Cloaked

by Alex Flinn

  “‘Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, one night, sailed off in a wooden shoe,’” Meg recites. But I shake my head. I’m not in the mood to think of shoe quotes. We start down Duval Street.

  Jimmy Buffett’s song about changes in latitude, changes in attitude streams from the doorway of a shop completely devoted to chickens. I keep my eyes out for red-haired girls or white minivans, but almost everyone’s on foot. Meg makes me stop to put a quarter in a donation can that says, “Save the Chickens.”

  The first motel we see is called Eros and advertises a clothing-optional Jacuzzi. “We can probably skip that one,” Meg says. “Doesn’t sound like a family establishment.”

  “You never know,” I say, sort of wanting to look in. “Some people are free spirits.”

  We compromise by checking the parking lot.

  “Wastin’ away again in Margaritaville,” sings Jimmy Buffett as we walk toward the house where Ernest Hemingway, the famous writer, lived. That reminds me of the swans Jimmy, Ernest, and Margarita, all named after Key West things. I promised the swans I’d look for their sister, Caroline, here. But no time now.

  We’re about to pass the house when I see a girl about my age with copper-colored hair. She’s inside the gates, so I yell, “Tessa? Are you Tessa from Ohio?”

  She stares like I might be a stalker, but I say, “Are you?”

  “Nope. I’m Hailey from South Carolina.” Her accent is unmistakable.

  I scan every crowd, every tour bus and ask at the desk of each hotel. We crisscross the streets that intersect Duval. Nothing. When we pass Harry Truman’s winter home, I feel another pang, thinking of Harry the swan and his brother, Truman. We pass bars crowded with tourists wearing nothing more than string bikinis and walk by T-shirt shops and nudist hotels. I approach every redhead and almost get beat up twice. I keep my backpack unzipped so I can whip out the cloak. It’s almost sunset when we reach the other end of Duval Street.

  “We should go there.” Meg points to the sign that says MALLORY SQUARE. “Everyone comes here because it’s the best place to watch the sunset. Maybe you’ll find your redhead.”

  I nod, even though I suspect Meg just wants to watch the sunset. Girls love stuff like that. Still, Meg’s right. It’s crowded. There’s a good chance our Ohio tourists are here.

  Mallory. That was the last swan.

  The square is mobbed. A man with nipple rings eats fire on a small stage, and another man does flips on stilts. Vendors sell your-name-on-a-grain-of-rice necklaces. There are at least ten redheads in sight. I start toward one.

  “Let me.” Meg approaches the girl. “Tessa?”

  She turns, and I feel a sudden leap of hope. But then, I see she’s at least thirty.

  “Sorry,” Meg says. “Thought you were someone else.”

  Over and over, Meg repeats this process, and each time, it’s the wrong girl. I say, “We should leave.”

  “No.” Meg’s voice is patient, but her eyes are steely. “I’ve camped with you, gone without food, unwrapped slimy turkeys, watched giants wrestle, pulled you out when you got bitten by a scorpion, and spent several hours I’ll never get back listening to you talk about Princess Perfect. But sometimes, Johnny, you have to stop and watch the sunset. If you really think those fifteen minutes are going to make a big difference, go on without me. Here. Take the ring.” She hands it to me. “If you need me, you have it. Otherwise, see you later.”

  And then, she turns toward the sun-reddened ocean, and I know she’s not going to move.

  For about a second, I think about leaving, but I know she’s right. It won’t matter. We’ve been to thirty hotels. We can go to more later, and hopefully, the Stephen family will stay more than one night. I say, “Sure. Let’s watch the sunset.”

  I’ve seen many sunsets on South Beach, and they’re beautiful. But the one at Mallory Square is different. Maybe it’s the latitude or something about the atmosphere. Or maybe, like Jimmy Buffett says, it’s the attitude, taking the time out to watch it, but the sun seems redder here. It streaks the sky not just orange and pink, but purple and gold too. Meg reaches for my hand, and I take it. The crowd around has grown silent. There’s little movement except the triangles of sailboats bobbing up and down against the blue. Light streams off the water, turning the world into a painting instead of a corny vacation postcard.

