We dug into our salads simultaneously, fiercely, as though looking for bones. Far below, on the banks of the canal, a young couple trudged along, arm in arm in the snow. When they came to the suspension bridge they stopped. I latched onto their dumb show, grateful not to have to look at Blackmoor.
The boy hoisted himself up and put an arm out for his girlfriend. She slipped twice, landing in the drifts. I watched their mouths—the girl’s rounded “O,” the boy’s jaw like a steel trap snapping against the cold. I couldn’t hear their laughter. The inn was tucked too far away for that.
The girl had somehow managed to pull herself up onto the first of the metal slats. The bridge rocked slightly. For a moment I thought it might actually break, like an icicle. The kids started racing across it, bumping and sliding into each other, picking up unpacked mittenfuls of snow, flinging them at each other. Flakes flew, haloing them like angels. The girl took another fall, and when the boy put his arm out for her this time she pulled him down, and they fell together. They kissed again, passionately. For some reason this made me feel so incredibly sad it took all my willpower not to fall facedown on the table, sobbing into my salad plate. I wondered if Annie and her married man were out on the canal now, the zing-zing of their skate blades slicing the night with sharp little cookie-cutter edges.
“Stupid kids.” Dane Blackmoor’s words seemed to come directly from his throat.
Dinner, and the ride home afterward, was passed in silence. The Rover pulled up the drive casting pie plates of light onto the snow. I hopped out so Blackmoor could park in the garage. Later he joined me on the banks of the canal, near the draped tombstones.
“Family plot?”
“My own, in a way,” He lifted one of the blankets. A jagged lump of marble gleamed in the moonlight. “My mentor used to say that great sculptors like Michelangelo freed their figures from the stone. Released what was already there, just waiting to be let out.”
“I like that.”
“The bastard knew his stuff. He’d watch me chip away on a piece. Put his ear up to it and listen. Then he’d shake his head. Nothing’s there, he’d tell me. Nothing worth getting out. So I came up with the plaster-bandage technique. If I can’t take ’em out, might as well put ’em in, right?” He knocked the snowcaps off the stones. “My mentor died penniless, by the way.”
And you ran off with his wife. “Why do you keep them?”
“I guess I keep thinking someday I might go back and see if the old fuck was wrong. If there might be something inside, after all.” We stood for a moment, looking up at the sky. I remembered a shadow box I’d made for Sister Virginia Frances in the first grade—black construction paper dotted with Elmer’s and a sprinkling of silver sparkles. Sister had given it a C; but then she’d graded on a bell curve with God as the front-runner. Same as Blackmoor’s mentor.
“How’s the wrist?” he asked softly.
“Better.”
“Sure?”
“I’m sure,” I replied, a little annoyed.
“So, you mean, then,” he said, “it wouldn’t hurt it if I did this—” He came closer, one hand gently removing my hat—oh-myohmyohmyoh—while with the other he deposited a big pawful of fresh snow on my head and tugged the brim down so it almost covered my nose.
I realized at that moment that I’d never heard him laugh. It was low and resonant, and it rang through the fields, sending little dustings of snow falling from the high places all around. I stood completely still for a three-count, then I threw my hat into the air. “You’ve had it!” I yelled at his retreating back, my fists packing powder as I moved.
And I was all over him.
FOURTEEN
The snowball fight was down and dirty, within certain parameters. There was no body-to-body contact. Blackmoor favored speed, which resulted in a lot of misfires—snow spraying when it should have pelted. Three harsh winters in a New England boarding school had taught me the secret was all in the packing. I got off fewer volleys, but scored the most hits.
We tracked in pools of icy water, shivering in front of the fieldstone fireplace. In old movies, this was where the male star said to the female star, We’ve got to get you out of those clothes before you catch your death. Blackmoor said, “I’d really like to do a casting of you.”
So that was his line.
“As a model,” I replied, evasively, “I make a better writer.”
“Not a full torso,” he assured me. “I’d only do the face.”
