My reflection stared back at me, lighted by an annoying fluorescent bulb—the type that makes any woman over thirty-five want to commit hari-kari. The quartz crystal heart glistened at my throat, and I touched the necklace. Why had I not shit-canned the thing earlier? Here it was, still causing a fiasco.
Serenity’s words rang again in my ears: “You have had not had good luck finding a man. You don’t believe that today’s man has anything to offer you, right? Take this. It has very special powers. It will bring you luck. You will have all the romance and adventure and interesting men you could ever dream of, for as long as you wear it.”
Damn straight. I’d certainly had plenty of romance and adventure. But now I just wanted to get rid of the damn heart and its cockamamie curse over me. It was some gift alright.
I took a deep breath, as if preparing to dive off the high board, and eased open the restroom door. Elaine’s, to my surprise, had emptied itself of everyone except the seven at the bar. “These Dreams,” by Heart, was playing over the sound system …
“These dreams go on when I close my eyes … Every second of the night, I live another life …”
All seven men turned simultaneously as I walked back into view.
Ernest was the first to speak. “You have brought us all here, Ariel. We’ve come from the past because of that necklace of yours. This time, it has drawn us to you. You’ve loved each one of us, and we’re all in love with you.”
Geez. Not long ago, this many men clamoring for my affection would have been as surprising as finding myself waking up in the morning with my ear sewn to the carpet.
“We’ve even crossed oceans to be with you,” Vlad agreed.
“No.” I shook my head. “It’s not possible. It’s Halloween, and you’re just men in costumes. You’re not real. Not any of you. What do you want with me?”
“We are real. I’m as real as that falling snow,” Vlad said, pointing at the window with a claw-like, crooked finger.
Butch folded his arms across his chest, taking everything in. Beethoven and Van Gogh raised their wine glasses in a toast, nodding in my direction.
“What we all want,” Lindbergh said, “is you, Ariel. You know, I’m mad for you. I believe we are meant to be together.”
“I’m the best one for her,” Beethoven dissented. “She and I are the most alike.”
Van Gogh set down his glass. “Now wait just a minute there, maestro. She inspired one of my finest paintings. She is my muse, and I need her the most.”
“What was that?” Beethoven cupped his hand to his ear, staring at the painter. “Did you say something about a noose? Speak louder.”
“I said muse, not noose, you idiot.”
Great. One man with a missing ear, the other one deaf. And I, apparently unable to utter a single word, now qualified as a mute.
Hemingway spoke up. “Come on, let’s all be reasonable here. None of you arsty-fartsy types is man enough for a woman like Ariel. You do know that, right? Her option is clear, and I’m—”
“You wait just one damn minute there,” Butch Cassidy interrupted.
“That’s right,” Van Gogh hissed, and brandished his razor. “Come over here and say that again. I’ll show you who the real man is here, when I cut off your head.”
Hemingway smirked. “Like I said, Ariel needs a real man like me.”
“Yeah, you’re a real picture of masculinity, aren’t you, Ernie? I hear you’re a pansy,” Lindbergh quipped, causing Hemingway’s face to redden. “A little light in the loafers, eh? I’m the only one of you here who can take her to heights she’s never known before.”
“The only place you’d be taking her is to hell, you Kraut-loving creep”
Before I knew it, Hemingway and Lindbergh were in a fistfight—over me, of all things. Clark decided to get in on the action too. He took a swing at Ernest, who took a swing back, causing Clark’s false teeth to clatter to the floor. If the surreal aspect of all this was not already underlined by my own fantasies, a gunshot rang out.
“All right,” Butch said, forcing himself and his weapon between the combatants. “C’mon, fellas, let’s break it up now.”
The gun demanded respect, and everyone stepped back.
“I think these are yours, Mr. Gable?” Butch said, picking up the fallen teeth.
Clark slipped them back into place, his dignity injured.
Butch looked my way while addressing the other six men. “I think there’s only one way for us to settle this, fellas. She has to be the one to choose. Only right, after all. It’s her decision.”
I froze like a deer in the headlights, not knowing what to do. What could I say? How could I choose?
