.
Lisa wasn’t in costume—she was just wearing all black.
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Samantha.”
Billy wasn’t there yet, but the reporter was right on time. She wore a glittery white eye mask with an even lovelier white gown, which shimmered with gold thread. A Halloween angel.
Lisa hadn’t stopped shaking in days.
She looked up at the clouds. News reports remained frantic about Cuba as her own insides quaked.
“Thank you so much for coming.” They shook hands.
Samantha’s hand was warm, unlike Lisa’s own hand, which was cold and clammy.
Samantha whispered, beneath her breath, “Tell me who I’m supposed to be listening for tonight. Elaine said his name is Mack?”
“Yes—Mack. He should be hanging out near Billy—my … fiancé. Or … my ex. He’ll be my ex.” Lisa twisted the sharp edge of her diamond toward her pinkie.
“And what am I to ask Mack exactly?”
“Just wait until he’s good and drunk. Ask him what he does for a living, or something like that. Ask him to tell you stories about his job.”
“You think he’ll actually admit to something?”
“I don’t know. But you have to try. Please.” Another retch of hopelessness almost fell from her mouth, onto the sidewalk.
After all, Mack wouldn’t have reason to talk about Madeline that night.
She was wasting this woman’s time.
A real Chronicle reporter, and Lisa was wasting her time.
Billy emerged from his apartment. He was dressed like a bum for Halloween, grease around his eyes, holes in his clothing. The tight-fitting shirt under his jacket accentuated the muscles in his chest. He loved to show off his body. His face was getting fat with alcohol, but he was still lifting weights.
“Pleased to meet you.” His eyes did a quick sweep over the reporter’s body. Samantha had a shapely figure and luminous skin.
As they all drove to his friend’s apartment, he asked her all sorts of questions.
“So where do you live, Samantha?”
“Over in Queens.”
“Oh? I have a buddy who lives in Queens. Whereabouts?”
“Astoria.” Samantha was convincing—nice and quick with her answers—yet Lisa trembled.
“And you work at the luncheonette with Lisa?”
“Monday through Thursday, and sometimes on a Saturday afternoon if they need me.”
He had the radio off, for a change, as he gazed at Samantha in the rearview mirror.
Lisa’s head spun, dizzy. She inhaled.
Madeline was hovering out there somewhere, beyond the clouds, beyond what they could see.
The skies were growing dark, and she tracked a cloud as they drove. At any moment, it could all turn blindingly bright.
Then there would be an unnatural darkness, followed by a flash. She rolled the window down a crack to get some fresh air, and a cold breeze blew into the car.
“Close it, babe.” Billy talked like he owned her.
“Sure, I’ll close the window.” She raised her lips in a
smile.
But before she rolled up the window, she pulled off her engagement ring and dangled it through the opening, out of his field of vision.
No.
It would be greedily grabbed up by someone who spotted it on the street.
Instead, she would sell the ring, and give her parents some money.
* * *
At the party, most people wore masks. They hid behind strips of black or gray cloth, huddled together, drinking and laughing in the dingy apartment.
Samantha had positioned herself next to Mack, who appeared to be enjoying her attentions. He smirked and rambled and chugged shot after shot of the liquor Lisa had dumped on the table nearby.
The party was not as rowdy as these things usually were, with the threat of missiles in the forefront. Billy and a friend played a slow game of table tennis nearby, and Lisa watched Mack from the corner of her eye. He had turned hyperactive again, louder after his umpteenth round of beverages.
Lisa was too far away to discern what he was saying.
She went over to get herself some water, pouring a glass from the tap, and Billy’s friend Ted sidled up to her. He slurred his words and pointed to her bare finger.
“So, you and Billy, are …?”
“Oh, we’re still engaged, Ted. I just had to take it off for a moment to wash my hands.”
“I see.” Ted switched his attention, pointing across the room to the table at which Samantha and Mack were sitting. “Say, over there, that friend you came in with. Who’s she?”
“Oh, I work with her at the luncheonette.”
“She looks just like someone my brother used to date. Wild chick, I think. I think she became a reporter for that newspaper or something. The Chronicle?”
“Oh yeah? Well, I don’t know. Unless she’s secretly working two jobs!” Lisa’s panic bled slightly to her cheeks.
Ted was still fascinated with Samantha; he started walking over to her and Mack, but Lisa ran behind him, grabbing his sleeve.
“Oops!” Lisa pretended to trip, grabbing on to his arm, and Ted laughed.
Billy looked up from his table tennis game. It was loud in the apartment. He seemed to be trying to tell her something from across the room, but she ignored him as she raced to prevent Ted from joining Samantha and Mack.
Through the crowds, Ted got there first. He started to talk to Samantha in front of Mack, shaking her hand.
“Hey!” Lisa flew right up next to them, quick as could be.
Ted had already begun. “Samantha! Good to see you. Gorgeous as always! How are you doing? How’s it going at the Chronicle?”
Samantha was a professional; she looked up without a flinch, poised underneath her gorgeous white eye mask. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know who you are.”
“I’m Ted Jones. You dated my brother a couple years back, right? I remember you had just gotten this job at the Chronicle, like a new hotshot reporter. One of the only dames on the team, right?”
Samantha smiled, unflappable, with smooth lips. “I’m sorry; I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
Mack, who had been floppy and drunk in his chair, turned with a sudden hard stare, like he was sobering. His lips tightened; his eyes were stone-cold. “Hey, so you work for the Chronicle? You said you were a waitress.”