  “Here’s a story I heard once,” Meg says. “Madame Pompadour, she was this lady in the court of Louis the Fifteenth.”

  “Everyone knows that.” Even though I didn’t.

  “Anyway, she loved fashion, and one day, a shoemaker delivered the most gorgeous pair of silk shoes. Of course, she was delighted. But on the first day, she took only a few steps, and they fell to pieces. Furious, she sent for the shoemaker. When he saw the wreck of his beautiful shoes, he spread out his hands and said, ‘But Madame, you must have walked in them.’”

  “Ha! That’s a good one. What made you think of it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Seems like a lot of people want shoes they can’t walk in.”

  I know she’s not talking about real shoes. She’s talking about me and Victoriana. But when I look at her, she won’t meet my eyes. Behind us, a guy with a guitar begins singing “Brown-Eyed Girl.” I think of the Empire State Building yesterday, when I almost kissed Meg. She’s been my best friend my whole life. We do homework together. She models my shoes and listens when I ramble about my dreams. Isn’t that love? The sky is a strange shade of lavender, and I lean toward Meg.

  And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see her. Sieglinde. She’s pretty again, like she was when she was Norina, but a little different. Still, I know it’s her, and she’s scanning the crowds, looking for something. Does she know about the redhead? No. Her eyes are downcast, like she’s looking for the frog. She knows he’s here. If she sees me, it will be a disaster. She might take me hostage again, so she can pump me for information. She might take Meg. I won’t let her take Meg.

  I tug on the cloak in my backpack, then wrap it around us.

  Meg looks startled. “What are you . . . ?”

  I don’t have time to explain. I whisper the first place I can think of. “I wish I was in the Key West cemetery.”

  An instant later, I’m sitting on a crypt that says:

  I TOLD YOU I WAS SICK

  B. P. ROBERTS

  MAY 17, 1929–JUNE 18, 1979

  Meg looks at it and laughs. “Always an adventure.” She squeezes my hand under the cloak. “Why are we here, exactly?”

  “I saw her.”

  “Tessa. I thought you wanted—”

  “Not Tessa. Her. Sieglinde. I saw her at Mallory Square. She knows the frog is here. I had to get us away.”

  Meg glances around. The cemetery is almost empty, probably because everyone’s at Mallory Square. Crumbling tombstones, some more than a hundred years old, surround us. In one corner are mausoleums, those sort of big, aboveground houses for the dead. It reminds me of the Haunted Mansion at Disney World. “But why here?” Meg asks.

  “First place I thought of. Mom and I were here once. We took a ghost tour.”

  Meg doesn’t look so sure. She glances around again, and despite the summer heat, I feel her shiver under the cloak. So I’m not surprised when she says, “It creeps me out. Why don’t we go see if there are any hotels around here?”

  “Okay.” I ball the cloak up in my backpack, but I leave the zipper open. I start toward the main entrance. Even though Meg’s icked out by the place—or maybe because she is—I say, “Did you know there was a grave robbery here once?”

  Meg tries to ignore me, but I repeat it. “Did you know—?”

  “Yuck. Don’t tell me.”

  “This old guy, he was a count or something, was in love with this girl who died. She was in one of the mausoleums, so one night—”

  “Not listening! Not listening!”

  “. . . he broke in and stole her body. He dressed her in a wedding dress and kept her.”

  “Stop! Didn
’t she smell?”

  I shrug. “I guess. He replaced a lot of her skin with wax.”

  “I hate you.” Meg’s step quickens, but she can’t run away because there are lots of tiny headstones, the kind you see a lot in old cemeteries, the kind for babies.

  “Come on,” I say, “it’s a love story. In fact . . .” I stop.

  “What?” Meg stops right next to a mausoleum. The sun is almost down now. I walk faster to catch up, pointing at the mausoleum.

  “In fact what?” Meg says.

  “In fact, she was buried right . . . here!” I grab Meg’s arm, hard. She shrieks and pulls away, then runs as fast as she can, out of the dusky graveyard. Some other tourists turn to tsk at us for spoiling the solemn mood. I laugh and run after her.

  When we reach the gate, I see something that makes me gasp and stop.

