Hidden Worthiness

by Susan Fanetti

  He didn’t kiss women, and he damn sure didn’t let them touch his face. He wouldn’t allow a woman like this to touch him at all.

  “Oh, okay. Rough is okay, too. Just don’t hit my face, and don’t leave marks.”

  Donnie opened his trousers. With one hand, he drew the condom from his pocket, while the other hand yanked her dress up to her hips. She wasn’t wearing underwear.

  Pushing her down onto the granite with a hand between her shoulder blades, he kicked her foot so she spread her legs. Then he wrapped himself up and shoved himself in.

  At first she grunted and muttered “Shit,” and he liked that. That was real. But then she caught up with herself and started in on the hooker prattle. “Oh yeah, baby, oh God, it’s good.”

  Without losing the beat of his driving hips, Donnie leaned over her. “Shut the fuck up,” he growled at her ear. She shut the fuck up.

  With his eyes closed, he fucked the whore he’d paid for and imagined himself the way he might have been, with a woman he might have had. This was the only time he ever allowed himself the fantasy. Before that night at Sassy Sal’s diner, he’d been too young and stupid to want love. Since that night, he’d been too damaged to have it—or to ever believe the words when they were said. So he never allowed himself to imagine what it might have been like to be loved, except like this, with a nameless, faceless, meaningless woman.

  He held her down, kept her quiet, closed his eyes, and fucked the fantasy in his head.

  After he finished, he told the hooker to finish her drink and get out.

  ~oOo~

  “Good morning, Mrs. Alfonsi.” Donnie came up from his cellar gym and into a kitchen bright with morning sun and redolent of bacon and bread. His housekeeper treated him more like a son than an employer, and she insisted he start each day with a real breakfast.

  “Good morning, Mr. Donnie. I have a bacon and cheese omelet and fresh biscuits for you. Would you like juice, too?”

  “Just coffee this morning. And it smells delicious as always.” Before he sat at the table, he opened the doors and let the sounds of the morning ocean in. Labor Day was coming up, and there was always a rush of bustle at the beach and boardwalk right before, a last hurrah before the summer was over, but this early, there were only a few surfers and dogwalkers out, and the sounds were natural and soothing.

  He sat at the table, where the morning paper was ready for him—and something else, too. He picked up the engraved invitation he’d thrown out the day before. His motherly housekeeper was meddling.

  “I told you I changed my mind.”

  Mrs. Alfonsi brought his coffee and breakfast over. Steam rose from the plate and the cup, and Donnie’s stomach rumbled enthusiastically. “But it’s such a shame. You love the ballet so much.”

  He did love the ballet, and opera, and classical music in general. He was a top-tier member of the donors’ councils of both the Rhode Island Ballet and the Rhode Island Philharmonic. “And I have my usual box for opening night. This isn’t the ballet, it’s a party, and I don’t go to parties.”

  “You made plans for this one. It’s special.”

  Special because tonight’s party was a masked ball, and he’d had a wild, weak moment when he’d thought he could make use of that. Cover his face and pretend to be normal. Make that fantasy real for an evening. The idea had held him long enough that he’d actually commissioned a custom mask, one that covered three-quarters of his face and concealed the place where his right ear should have been. Hell, he’d even bought a costume cape and told himself it was a great idea to go as the Phantom to the Rhode Island Ballet’s gala for their The Phantom of the Opera ballet.

  He figured he was having some kind of a midlife crisis, because no other explanation made sense. Donnie Goretti, the underboss of the Pagano Brothers, had actually been considering cosplaying the Phantom of the Opera. All so he could party with the pretty people, people who meant nothing to him. The frivolous nerd he’d been as a teenager, with a room papered in Star Wars posters and a comic book collection that had filled dozens of long boxes, had creaked briefly back to life and made him forget his truth.

  He’d remembered himself just in time and tossed the invitation. The ridiculous mask and cape were in boxes at the back of his closet.