I recalled what he’d once said about my mother—“I never wrapped her face…even I’m not that arrogant.” Well, screw you, mister, and the horse you rode in on. He pulled off his snow-encrusted sweater. The slight paunch beneath his sweaty shirt pleased me inordinately. Maybe I’m sizing you up against somebody else, too, I blazed silently. I said, “Isn’t it kind of late?”
But the idea excited me, more than I cared to admit.
Blackmoor crossed to the light switch, triggering a couple of floods over the platform. “The bandages are already cut. All I have to do is get the water.”
And the knife.
“You could consider it part of your research,” he suggested. I knelt down to unlace my boots, trying to give myself time to think. Then he added, very softly, “Unless you’re afraid…” No dare this time, his voice concerned, and a little sad.
“I’m a mess—” I motioned to my dripping hair and clothes.
Blackmoor jumped up on the platform and tossed me something. “You can change anywhere,” he said. As I headed toward the kitchen, I heard him ripping strips of cloth with his strong fingers.
I held up the long-sleeved sweater of pale lemon yellow, size XL, breathing in its owner’s distinctive scent. There was no bolt on the kitchen door, so I barricaded it with a chair before stripping down to my underwear. The crew neck was wide, exposing a rim of breastbone. It hung to my knees. Leaving my clothes on the radiator to dry, I pushed aside the chair and headed for the studio, barefoot, my heartbeat ricocheting against my rib cage.
Blackmoor was slouched behind the tripod, looking through the lens of the video camera. “You’re not going to tape this.”
“Standard procedure,” he said.
I suddenly remembered something that had eluded me all day. “What about those tapes for Donna Fry and Kimberly Arnette’s sittings? Did you find them?”
“They’re in the study. You can see them tonight, or take them home with you in the morning.”
“The morning will be fine.” I watched him adjust a dial on the camera. “Don’t you need a cameraman?”
He shook his head. “I put it on automatic pilot.”
“I don’t want to see myself on those big screens.” Quite abruptly, he took my chin in his hand, tilting it brusquely. His hands were slightly damp from the water in the basin, but I noticed that he’d towel-dried his hair. He left me sitting on the platform for a few minutes while he went to turn on some music. A piano solo drifted over the speakers, sensuous but lonely, as though the hands of the pianist were caressing the ivories in lieu of available flesh.
Blackmoor returned to the trolley, where a basin of water steamed like soup. He picked up a plastic jar of petroleum jelly, and with swift, gentle motions began rubbing it over my face and forehead. It felt warm and clammy. I sat, helpless, as his fingers roamed over my chin and neck; behind my ears, in my ears; around the back of my neck, where I happened to be ticklish. I dug my nails into the back of one hand, admiring the four angry little crescents of pain.
He walked to the trolley, returning with a can of shaving cream. “For your hair,” he said.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
He nozzled a glob onto his palm. “Trust me.” Shaving-creamed fingers massaged my scalp. It felt good. Decadently good. I pressed another set of crescents onto the back of my hand. “Later, after the mold is painted,” he said, “we’ll apply real hair, strand by strand. In your case, it’ll probably take days.”
“Did you ever do an inner
casting of Torie?” My mouth tasted creamy. The Vaseline had an odorless smell to it.
“Look, Garnish, I know this isn’t going to be easy for you,” Blackmoor said, “but you’re going to have to shut up for a while.” He turned his back, and my mind began to race. What am I doing? I should’ve called Jack. Maybe it wasn’t too late. I could always tell him I needed to use the bathroom.
Don’t be silly, I chided myself, he’d be crazy to do anything to me here. Then I remembered Annie and the others, taking their leave, one by one. “She took her car and drove off” was all he’d have to say. “I warned her, but you know how stubborn she was.” Was. In my mind’s eye I saw those hairpin curves, deadly iced, so perfect for staging a fatal accident—
Blackmoor stood over me, a strip of dripping, wet bandage in his hand. “I’ll start with your mouth,” he announced. I felt myself pucker like a fish, and remembered Jack’s kisses. “Relax,” he said, in a soothing voice as he put the moist cloth over my lower face, deftly smoothing it across my lips, around my chin to the base of my nostrils. He looked at what he was doing, rather than into my eyes.
