by Laird Koenig
Mario, examining the bone, shrugged, showing he was not impressed.
"Cicero said that," she announced.
"Yeah? Well I didn’t ask what Cicero said. I asked about you."
"Cicero and I, we agree."
"About being alone."
"Quite.”
Mario half turned in his chair. The girl was gazing at him. "I’m not sure that’s normal."
"Maybe not for you."
"Say you’re here all alone and something happened?"
"Like what?"
"Things. Things can happen. Like there was this old woman over in Sag Harbor who they found strangled to death with a body stocking."
Mario looked at the girl to see if she was smiling. There was no smile on the white face that stared into the fire. He went to the front window and peered between the curtains into the dark.
"You know you got an outside light?"
"I never looked."
In the hall Mario found a panel of switches. He flicked them until they saw a spotlight shine behind the curtains.
"From now on, leave it on at night. Okay?"
"Okay."
He came back into the sitting room.
"And thank you."
"For what?"
"For worrying."
"Like I said, that’s okay." He went to the other window and looked out. "You got a gun?"
“No."
"You should have."
"My father says having a gun is far more dangerous than not having a gun."
"My father has a gun."
Rynn crossed to the corner where Gordon rattled his cage.
"You Americans are a violent people."
"What do you want me to do about it?”
"Finish your dinner."
Mario went to the table but instead of returning to his dinner, he picked up his napkin and draped it over his fist. He reached into the fireplace to dip an index finger into the soot and dab two eyes and a mouth on his knuckles, to create a fist puppet which he brought close to Rynn’s face. The mouth opened and an old woman spoke with a French accent.
"Mademoiselle, that was a marvelous dinner. Merci."
Rynn bent close to speak to the old woman puppet.
"Only that wasn’t French," she said to the face. "That was English cooking."
The old woman’s voice changed. The face waggled, the crumpled mouth opened, and a voice so English came out that Rynn applauded.
"Was it now! Then I should say—how absolutely smashing!"
Rynn giggled.
Mario had yet to get her to open her mouth in a full laugh.
"You’re very good!" she said applauding.
"Part of the act. Mr. Show Biz—that’s me."
She ran to the cage and lifted out the rat. "You should have more of an audience. Meet Gordon."
"How do you do, Gordon," the fist, an English woman, said.
Rynn kissed the rat. "Isn’t Gordon super?"
"Super!" the fist waggled at the rat. "I love Gordon."
Mario tore the napkin off and tossed it onto the table. He brushed the soot from the back of his hand and reached for the pet. "Let me?"
Rynn held the rat, hesitating.
"You can at least trust me with your rat."
She handed Gordon to Mario. "You have any pets?"
"Just my parents."
She giggled again. "Lovely."
"Which I feed and water regularly."
"Teaches you responsibility."
They both giggled. Rynn kissed Gordon’s pink nose. The boy carried the rat to the table. The white whiskers quivered as Gordon found a shred of lamb. As they stood side by side at the table watching Gordon nibble, they were aware of their closeness. Neither moved.
"If I tell you why I’m crippled, will you tell about the car?"
The girl did not look away from Gordon.
"No," she said.
"I have so many brothers and sisters my mother forgot who did and who didn’t have polio shots."
"Is that supposed to be funny?"
"Now you have to tell me about the car."
Rynn moved away from the boy. She was creating another fantasy woman. Not a great lady this time but a cockney.
“I never 'ad me no brother or a sister. We was so poor my dad 'ad to use newspapers, old manuscripts even, for nappies—diapers to you."
"Anything to keep from telling the truth. Is that it?"
She looked into the kitchen as if to forestall any other questions.
"Would you care for a sweet? There’s some lovely ice cream. Peach."
"I’m stuffed."
"So is Gordon. Look at him." The pink claws scuttled across the table top to the edge, pink eyes raised to look at the girl. She reached out and picked up her pet. "In the car..." she began in an offhand voice.
"Her car?" Mario was determined not to allow the girl to be offhand. "Some car. All that deep leather upholstery. I mean you don’t find plastic madonnas on the dashboards of cars like that."
"In her car"—she was returning Gordon to his cage, and this time she did not wait for Mario to interrupt—"did you leave fingerprints?"
When Mario hobbled to his cape in the hall, again the girl was shocked. Again she had forgotten he used a cane. She saw him pull gloves out of a pocket and draw them on. Waving both gloved hands he limped back to her.
"Presto! No fingerprints!"
"Mario the Magician!’"
He spread his hands, an entertainer coming out on the stage and introducing himself to his audience. "In person!"
He performed his bullfighter’s pass and flung the cape over his shoulders.
Rynn clapped her applause.
"Do a trick!"
"Ladies and Gentlemen, I shall now make an automobile disappear!"
The girl patted an extravagantly theatrical yawn and sighed her boredom. "But you already did that."
"Then behold. I shall disappear!"
"You think you can?"
"The Greatest Magician in the World? Close your eyes and count to three."
"Okay," she said.
The boy did not move.
"Close them tight. Ready?"
Rynn nodded.
"One," Mario said as he looked around and saw the couch. "Two," he called as he hurried around the couch and sank out of sight.