“What do you mean, the Chronicle? Is that the newspaper?” Samantha smiled innocently and ran her fingers through her long, silky hair.
Mack’s lips were a straight line. He reached into his pocket. His eyes were yellowed with drink.
He brought something out, under the table. Samantha’s eyes grew round and terrified, and Lisa darted her eyes to Mack’s lap.
“So, Samantha—what sort of crap have you been giving me with all your questions about my job?”
His lips barely moved. Lisa kept her eyes on the thing near his knee, barely visible.
Samantha jumped back.
It was the edge of a sharp point, about to pierce into her leg.
Lisa skirted behind Mack. She pretended to trip, pushing her arms down with a quick shove, falling over his back, falling over him onto the floor, and he was pushed down.
Onto the blade.
There was a sickening grunt, a gush of blood, his skin losing color, and everyone was silent.
Billy was gaping at her, like he was seeing a ghost.
Mack was bent over, with soft, gurgled whispers coming from his mouth.
Everyone fell quiet, staring at Lisa.
* * *
The ambulance was loud as it squealed and screeched down the street. Someone gave Mack some rags, trying to stop the bleeding.
Everybody was in a ruckus, trying to figure things out, to understand what they had just seen, and Billy was watching—looking at her, then backing away. Samantha had disappeared—slipped out the door.
Lisa headed out the door to the sidewalk.
She waited for the police.
Her face slackened; the cuffs would be hard, entrapping her wrists.
Mack had been the one with the weapon.
A tall bus rounded the corner, an express bus to Brooklyn Heights. The bus would connect to the train to Manhattan.
The flicker of a police siren came down the street.
Without another glance at the police cruiser, Lisa headed to the bus stop. She would leave, and she would ride the bus dressed in black, for Madeline.
* * *
At the boardinghouse, Lisa knocked on Elaine’s door.
Elaine opened it immediately.
“Samantha just rang. Oh my God.” She grabbed Lisa’s arms and pulled her into her room. “Do any of them know where you live?”
“I never brought any of them here.”
“Okay. Okay.” She looked around, as if someone could be in the room with them. “You should be safe for the night. And everything will be on the front page in the morning.”
“The front page?”
“Absolutely, darling. I’ve already begun calling the girls from the Starlite for a little celebration tomorrow night. I’ll bring us some complimentary copies of the newspaper.”
Lisa held her head. Her hair was damp against her forehead. “Am I going to be in the paper?”
Elaine smiled. “I’m not sure why you would be in the paper, darling. It sounds like Mack fell on his own knife, did he not?”
Lisa hadn’t seen Billy when she escaped the apartment. He could be looking for her.
* * *
Lisa stared out her boardinghouse window all night. Someone had a light on in an apartment across the street, and she gazed at it like an insect, dazed.
Dawn broke, and she opened her crusty eyes.
She threw a coat over her nightgown and ran down to the corner of the street, where a man was selling the early edition of the Chronicle. She got her fresh copy for ten cents.
The article had no byline—just a headline.
BROOKLYN COUNCILMAN CONNECTED TO DEATH OF EX-WIFE
The Chronicle’s own reporter was at a Bay Ridge Halloween gathering last night when a local, unnamed 25-year-old man confessed to having been hired by Brooklyn councilman Fred Abbott.
“Fred’s campaign manager pays me to do some work he doesn’t want to do.”
When questioned further, the man admitted to throwing fire in the window of [Abbott’s ex] Madeline’s store immediately before she ran out into the street and was killed by a car.
Upon learning that a Chronicle reporter was present at the function, the unnamed man drew a knife on our reporter, but injured himself on his own blade. He is currently in police custody at a Brooklyn hospital.
Both Fred Abbott and his campaign manager deny any connection with the unnamed man; however, sources reveal that Abbott’s campaign manager’s son is a good friend of the suspect.
The Chronicle will have more details as they become available.
54
Elaine
November 1962
Elaine woke to hear choked-up inhalations from behind her
door. Gasping sounds.
She rose from her hard little bed and tiptoed to the front of her room, listening.
A girl was crying, taking deep breaths, as though she was trying in vain to stop tears.
Elaine cracked the door a tad to find Lisa. She was curled up in a messy, bawling ball, knees inside her nightgown, hair in knots.
“I’m sorry to bother you.” Lisa looked up at her pathetically.
“Hush.” Elaine pulled her into the room and gently closed the door.
Sitting upright on the hardwood floors, Lisa laid her wet cheek on the seat cushion. “I had the dream again,” she choked out. “The dream where I’m too late to save her.”
Elaine stroked Lisa’s mussed-up hair and allowed her to cry for a long time, until all her tears were dried up.
After some time, Lisa stood, unsteady in bare feet. “I’m sorry to bother you again.” She gazed at the floor. “You probably wish that I never moved into this boardinghouse.”
“Not at all, dear.”
Elaine rubbed her back. The fabric of her flannel nightgown had adhered to Lisa’s skin, sticky with the sweat of the unsettled.
Elaine glanced down at her own forearm, where there was a scar from several months ago; she had thrashed in the night, and her skin had split wide open on the corner of the bedside table. She couldn’t sleep that night, with the echoes of Tommy’s voice.
Now she slept better, if not perfectly.
None of it was her fault.
“What do you think Madeline would say to you if she could talk to you right now?” she asked Lisa. “It’s a question my psychotherapist asked me—think about the person who died, and what would they say to you right now …”
“I don’t know.” Lisa started to mist again, but then she seemed to think about it and smoothed down her nightgown. “I guess she might tell me to get dressed,” she chortled.
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