As everyone looked on, Hemingway walked over and took my hand. “I have something here that I didn’t get a chance to give you earlier. Darling, I’ll never forget our time together in Key West,” he slurred.
Me neither, I was thinking.
He stepped closer, extending a strawberry daiquiri in his free hand, but after having had one too many himself, he proceeded to spill it all over me. Without even offering an apology, he got down on one knee. He opened a small black-velvet box and revealed a beautiful Canary diamond ring.
I could almost forgive him for being such a klutz.
“Please marry me,” he pleaded. “I want to take you to Spain for our honeymoon.” Was he even divorced now? I was sensing shades of Mr. Sociopath.
Without warning, Ludwig Von Beethoven, Clark Gable, Charles Lindbergh, Butch Cassidy, and Vlad Dracul, and an earless Vincent Van Gogh followed suit, all in a line, each dropping down on one knee and holding out black-velvet boxes with Canary diamond rings inside. My head was spinning, desperately trying to comprehend all of this. It was the ring I’d always dreamed a man would give me someday, and here were seven of them offering up their love.
But every one of them was dead!
Not quite the dream I’d had.
“Choose me,” said Vincent. “We can return to our happiest days in the south of France.”
Happy? Sure. And we’d have plenty of money, as long as we were willing to live like Mahatma Gandhi.
“Let’s go back to Vienna,” Beethoven said. “You’re the only woman for me.”
Vienna. Such a beautiful place. If only there were hearing aids back then, I might consider it.
“Be my bride,” Vlad Dracul urged.
Bride of Dracula? Compelling. But happily-ever-after in Transylvania wasn’t quite what I had in mind on the rare occasion I thought about being a housewife.
“I bought us a ranch down in Buenos Aires,” Butch said. “No more robbing banks or trains. I’ve gone legit this time.”
“Legit,” a thin reedy voice said behind me. “Would ya listen to him?”
This didn’t sound like any of my beaus, past or present, dead or alive, and yet the man’s sardonic tone sounded way too familiar. Where had I heard that voice before? At this point, it was a bit scary. Did I even want to know? Despite my reservations, I turned and saw Woody Allen standing near my barstool.
“Woody Allen?” I gasped.
“That’s my public name, yes. Less Jewishy-sounding than Allan Konigsberg, don’t you think?”
“What’re you doing here?”
“Why are you surprised? This is Elaine’s. What’re these other schmucks doing here? That’s what I want to know. I hope you don’t mind, but I couldn’t help listening in on your conversation from my table over there. I’m not impressed. Except for maybe Butch Cassidy … Now that might be your best offer yet, with that ranch he bought in Buenos Ares. Who knows? You might have a whole new future raising chickens.”
Lindbergh gave Woody a disapproving glare, then turned back to me. “I don’t who this skinny joker is, but I beg of you, Ariel … Come fly away with me. Be my wife. We can forget all that nasty little business on the ship.”
“Uh, that’s right, Ariel,” Woody said. “If being called a Jew-bitch is a glimpse of married life with Charles, I can see
that being the new Mrs. Lindbergh is going to be a real barrel of laughs.”
Clark Gable gave me a wink. “Ariel, you already have jewels inside. But allow me to slip one on your finger.”
I still had no words. I clutched the crystal heart around my neck, hoping it would give me the answer I sought. This was crazy. I could still hardly believe this gathering was even real. Surely, they were a fantasy and nothing more. As if to prove me wrong, Clark strode over. Looking straight into my eyes, he wrapped me in his arms, pressed his hard body close to mine, ran his hands down my sides, and kissed me deeply. I trembled, feeling my cheeks flush, and I heard his hoarse whisper in my ear.
“Frankly, my dear, tell me that wasn’t real.”
“Well, uh … yep, that did feel pretty damn real. I do believe I have a case of the vapors.” I fanned myself, thinking perhaps my decision had been made.
And then my dead lovers made their final pitches.
“Please listen, meine Liebling. I’ve written my most beautiful composition ever, just for you. You must hear it,” Beethoven said.