"Three." His voice, sepulchral and disembodied, hung in the room. "You may now open your eyes."
Rynn opened her eyes and gazed about. She laughed and clapped in more applause. Then she stopped laughing.
"Mario?" a hint of apprehension was in her voice. She did not move.
"Can you reappear?"
The room was silent for only an instant before her next call, sharp with fear.
"Mario?"
She looked around the room. She ran to the foot of the stairs to the second floor.
"Mario?"
She had reached the studio door and was about to turn the knob when Mario, popping up from behind the couch, snapped open Mrs. Hallet’s candy-stripe umbrella and thrust it high.
"Mary Fucking Poppins!"
For Rynn every bit of the fun of the game’s make-believe fear, the-excitement of only a moment ago, was gone. She rushed at the boy. Her voice was a shriek.
"Give me that!"
But Mario, still in the excitement, failed to realize she had ended the game. He laughed at Rynn’s shout. When she cried out for the umbrella he felt she was adding a new wildness to the excitement. Teasing her with the umbrella, he poked it at her, jabbed it, snapped it open and shut. He taunted. He jeered.
"Come and get it’"
The girl dashed onto the couch and clutched with both hands at the umbrella, but Mario waved it, shook it, jerked it out of her reach. Clambering the length of the couch she grasped at his every move.
"Stop it!" her voice was hard, her arms lunging.
The striped folds, like some wild creature fighting back, snapped open and shut at her.
She climbed down from the couch and drove
the boy to the hearth and into the corner where Gordon scratched in his cage. Rynn, now in tears, arms flailing, grasping at any movement, a child in a game of keepaway frustrated almost to the point of hysteria, grasped and clawed.
With an explosion of laughter Mario broke from the corner pushing past Rynn in a dash to get past the coffee table. His cane clattered. He stumbled and sprawled on the floor. Rynn threw herself on him, tearing at the umbrella. Struggling, rocking together, they rose. The boy worked his arms around her in a hammerlock pinning her against him, helpless. His cape fell over both of them as Rynn twisted frantically, grasping for the umbrella.
The fire glowed and the candles burned, their combined light holding the shadows in the corners. Outside the front window the spotlight shone through the curtains.
Rynn struggled against him. Nothing moved but the wavering glow from the flames. Rynn was the first to see it. Mario felt her stiffen in his arms, and go cold.
Against the curtains a shadow raced.
"Sshh," she whispered. "Listen."
"Somebody’s there'"
As Mario released her she grabbed the umbrella and without a sound lifted the cover of the woodbox and dropped it inside. Noiselessly she lowered the cover. The two shrank from the window.
Mario was straining to hear whatever was there, what had filled first the girl and now him with trembling.
She whispered again. "Put out the candles!"
He reached the table and pinched out the flames. Now only the fire cast its dim red light into the room to be swallowed in dark around them. He sank to the floor beside the girl, and they huddled together in front of the fire.
Both watched the window.
Then they saw what they dreaded most see.
10
THEY CROUCHED, huddled together so many minutes—hours?—breathing as one, their eyes never leaving the curtains—that as each minute passed, as their hearts slowed pounding in their throats, they were more and more tempted to believe they had only imagined seeing the shadow.
Rynn was the first to rise. Mario pushed himself to his feet and the only sound either of them made as they moved to the window was the tap of the cane. The boy reached out to part the curtains.
"Careful." Rynn’s voice was low.
Both faces pressed against the cold glass.
"Can you see anything?” she asked.
Mario’s breath made a damp spot which he wiped away with his cape.
"Out there—in the lane."
"What?" She strained to peer beyond the screen of bare branches.
The boy pulled Rynn from the curtains which fell back into place. He spoke without whispering.
"Police car."
Rynn sank against him sighing with relief. But almost at once, as if she dared not believe his statement, she turned again to peer out. Mario limped to the hall where he switched on the light.
Rynn raced to his side. At the door she stifled a cry and shrank against him, for just as she reached for the latch, a knock thudded on the other side of the door.
"You want to open it or shall I?" he asked.
"You open it."
"It’ll look better if you do. I mean it’s your house."
"Are you sure it’s the police?"
Mario nodded.
Rynn expected to see a man in uniform. When she found a tall man in a black-and-white checked jacket and gray trousers standing before her she did not recognize him.
"Hey!" Mario cried from behind the girl. "You know who this is? My Uncle Ron!"
Officer Miglioriti smiled at Rynn and now she saw it was indeed the officer. He was smiling the same smile which on Mario was almost too pretty.
"Hi," the girl said, her hand reaching out for the man’s. Without turning to Mario, she explained, "We’ve already met." Stepping back from the door she was suddenly the hostess.
"Please, won’t you come in?"
Miglioriti’s glance included Mario who still wore his black cape. The boy, deep in admiration of her grown-up assurance, was watching Rynn.
"We were just now having some wine," she said, the most accomplished of English hostesses. "Will you join us?"
Miglioriti ran his fingers through his thick black hair.
"No thanks."
Mario, stripping off his cape, spoke to his uncle. "You’re off duty, right?" The officer surveyed the room where the table had been set for two. He looked at the boy.