  It’s a house, a bed-and-breakfast, actually. The name on the sign is CAROLINE’S. It’s an old, tin-roofed building in a shade of purple so garish I can see it even in the near dark. None of that is really what I notice. What I notice is the sign, a banner hanging from a tree. It says:

  HOME OF THE KING OF KEY WEST

  And, below, in smaller letters:

  FANTASY FEST, 1980

  “Meg! Wait! Look!”

  “I’m not looking. I’m not waiting either. I don’t like graveyards.”

  “Not the graveyard. There. It’s the house. The King of Key West. We have to go there. I promised the swans.”

  Chapter 37

  The king went so often to see his dear children that the queen was offended by his absence.

  —“The Six Swans”

  “Excuse me,” I say to the woman who opens the door. “Are you Caroline?”

  She’s about my mother’s age, tall and slim with an unusually long neck. Could she really be the swans’ sister?

  “Sure am.” She smiles. People are friendly in Key West. “Who’s looking?”

  “Johnny.” I gesture toward Meg. “And Meg. We’re from Miami. We know some friends of yours, but you’d better sit down.”

  She laughs. “You think I need to sit down, hon? You think you can tell me anything that would give me a shock?”

  It’s clear she thinks my answer will be no. But she doesn’t know I’m about to tell her she has six siblings who’ve been transmogrified into swans. So I say, “Um, maybe. See. I saw your sign. It says someone here is the King of Key West.”

  She sighs. “Oh, that was my crazy dad. I just keep it here for local color. My father is one of those weird Key West legends—that just happens to be true.”

  “Okay, well—”

  “Why don’t you have a seat?” She gestures toward a wrought-iron table. “And I’ll tell you the story.”

  And before I can say that we’re in a hurry, she’s off getting a pitcher of lemonade for us and a beer for herself. Meg and I exchange looks and sit at the table. In the distance, I can hear people laughing, a band playing “Freebird.” I look toward the cemetery.

  Finally, Caroline sits and tells her story. “My father called himself the King of Key West because one year, at Fantasy Fest, he rode a float that showed the Conchs seceding from the United States and being ruled over by him.”

  “Conchs?” Meg asks.

  “A conch is a shellfish. They also call people from Key West Conchs, and call Key West the Conch Republic. Some people joke about Conch secession, but to my father, it was no joke. He was convinced that if Key West seceded, he’d be their king.”

  I think I see something fluttering in the darkened cemetery, but when I look again, it’s only a leaf. Caroline continues her story, which I’m guessing she tells anyone who’ll listen.

  “My father was a little crazy in other ways. He said when he was young, he went to the Ocala National Forest in the center of the state. He got lost there. It was close to dark, and he was afraid. Just as he was about to lie down for the night, he saw an old woman. She said she’d help him find his way out if he agreed to marry her daughter. Otherwise, he’d be doomed to wander forever.

  “He agreed, figuring he’d escape later. But it turned out the daughter was beautiful. They got married and had me.

  “My mom was beautiful, but it turns out that wasn’t enough. My parents hated each other. He said she was a witch. She said he was a fool. I know the second was true. He also said there was a curse on him. He did other weird stuff too.”

  “Weird stuff?” I say, looking for an opening.

  “Like one day, I saw my father wake early in the morning. He got in his truck, not realizing that I’d secretly hidden in the truck bed. He drove until he reached a beautiful park. At the park, there was a pond, and in that pond, there were six swans. Dad fed the swans, talked and sang to them. When he finally left, I saw him wipe a tear from his eye.”

  A group enters the cemetery, maybe a ghost tour. The sky is dark except for the light of the full moon and their flashlights. I scan their faces. None is familiar.

  “Turns out, he did this every day,” Caroline continues. “Once, my mother seemed mad that he’d gone, and I said, ‘Don’t worry. He’s only gone to feed the swans.’

  “My mother turned away, but not before I saw her face turn pink. I knew I’d said the wrong thing. I told her not to be upset. When she turned, her anger had melted away, and she said, ‘I merely think he should spend time with you, not the swans.’