  And wasn’t it just a little bit on the nose for the disfigured man to use a masquerade gala for The Phantom of the Opera to mingle amongst the beautiful people? So on the nose as to be pathetic?

  Yes. Yes, it really was.

  “Mrs. Alfonsi, don’t meddle. My omelet is getting cold, and I’m sure you have work to do.” He handed her the invitation. “You can start by putting that in the trash where it belongs.”

  She took it and stood beside him, her lips pursed tightly, as if holding back a torrent of argument. Donnie ignored her and dug into his breakfast.

  As she walked away, she said, “You should allow yourself some joy, Mr. Donnie. You deserve it. You are worth it.”

  Those last words stopped Donnie in mid-chew, and he looked over, but she’d already busied herself with cleaning up, and she didn’t look back.

  By the time he finished his breakfast, she’d moved on to another room, another chore. Donnie picked up his dishes and took them to the sink.

  The invitation was propped up on the counter, leaning against the utensil crock. A chocolate chip cookie sat before it, resting on a folded paper towel. Like bait on a trap.

  Donnie couldn’t help but chuckle. He took the cookie and headed up to prepare for his day.

  ~ 4 ~

  “So. Many. Phantoms.” Julian turned from the door with a wry grin. “It’s like a convention.”

  Ari nudged him, and he made room for her to peer around the jamb and over the railing to the entering guests below. The gala was a masquerade ball to celebrate the premiere of the season and the debut presentation of The Phantom of the Opera, but the invitations had not specified that guests should arrive in costume as characters from that ballet. They could have worn any costume they wished. And a fair number had done so. Still, there must have been dozens of Eriks, in white masks and black capes, among the male guests below, and nearly as many Christines, most of them in either the negligée or the wedding gown. She didn’t see a single Raoul.

  Ari rolled her eyes. First, it was a bit pedestrian to dress as the characters of the ballet, wasn’t it? She, Julian, and Sergei were all themselves in costume as Christine, Raoul, and Erik, but that was different—they would actually play those characters, and in fact would descend the stairs tonight in character. Second, all those women in filmy dressing gowns or flouncing wedding dresses had really missed a bet. There was an actual masquerade ball in the story. Ari was wearing an evening-gown version of that costume herself, and it was the obviously best choice for tonight. But she only spied a handful of sparkling violet and pink confections in the elegant throng below. Third, though The Phantom of the Opera had been a novel, about a dozen movies, more than one Broadway musical, an actual opera, and a ballet, virtually every guest below had chosen their expensive-but-commercially-made costume from the 2004 movie. Which was, like, one of the objectively worst versions.

  And finally, she would never understand why people loved this story so much. It wasn’t romantic. Was it tragic? Sure, okay—for Christine, it was tragic. For Raoul, too. But Erik? Fuck him. He stalks Christine. Kidnaps her—repeatedly. Terrorizes her—constantly. Manipulates and gaslights her. Threatens the people she loves. Yeah, he has a sad history, but boo fucking hoo. Experiencing abuse is no excuse for being abusive.

  All those women below wearing the wedding gown costume? What the hell? Did they not get that Erik forces Christine into that dress and tries to force her to marry him by threatening to kill the man she truly loves? Ari could not comprehend why women swooned over these ‘dark,’ ‘dangerous’ men who were just entitled psycho assholes.

  If she were really Christine, she’d have set fire to the bastard herself.

  Ari smiled privately. Sh
e did not have a romantic personality. She was not a magical thinker. It was probably her chief failing as a dancer—indeed, it had been called out as such by a few teachers and choreographers. Most classical ballets told classically romantic, classically tragic stories. Most of the girls she danced with swooned over Erik and every other dark hero and sad heroine just like the women in the audience. Dancers like that saw the ballet as the literal embodiment of such deep, painful emotion. Their body expressed their soul, and transcended the physicality of movement.