It was a nice gesture. I studied him closely—maybe for the very first time. What was it I was seeing? I’d noticed an abundance of men I’d dated in the present who had poor hygiene, but it couldn’t have prepared me for the mass of hair I saw growing in his ears. Gross. Again, ghosts of present dates, past. It may not have been the reason he was deaf, but it certainly added nothing to his appeal.
“It’s your heart that beckoned us to you,” Butch reminded me. “This is the way it was all supposed to end, you know. Yes, ma’am, you’ll have to decide which one of us you want.”
What if I did not want any of them?
It was a startling possibility, but now that I glanced from one to the other, I had to wonder if it was the best choice. Perhaps my desire for love had blinded me all along.
Clark … He had big ears, like a Studebaker with the doors left open. He was a philanderer. He was also fist-happy. Why hadn’t I noticed that at the premiere in Atlanta?
Beethoven … He had bad hygiene. Shouldn’t I have noticed that while in Vienna?
Van Gogh … With his unkempt beard and mussed-up hair, he looked like a madman in dire need of Prozac. He was a cock-eyed genius, and he had a violent temper to match. Not sexy in the least.
Lindbergh … He sounded like a cornball, with all that “fly away with me” crap.
Hemingway … He was a control-freak. And a bisexual, bumbling alcoholic. How could I have overlooked all of that in Key West?
Vlad Dracul … He’d seemed so dashing and mysterious, but now his pale, pasty visage was marred by an ugly expression. And I didn’t care for the fangs.
Butch . . . Covered in trail dust, wearing that grubby beard, he could not hide his body odor. Shadows of my dates with Mr. Stinky? I did not remember him stinking in the past, but there was no denying it now. And I did not believe him on that bit about going legit.
Woody Allen spoke up one last time before disappearing into the night. “It looks like your history of dating nutcases and undesirables in the present has followed you into the past. Now I don’t mean to be didactic in any way, but it doesn’t look like dead men are any easier to love than living ones. Your call, but that’s just my opinion.”
Thank you, Woody. The voice of reason.
He was right, of course.
Unbelievably, boring and predictable were beginning to sound better and better. I thought about the lawyer, Rob, who lived in the apartment above me, and about my cute, single accountant, who asked me out one time. I had given neither of them the time of day, figuring they were not interesting or brilliant enough. And these were only a few of the men in my dating life that I’d written off as too “normal,” too “predictable, “boring,” or “too crazy.” Could it be I was all wrong?
Having considered my options, I had a revelation. These guys were no better, and maybe even worse, than the men I dated in the present. Yes, caught up in the various scenarios, I had fallen in love with these men before me—each one interesting, passionate, attractive, talented … but dead. And they all carried an enormous amount of “baggage.” I became acutely aware that these journeys and these dead men were only an escape, and were wrought with the same problems I’d had with living ones.
I blinked, tried to focus.
What to do?
Before me, seven men sat with bated breath, awaiting my answer. I drew in a big gulp of air. “I’ve made my decision,” I said, watching their eyes come alive in expectation. “I choose none of you. I don’t want this anymore. I don’t want to live in the past. I need a living, breathing man in my life—right here, right now.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, and clutched the crystal heart. “Now I’m wishing you away. I don’t love you anymore … not any of you. Go back where you belong! Go away … go away. I implore all of you to return to the past.”
When I opened my eyes, they were gone. Ha. It had worked.
Hemingway and Van Gogh, Clark and Beethoven, Lindbergh, Butch, and Vlad Dracul … Every single one of them, gone. Just like that. Whether it was my own conviction or the crystal heart, it did not seem to matter. All that mattered was that they were gone.
Glancing around Elaine’s, I noted that the black and orange balloons were back, as were the usual patrons. There were eight stools at the bar, but dead men were seated in none of them. The music still blared. I had my original drink back in front of me and it was still cold. I nursed it, still feeling shaky.
All appeared normal now, as if nothing had ever happened.
Except I still had the crystal heart.
