by CK Dawn
Catherine adjusted her scarf. “Oh grow up, Phoebe. I have to go now. I’m late already.”
A familiar feeling snatched at Phoebe’s breath; fear of being left alone in her apartment-in-the-sky with its uncurtained balcony windows and the glass roof of the atrium arching above her front door.
“You can’t leave me, Cat, not after what they said, you know, about coming back up here.”
Catherine sighed. “He was winding you up, that’s all. I really have to go. I have work to do.”
She turned toward the door and then turned back again. For a moment Phoebe thought that her sister had finally decided to show some kindness; after all she’d had herself ordained into the church of whatever it was and surely that should force her to show some compassion.
“I almost forgot” Catherine said. “I brought you something.”
“You bought me a gift?”
“No, I brought you a gift, not the same thing.” Catherine reached into her purse and pulled out a small gift wrapped parcel, the wrapping already torn open. “Someone gave it to me, but it’s not my style. Some of the women I minister to fail to understand the cutting edge nature of my ministry. They have me confused with the doddering old men they’re accustomed to seeing.”
Phoebe snorted at the idea of anyone confusing her sleek and sensual sister with a doddering old man. She eyed the gift eagerly. “What is it?”
“It’s actually a small mirror. The woman who gave it to me said I should look at it more often and try to cultivate a softer, kinder expression. She thought it might help me find a man. She worries about my unmarried status.”
Phoebe kept silent, waiting for her sister to hand over the gift.
Catherine fingered the package. “I’m going to suggest to our Council of Wise Women that she should be encouraged to find another church. She’s not suited to our way of thinking.”
“No, obviously not.”
Phoebe held out her hand and Catherine handed her the package. “I know you have plenty of mirrors, but I thought you’d like the frame, it’s glitzy and shiny; just your kind of thing. You can put your picture of George Clooney in it, if it really is George Clooney.”
Phoebe loosened the wrappings and looked at the ornate gilt frame. It was a pretty thing. If she put a picture in it, it could go on the end table by the sofa. She decided to be gracious.
“Thanks.”
Catherine was equally gracious. “You’re welcome.”
The two sisters were silent for a moment.
Catherine patted Phoebe’s arm. “I really have to go.”
“Do you think you should?” Phoebe asked. “Didn’t you hear what that awful boy said about vampires? You shouldn’t be out at night.”
Catherine laughed “I think priests are safe from vampires.”
“But what about me?” Phoebe wailed.
Catherine gave a weary sigh. “There are no such things as vampires and even if there were, they wouldn’t want your blood, would they, you being a diabetic as you are so fond of telling me. Your blood would make them sick.”
“They wouldn’t know,” Phoebe argued. “I don’t suppose they carry a glucometer with them.”
Catherine shook her head. “I’m joking. The whole vampire thing is a big joke. The undead are not haunting the streets of Pittsburgh.”
“They could be,” Phoebe insisted. “Suppose that was a vampire on the roof.”
“It wasn’t,” said Catherine.
“And I heard something on the balcony.”
“There’s nothing on your balcony.”
“I shan’t sleep a wink,” Phoebe declared.
“You don’t sleep anyway,” Catherine said. “You’re always telling me about how you’re up all night. “
“That’s from all my years on the stage.”
“No, it’s not; it’s indigestion,” Catherine assured her. “I’m your sister, Phoebe, I know the truth about your stage career, and how little there was of it.”
“You are such a bitch,” Phoebe declared her fear overtaken by anger.
Catherine smiled. “I’m going. I’ll call you tomorrow and make sure you’re okay.”
Catherine walked out through the front door and Phoebe had the satisfaction of slamming it behind her. “Bitch, bitch, bitch,” she muttered to herself, feeling tears stinging her eyes.
She crossed the room and stumbled into the wooden crate. What am I going to do with this thing? I’ll call her back and tell her she has to help me. She opened the front door again but her sister was already in the elevator and the doors were closing. Catherine waved, smiled and disappeared from sight.
Phoebe returned to her apartment, sniffed away her tears and wiped her nose on the wide sleeve of her negligee. “Oh well,” she said aloud. She lifted the cushion on the white velvet armchair and uncovered a box of chocolates. She carried the box to the dining table and finished unwrapping the framed mirror. She stared into it, seeing her own bloated face, her extra chins, and her puffy eyes. She popped another chocolate into her mouth. “You have to stop eating,” she said to her reflection. “Diet and exercise, diet and exercise.” She looked at herself again and then stuffed the mirror back into its wrappings.
She reached for another chocolate; a caramel. Just as she put it into her mouth the door buzzer sounded. She chewed desperately and looked around for a place to hide the chocolates.
“I knew you’d come back,” she announced as she shuffled to the front door, concealing the chocolates under the cushion as she passed by. She unhooked the chain. “I knew you wouldn’t really go and leave me,” she said. “You thought better of it, didn’t you Cat? See in the end blood is thicker than water.” She swallowed the last of the caramel, and flung the door open. “Come in, come in.”