  When Ari danced, her body was her soul. She felt every atom of her own physical being keenly and completely, and she felt fully present and powerful in it. Not transcendence. Immanence. She was a physically masterful dancer and experienced true joy on the stage, but she didn’t ‘leave her body,’ the way many of the girls she knew said they did. She was a competent actor and could pretend to be Christine, or Juliet, or Giselle, but she could not become them.

  She was always Arianna, dancing.

  That was why she was in Providence and not New York.

  But she was dancing.

  “Here comes Bax.”

  At Julian’s observation, Ari peered along the second-floor mezzanine and saw their director strolling toward them. He wore no costume, just his usual classic tuxedo with a white silk scarf. He stopped just at the top of the grand staircase, and the string quartet below gave over unassuming background music for fanfare. She felt Sergei come up behind them and peer over her head.

  When Baxter had the attention of the guests below, he smiled warmly, a beneficent god granting favors. “Welcome, Mesdames et Messieurs, to the Fall Gala of the Rhode Island Ballet. Tonight we celebrate our fall season, and our debut presentation of Le Fantôme de l’Opéra, with a masquerade. As ever, we are most grateful for your patronage and your enthusiasm, and we are delighted to share this night with you.” He extended his arms in regal invitation.

  “And that’s our cue,” Sergei muttered.

  Smiling, Julian shifted his posture and held out his hand, becoming Raoul. “My darling?”

  Ari took his hand, and they strolled out in a classical walk along the mezzanine toward the staircase. The guests below applauded when they reached the top. As they descended, their eyes on each other, Julian stopped at the midpoint and did a simple lift. In the way they’d decided, she went into pas de chat position, and he tripped lightly down the next three steps as he turned. Polite applause brightened with delight, and Ari smiled up at Julian as he set her down. They descended the rest of the steps normally. The music became Christine and Raoul’s, and in the small arc of space left by the guests at the foot of the staircase, he lifted her again, a straight lift, above his head. Ari arced over him, her arms swanning back. Julian turned her, and she came down winding sensually around him until her feet touched the floor again. She wore dress pumps, and Julian wore dress shoes as well, so none of it was as beautiful as it would be on the stage, but their moment of make-believe lovemaking had captivated their audience nonetheless.

  The music changed again, became more forceful, and they lost their audience’s attention to Sergei, descending the staircase as Erik. Sergei played the role with more menace than pathos, a decision Baxter endorsed and Ari appreciated. In their performance, he was the villain, not the victim.

  As Raoul, Julian tucked Ari protectively under his arm, and they melted into the costumed crowd.

  Now that was how to make an entrance.

  ~oOo~

  Drowning in a sea of white gowns and black capes, her ears going numb from the constant barrage of the same meaningless drivel spewed by a multitude of mouths, Ari had had her fill of the gala by the end of the first hour. The mask over her eyes was hot, her feet hurt in a purely mundane uncomfortable-shoe way, and she’d had just about enough champagne that she was having trouble remembering to be charming and mind her manners.

  This was the beginning of her first moment in the spotlight. Everyone wanted to talk to her, to touch her, to say they had met her. They all wanted to show their knowledge of the ballet as well. The talk among Providence’s cultured set was that Devonny Allera was most likely finished, and Arianna Luciano was poised to take her place permanently. These patrons of the arts all wanted to be able to say they’d supported her from the beginning. Truly, she was glad of them and their support.

  But the only spotlight Ari had ever wanted was the one that would shine down on her on the stage.

  Julian loved any spotlight he could get. He was charming and handsome and adored the swooning attentions of shy teen girls and blue-haired widows alike, so he moved through the crowd like Jesus through the Red Sea. Or was that Moses? She’d never paid that much attention at Mass. Anyway, Julian was in his element and soaking up every batted eyelash and overheated giggle. Sergei, too. He stayed in character all night, hamming it up as the Phantom, putting all the Bob’s Costume Shop wannabes to shame.

  Using a need for the ladies’ room to effect her escape, she loitered there as long as she could, until it was getting a little weird to be standing in the corner like an overdressed washroom attendant.