The man next to me departed, his seat soon filled by a bleach-blonde woman wearing too much eyeliner, who was chewing gum and looked about thirty-five years old. She answered a call on her cell, talking loudly in an annoying Brooklyn accent.
She hung up, turned to me, and snapped her gum in her mouth as she spoke. “I can’t believe it. I just got stood up. Again. This is the third time in a row that a stupid guy has done this to me.” Chomp, chomp. “I can’t stand it anymore. I’m giving up. The men today … I swear. They’re so boring. Dating sucks doesn’t it? There are no good men out there.” Chomp, chomp. “Oh, but from the looks of it, you don’t have that problem anymore. Love your engagement ring.”
“No, I’m not engaged,” I said. “Hell, I’m not even dating at the moment.”
“But isn’t that an engagement ring?” she exclaimed, pointing to my ring finger. “Or was it your mother’s, or something?”
Looking down, I gasped. The stone on my finger was at least two carats!
“I sooo want a Canary diamond like that when I get engaged,” she gushed. “So who’s the lucky guy?”
I was too stunned to respond. I did not even know how the hell this ring had landed on my hand. I had not accepted any of those offered by the dead seven. I wracked my brain for an explanation. Turning my hand over and over, the diamond’s facets caught the light.
Nope. Did not recognize it, even though plenty of them were offered to me by dead men.
“Well, when I get married, I want it to be in Jamaica,” the chatterbox next to me went on. “Don’t you think Jamaica is the most romantic place in the world to get married? I want a ceremony right on the beach, at sunset. All my bridesmaids will be wearing pale blue, and my cake’s going to be at least seven layers, with chocolate and butter-cream frosting. And I wanna walk down the aisle in a Vera Wang gown.”
Yeah. And I could bet she’d be chewing her gum.
“I’m saving up for it now,” she droned on. “Well, that’s if I ever decide to date again. This last guy was a real loser. You know what he did? He …”
The Fifth Dimension was now singing; “Won’t you marry me, Bi-ill … I’ve got the Wedding Bell Blu-ues … Please marry me, Bi-ill … I’ve got the Wedding Bell Blues.”
“Say, what’s your name, doll?” the bleach-blonde asked me. “I’m Sylvie Schwartz.”
I rolled my eyes. I was
not in the mood for this. “My name’s Ariel … Richards.”
Noticing she was losing my interest, she changed the subject and pointed at the crystal heart around my neck. She said, in her thick New York accent, “That’s so pretty. What a gawgeous necklace. It looks like a cut quatz.”
Well, finally, somebody who actually knew what it was.
And that gave me a thought. In a flash, I realized this woman was a perfect candidate for the crystal heart. Voila. She hated dating the men she was meeting, and she breathed boredom. Looked to me like she might be up for an adventure or two.
“You know what,” I said, unclasping the chain from around my neck, “this is for you. I want you to have it. It‘ll bring you good luck. I know that for a fact. You’ll have all the romance and adventure and interesting men you could ever dream of, for as long as you wear it.”
“It’s really gawgeous,” Sylvie repeated. “But I couldn’t possibly accept it.”
“No. I really want you to have it. I insist. And I won’t take no for an answer. See?” I said, pointing to the diamond on my finger. “You were right. I was just kidding. I am engaged. It brought me luck, didn’t it? So I guess I don’t need it anymore, do I?”
“I guess you don’t,” she said, licking her lips. “And if you ended up with a ring like that, you must have had some awesome luck.” She took the necklace and clasped it around her own neck.
“That looks good,” I told her.
Several minutes passed and then Tom the bartender placed a drink in front of my new acquaintance. “Miss, this is from that guy sitting there at that back table.”
She and I followed his eyes to the man in the in the corner. Someone was standing in front of him, obscuring our view, and all we could see were his long legs under the table. He wore khaki pants and what looked like deck shoes. When the person in front of him shifted, I caught a side glimpse of his sun-tanned face, and my heart skipped a beat.
But the man in khakis was not staring at me; he was staring right at Sylvie. Hemingway nodded in her direction, raising a strawberry daiquiri.
Hillary Kanter - Dead Men Are Easy To Love Page 18