“One more,” he said, placing a sopping strip across the bridge of my nose, stretching it over each ear. The water was very warm, and it trickled a little down my neck. He dabbed the flow, as though he knew exactly what I was feeling as I was feeling it.
“I’m going to put one over your eyes now.” We locked gazes for the first time. The plaster around my mouth had begun to harden. I felt its dull tug against my cheeks and chin.
He came forward, holding another strip. “It’s natural to feel some panic when you’re first encased,” he whispered. Or maybe he wasn’t whispering. The plaster bandages against my ears muffled my hearing.
“Just remember, you’re not alone. I’m with you every moment, even when you can’t feel my hands.” This is supposed to make me feel calmer? That he’s with me? My eyes widened as he spread the cloth over them. His palms pressed into my cheekbones, fingers playing lightly over my eyelids until I could feel the bandage adhere and almost immediately begin to harden. From behind the plaster blindfold, I sensed him looking at me. I felt more helpless than I ever had in my life.
Then suddenly he was moving away. Where? Toward the trolley? What was he doing? I heard a gentle splish-splash of water, and his voice again. “You know, dentistry students practice the drill on each other, so they’ll understand how it feels when they use it on their patients.” He placed a small, moist strip between my nostrils, and started to shape it.
“My assistants have offered to wrap me,” Blackmoor continued, “but I’ve always refused. I prefer to imagine what it’s like, locked in, with only one’s thoughts.” I felt the pressure of his hand against my neck now. A small rivulet—not of water, but of perspiration—wound its way down my back, under the borrowed pullover.
“If you let it, it can be a very spiritual experience,” he whispered. “You’re on the other side. You know what’s there…and I can only guess.”
The face mask had completely tightened. When the first bandage was applied, I could see—or if not see, then at least, sense—light and movement. But the second layer had effectively blocked the outside world. The holes under my nostrils weren’t large enough to allow in much air. I longed to drink long gulps of oxygen, with my mouth, through the pores of my skin.
Blackmoor was still talking low, but his voice drifted in and out—swelling, and falling, undulating in crazy spirals of sound. In fact, it felt as though I, too, were undulating. Surely I couldn’t be sitting up straight in my seat anymore. Everything outside the mask had shifted. I tapped my toes, felt the hard floor, but even that seemed an illusion. For all I knew, I was sitting sideways, slumped over, about to fall off the platform.
He wouldn’t let that happen, I told myself, remembering his words—I’m with you every moment, even when you can’t feel my hands. A feeling of trust washed over me. It was such a visceral thing, I immediately felt warmer all over. I unclenched my fists, surrendering to the tough casing of plaster skin. Dane was in back of me now, smoothing the plaster behind my neck.
Inside the cast, where there was only darkness, brilliant colors flashed behind my closed lids, in firework patterns. Not fireworks. More like snowflakes, only not just white, but red, neon orange, and magenta. No longer could I distinguish touch as hands or fingers, but only as warmth and color exploding over me. The piano music trilled somewhere deep, in my inner ear.
Blackmoor must be at the trolley. Had he been away long? Time was a thing sealed without. Where I was, it didn’t count, except—except it seemed so long since he’d spoken to me. What if he was speaking, only I just couldn’t hear him? What if something had gone wrong, and he couldn’t get me out? What if he changed his mind—?
A kaleidoscope of images began to turn, flickering brightly on the surface of the blank plaster wall over my eyes, replacing the gorgeous rainbow hues with bits and pieces of familiar faces. There was little Charlie Stratten, cowering in the closet, mummified in a flannel blanket that twisted around his small, stiff body, like a winding-sheet for burial. And Deirdre Purdy, from Dust to Dust, in that awful makeshift coffin, her fingernails torn completely off, the fingers raw, bloody stumps from trying to claw so desperately, so hopelessly, through the wooden lid. There were those rows and rows of buried cigar boxes in an animal boneyard.