  Back out amongst the fabulous people, she went to the bar for a fresh glass of champagne. Rehearsals tomorrow weren’t until the evening. She could get drunk tonight, and as long as she remembered to drink water and take vitamins before bed, she’d be fine by then. If she didn’t remember, Julian would. He always took care of her.

  Servers were carrying trays of champagne around the party, so the bar itself was nearly abandoned, except for the service staff. But there was one Phantom at the end of the bar, leaning there like he’d decided to try and grow roots.

  Ari spared him a glance, then turned her attention to the array of glasses the bartender was filling with bubbly, never lifting the bottle, but never losing a drop of liquid, either. When she could take a glass, she did so, and turned to face the beautiful battlefield before her. As the star of the show, probably she should be out there, charming all the deep pockets.

  Sighing, she put the glass to her lips again. One more glass for fortitude.

  “You’re Arianna Luciano.” The lonely Phantom at the end of the bar had spoken.

  Ari put her charming smile on her face and in her voice. “How can you be certain?” She tapped the glittering silver mask over her eyes.

  His own mask was fairly remarkable, now that she was looking straight at him. Not a 2004-movie-whose-dumb-idea-had-Gerard-Butler-been version, but one like she’d never seen before. It was both obviously a Phantom mask and obviously unique. Professional quality, the finish done so that it seemed to be made of actual porcelain. It tied in back with silk, rather than an elastic band. And it was much bigger than most of the masks. It covered everything but his left cheek and the left side of his nose. On the right side, it even had an ear.

  The shape of its face was simple, no more than a rise at the brow, a slope of nose, a curve at the cheek, a sweep of lips. No expression at all, neither victim nor villain. Nor lover. Just nothing. It was the best Phantom mask she’d ever seen.

  The mask was this man’s only costume. In every other way, he was dressed for a night at the theater—a well-cut tuxedo, a fashionable black tie, leather shoes polished to a sheen.

  “You’ve made an impression tonight,” he said.

  So had he, suddenly.

  “I hope that’s a compliment.”

  “It is. I’ve watched you for a while. You’re the best dancer in the company, I think.”

  Ari thought so, too. But she was more athlete than artist, so the opinion wasn’t universally accepted. Baxter certainly didn’t share it. “Thank you. You’re a regular attendee, then?”

  “Season-ticket holder, yes. For about ten years or so.” He moved closer, bringing a glass of whiskey or something like it with him, and nodded at her surprisingly empty glass. “May I buy you another?”

  The booze was free here, of course. And she really should be out in the party being fabulous, not tucked back in this corner alone with
a masked man who said he’d been ‘watching’ her.

  She looked out at the bright, swirling party. All that mingling. All those people, remarking on her arms and legs and neck.

  Back here, they weren’t actually alone. The bartender was right there. Servers came back and went forth regularly. And of course this man had been watching her. She was a performer. People watched her all the time. That was the job.

  She smiled and picked up another glass of champagne, lifting it up as if in thanks before she took a sip. “Thank you.”

  “It was nothing.” The half of his mouth she could see twisted up wryly.

  From the tiny bit of information available to her, she thought he was handsome. He had a very nice jaw, at least, and his mouth had a very nice shape. He wore a bit of beard, fashionably short and neatly groomed. The grey that glittered through it, and the noticeable grey of his short, otherwise-dark hair, suggested that he was past forty. He was on the tall side of average, with good shoulders over a trim build. His tux was custom and fit him perfectly. That mask had set him back several hundred dollars at least, and that tux was at least a few thousand. So he was rich, too. No surprise, here in the land of the oldest money.

  The eyes behind the mask were jewel-rich blue. He wore a bit of makeup to add shadows under the mask, but that blue was so vivid that Ari could see one eye didn’t open as well as the other. His baritone voice had a strange, muffled cast as well. Maybe the mask constricted the movements of his face.

  “You’re staring,” he said, and white teeth flashed in a brief smile.

  “Sorry. I’m admiring your mask. Custom made, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it’s a work of art.”

  “I’ll pass along your compliment to the artist.”