  “The next day, I followed my father again. He drove quickly, and I was excited about seeing the swans. When we reached the pond, I wanted to shout with glee. I didn’t, though, because I knew it would alert my father to my presence. I shouldn’t have worried, though.” She stops speaking and stares ahead, remembering.

  I know what’s coming, but I say, “What happened?”

  She looks at me as though she’s forgotten I was there and says, “They were gone, the beautiful swans. My father called the names he’d given them as if they were children, but they didn’t come. I was crying then, and my father found me. I helped him look for the swans until finally, we couldn’t look anymore because the sun had set, and there was no moon. We went back every day for a month, but the swans were never there again.”

  Caroline wipes a tear from her eye. “He made me promise that I’d look for them all my life, even if he was gone. He told me that once I was eighteen, I could break the curse.”

  “Did he tell you what the curse was?” Meg asks.

  Caroline shakes her head. “He died a year later. He was never the same after the swans left.”

  “And your mother?” I remember Harry talking about the witch who’d turned them all into swans. I don’t have a good track record with witches.

  But Caroline says, “She disappeared. The neighbors raised me, and when I was of age, I moved back here.” She gestures toward the King of Key West sign. “Guess I’m part of Conch lore.”

  I glance at Meg and say, “What if I told you I could find those swans?”

  “I’d say you were crazy. I’m way more than eighteen. Swans don’t live that long.”

  “But people do. And that’s what these swans were—your brothers and sisters.”

  “I think you need to leave now.” Caroline points at the street.

  “I know it sounds crazy,” Meg says, “but he’s talked to those swans. They live in the fountain at the hotel where we work.”

  “Right.”

  “They were turned into birds by their wicked step . . .” I stop, remembering I’m talking about Caroline’s mother.

  “Go,” she says. “You may think I’m this crazy Conch, but I’m not that nuts.” She grasps my shoulder to lead me away.

  “Please,” I say. “I told your brother Harry I’d find you.”

  She stops walking. “My brother, who?”

  “Harry. They’re all named after Key West things. There’s Harry and Truman, Ernest, Mallory, Margarita, and—”

  “Johnny!” Meg’s voice cuts me off. She grabs my arm and points to the gray cemetery. “Look!”


  I look. At first, I see nothing but moldering tombstones, but as my eyes adjust, I spot what Meg’s so excited about.

  A frog.

  I pull away from Caroline. “Okay, I’m going.”

  “Wait!” she calls after me.

  But I can’t wait. The frog hops closer to a group of tourists. I reach for Meg’s hand. “Come on!”

  Chapter 38

  By some silent agreement, we don’t run. We don’t want to scare him. When we reach the cemetery, the tourists have moved on. All is silent. A chill ripples across my arms. All the while, I keep my eyes on the gray grass and gray dirt.

  What was that? Something moving between two crumbling baby tombstones. I drop the backpack and take a step forward. Another. No movement. I stop, listening. Nothing but faraway music and an engine sputtering. Then, the engine stops, and there’s Meg’s breathing.

  I hold my own breath, hearing what I’ve been listening for, the rustling of a small creature moving. I crouch low, still holding my breath, until I hear it again. I rise and touch Meg’s hand. She’s heard it too. With our eyes, we agree that I’ll go ahead.

  I move my foot above a bare spot of grass. I stop. Silence. I slide sideways, my hand brushing the smooth coolness of granite. I lean over, scanning the grass for my prey. Meg has taken a side path around. Now she crouches low. In the shadows, she could be a panther, stalking a jackrabbit. For an instant, our eyes meet, and I silently thank God for Meg. Then there’s a rustling, and a bit of movement in a bunch of grave flowers. I lunge, feel the frog’s coolness beneath me. I close my hands around it, but catch only dead, dried petals. I look to Meg. She’ll get it. I know she’ll get it. But I gasp and stop. The catlike figure in the shadows isn’t Meg. The crouching figure rises, and it is tall, broad shouldered. Siegfried!

  There’s movement. I drop the flowers. The frog hops farther away.

  “Get it, you idiot!” A shrill voice behind a crypt. I look toward it and see Sieglinde, Sieglinde and Meg. They’re locked in some sort of combat, Sieglinde holding Meg at bay as if under some sort of spell.