Jeff—I’d forgotten to write that letter—
As in my dreams, the last coffin in the pet cemetery was bigger than the others. It opened slowly of its own accord. I wanted to turn, to look away, but the plaster mask pinioned me, cutting off escape. I stared with blind dread at what was inside. My mother. Arms folded; rosary beads trailing like flower petals out from under stiff fingers; head cushioned on a satin pillow, just shy of her body, her features embalmed in plastic, the irises gone, and in their place—a blank and terrible void.
My lungs threatened to burst, yet there was nothing I could do. He’d covered me up. Locked me inside, and I couldn’t get out. I felt his hand gripping the base of my skull. “Easy now, Garner,” he said, very clearly. “Breathe through your nose, and whatever you do, don’t move.” I felt pressure against my neck, just below the right ear. It seemed unbearable.
And then the knife broke through.
The casing came off easily. Air flooded so forcefully it took my breath away. My eyes stung. I followed Blackmoor to the sink. He pushed my head over gently and brought it down into the water. When I stood, he was holding out a towel. “Come see,” he said.
His plaster pale Garner Quinn looked back at me with a haunting, dead-ahead stare. “Once the mold is made, you’ll see more detail,” he explained. “I’ll insert glass eyes—although getting the right color for yours will be a challenge. And then, there’s the hair.” He seemed nervous. Excited.
“Incredible,” I said, meaning it. I was tempted to tell him about what had happened to me inside the cast, but I didn’t want him to know me that well.
“How’s your wrist?” he asked.
“Okay.” In truth, the throbbing now ran through my entire body.
He was already marking the cast with a grease pencil. “There are robes, nightgowns, whatever you need, in your room.” Castoffs from the women in his life. Had he wrapped all of them?
I left him peering into the mirror image of my own face. He appeared to be totally captivated.
FIFTEEN
It was the fire alarms that roused me. There had to be at least four or five going off at once, reverberating like buzz saws, slicing into my sleep. The sounds grew louder and more insistent the closer I got to consciousness.
I bolted out of bed and ran to the window. My first thought was that the Mill was on fire, but there didn’t appear to be any smoke or flames. I quickly pulled on my jeans and sweater. Blackmoor had to have a security system, I thought, although it wouldn’t hurt to make sure. I picked up the phone.
It was dead.
The night had turned sharply colder. My teeth
were chattering by the time I reached the breezeway to the main building. I stopped in my tracks. What if this were some kind of trap? What if he was waiting in there, with a club, a match, and a can of kerosene? The alarms cut off suddenly. Complete silence reclaimed the night. Not knowing whether this was a good or a bad sign, I kept on walking.
It was like stumbling into a surprise party and unexpectedly seeing the faces of friends. Except these weren’t friends. Still, I recognized most of them. The cleaning lady with the Walkman. The bloody child. An anorexic ballerina. A construction worker, about to sink his teeth into a sandwich. I even saw a pale, unpainted Kyra, staring moonily ahead while flames licked the surface of her wooden vanity. Such a shame, I thought, inanely, after all the trouble Roberto had with the mirror.
Elizabeth Rice wove in and out of the figures, the perfect hostess mingling with her plaster-cast guests. Only instead of a tray of hors d’oeuvres, she was carrying a propane torch. Blackmoor stood on the rim of the platform, so still I thought for a moment it might be only another lifelike effigy.
“What’s going on?”
Rice turned toward the sound of my voice. “You left her in town?” she shrieked. “You’re such a liar, Dane! You left her in town!”
“This has nothing to do with her, Elizabeth!” He looked over his shoulder. “Get out of here, Garner. Just go—”
I wanted to go, but my eyes were glued to Beth Rice. Her hair had come undone, the pleats of her shirt wilting under the heat. She looked like one of those pre-Raphaelite paintings, of Ophelia or some other beautiful but mad woman. In the far corner of the studio, the cockatoo flapped its wings in terror, screaming, “Hihowaya! Hihowaya!” over and over.
“Listen to me, Garner,” Dane commanded. “Move!”
I was about to obey when Rice trained the torch in my direction. The flame was low, orange and blue, like a jet on a gas stove. It failed to reach me, but the heat tickled, maliciously. I took a step back.
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