"What happened?" Mario demanded in a kind of banter that Rynn had often heard young people use with older people in the States, a familiarity she rarely heard in England. "I mean it’s Saturday night," the boy’s tone was close to mocking. "Your Playmate of the Week split?"
Miglioriti, not at all annoyed, stated flatly, "She’s waiting out in the car."
Mario, at Rynn’s side, moved his hands describing curves. "He likes the ones who look like they were blown up with a bicycle pump."
"Ask her in," said Rynn.
"Can’t stay," Miglioriti glanced again at the boy. Was he annoyed that he was unable to speak to the girl alone?
"Perhaps just a splash of wine?"
"Half a glass."
"Think Miss Thirty-six, twenty-eight, thirty-six will wait?" Mario grinned.
Rynn shut the door and the three moved to the table where Rynn poured the officer a full glass of wine, and the man thanked her.
There was a silence for a full ten seconds, as Miglioriti stared at the dinner plates, the lamb bones, cold broccoli.
"She asked me to dinner," Mario explained. "Really terrific. She cooked it all herself."
Miglioriti picked up the bottle of wine. He looked at it, an investigator weighing a clue in a detective story.
"Enjoy the wine, did you?" the officer asked the boy.
"What are you going to do? Bust us for drinking under age?"
Miglioriti was directing his remarks only at Mario.
"You’re just lucky I don’t smell any grass."
"Got any?" Mario grinned and shot a conspiratorial look at Rynn.
Now Miglioriti included the girl. "Like I was saying, right? No respect for the law."
The boy tossed his cape on the couch. "Look who wants respect. When all the time he’s using a police car for personal business." Mario knew he had scored off his uncle, and he allowed himself his widest grin.
"Holler police corruption," Miglioriti said drinking and putting the glass on the table where he studied the two place settings.
"Just the two of you?"
"Her father’s asleep," Mario said, a little too quickly, as Rynn’s eyes shot to his for a split second.
Again Miglioriti’s voice only barely concealed the tones of a detective cross-examining a suspect. "You meet Rynn’s father?"
As if to emphasize that the boy was on his own, that he would have to answer his uncle’s question, Rynn left the table to sit on the couch.
Mario picked up the bottle and poured himself a full glass.
"Sure."
Rynn felt her heart tighten.
"He have dinner with you?"
"Does it look like it?" Mario pulled a chair back from the table and sat. "What’s this supposed to be? Some kind of third degree?" The boy drank his wine.
Rynn knew the officer was waiting for a more direct answer.
"No dinner?"
"He was so tired he went right to bed."
"I thought you said he was in his study working."
"I didn’t say that. I said he was asleep."
Miglioriti turned to Rynn. "That’s right. Rynn’s the one who told me he was working."
She said, "That was this afternoon. After he finished his translating, he took it into town."
"Round trip in one day," Mario said. "Very tiring."
Miglioriti was at the stereo set. He read the name of the record. He turned and looked at the room. "Dinner for two. Candlelight. Wine. Very romantic."
Over the rim of his wine glass, Mario looked at his uncle, but he spoke to Rynn.
"Ju
st because he’s practically a sex maniac he thinks a guy can’t even finish dinner with a girl before he has to make out."
Miglioriti smiled his marvelous smile at Rynn. "If he doesn’t try, tell me and I’ll have the family disown him."
Rynn responded with the giggle she felt was expected.
Mario shook his head and sighed as if to show how little his uncle understood life.
"Talk." He intended his world-weary reflection for the girl’s benefit, but his uncle could listen if he was not too old to learn. "Italians talk a lot about sex—"
Miglioriti held up a hand. He was finished with the banter.
Rynn could see the man was deadly serious. Waiting for him to speak, she readied herself for more questions about her father. The officer would want to know why she was alone. She was ready. But she was not ready for what Miglioriti said.
"Frank Hallet called."
The huge man moved to the fire to warm his hands.
"Around six. He was worried about his mother. Said she hadn’t come home. He called again around eight."
"Old Lady Hallet," Mario said, "is probably out house-pimping."
Miglioriti looked at Rynn. "Mario here doesn’t like the Hallets."
"Does anybody?"
"Other Hallets," the man said.
"Wrong," said Mario. "Tell her why he had to get married."
"Don’t be a smartass."
Mario carried his glass of wine to the couch.
"Ask him," the boy said to Rynn, "about the time he tried to get him busted for dragging some little girl into the bushes. After that his mother married him off to some cocktail waitress with two kids."
"That’s enough."
"To prove he was normal."
"You are a smartass."
"How about what he tried to pull with that girl in Junior High, the one with these really big tits—"
"You tell that story again and I will personally knock the snot out of you."
Mario chuckled into his wine.
"Normal. Wow! About as normal as a three-dollar bill!"
Miglioriti had had all he wanted of Mario; he made that clear by speaking only to Rynn.
"When Hallet called at six to report he couldn’t find his mother I figured she was out, like smartass here said, with a real-estate prospect, showing a house. When he called back at eight it began to look like something was wrong."
"How do you know she still isn’t out?" Mario would not be excluded.