Someone came in but it was not her sister. She had the impression of a small masculine shape in a very dirty overcoat. The shape removed its battered cap and said “Begging your pardon, Missus.”
Phoebe tried to close the door. “Go away,” she shouted.
The shape pushed the door aside and walked into the apartment.
“Go away,” Phoebe shouted again.
“But you said I could come in,” the shape replied. “I heard you.”
“I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to my sister.”
The man, for she was able now to see that her visitor was a small young man with a scruffy beard, was waving a large black garbage bag.
“I just have to get it, Missus. Them delivery men said if I come up here I could get it. I have to get it, Missus.”
Phoebe heard herself screaming although the sound seemed to come from far away. The room swam in and out of focus, and she had a sensation of falling. Then everything went black
Three
WALLY
The pale young man looked at the woman on the floor and concluded she was not a pretty sight. However, in his many years of life he had become accustomed to all kinds of strange sights and although she was unattractive, at least she was no longer screaming. He hated to hear women screaming, it brought back memories that he would just as soon forget.
He hooked his arms under the woman’s armpits and with casual strength dragged her up onto the blue velvet couch that formed the central focus of the room. He straightened out her legs so that she was lying in reasonable comfort. Her teased blonde wig was somewhat askew but he decided not to touch it. He pulled the voluminous skirts of her negligee down over her plump knees and crossed her arms over her ample bosom.
He knew she wouldn’t be unconscious for long. He’d seen plenty of fainting women in his time and had learned that fainting was only a temporary condition. He pulled the black plastic garbage bag from his pocket and gleefully approached the wooden crate. He had it! At last it was in his keeping. Using his ragged fingernails as a screwdriver he unfastened the screws and lifted the lid. There it was, just as he had left it the night before. He could see the small impression of his own body. He couldn’t take it all; that much wa
s obvious. How much did he really need?
He began to scoop his precious inheritance into the garbage bag, already working on a long-term plan. Relabeling the box had been a spur of the moment thing but he would have to be much more careful about what would happen next. He could take the garbage bag down in the elevator and drag it outside into the bushes. The landscaping seemed to be quite lush with thick vegetation. It would probably be adequate to hide him all day and then tomorrow night he would look for a shopping cart. Yes, that would be the thing. He could put the garbage bag into a shopping cart and just wheel it away. He’d be just one more ragged homeless man wheeling his possessions through the night. Then he would just keep on wheeling the cart; away from the city, into the countryside, just wheeling and wheeling. His heart leaped at the idea of the freedom that would be his. So long as he had the garbage bag he would be free. Of course he would eventually have to find a better container, something stronger than plastic, but not yet. For the time being at least he had a plan.
He heard the woman stirring on the couch and moaning slightly. He turned to look at her. Her eyelids were fluttering and she seemed to be having trouble breathing. Perhaps he should loosen her clothing. He didn’t want to be responsible for her death. He didn’t want to be responsible for anyone’s death.
He moved soundlessly across the room and bent over the couch. She was wearing a pink satin negligee fastened at the neck with a ribbon. He should probably loosen the ribbon. He tugged at the bow with his dirt stained fingers and at that moment she opened her eyes; bright blue eyes, wide with terror.
“Get away from me, get away from me,” she screamed. “Don’t you dare touch me.”
Terror, his constant companion, overcame him immediately. He released his hold on the ribbon. “Please Missus,” he pleaded, “don’t hurt me. I didn’t mean to scare you, Missus, honest I didn’t, I just wanted me box, that’s all.”
The woman raised her head and looked around. “Box? What box? What are you doing here? How did I get onto this sofa?”
“I did it Missus,” he confessed, “after you fainted. I didn’t mean to hurt you Missus. Don’t punish me. It’s just that I had to have it.”
The woman pulled herself upright and looked down at her ample body and the unfastened ribbon of her negligee. She stared at him in horror.
“You had to have me?” she gasped. “You mean you violated me; while I was unconscious. You filthy beast.”
He stared at her in consternation. What was she talking about? Did she mean…? No, she couldn’t possibly. Why would he want to…? Why would anyone want to…? She must just mean that he’d touched her with his dirty hands. He tried to reassure her. “It’s just mud, Missus, from me box. I’ll wipe me hands if you like.”
“It won’t be so easy to wipe away what you’ve done to me,” the fat woman declared. “I shal call the police.”
“I ain’t done nothing to you Missus,” he insisted. “Honest, all I done was pick you up and put you on the settee.”
“Settee?” She looked at him in puzzlement and looked down at the couch. “Oh you mean the sofa.”
She seemed to be recovering her wits. Her eyes no longer ranged all over the room in panic. “You have an accent, don’t you? Are you British?”
He thought about that for a moment. Was he really British, after all this time? He shrugged his shoulders. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“And you didn’t do anything else?” the women asked. “You just put me on this sofa, or settee as you call it?”
“Yes, Missus, no Missus, I mean I didn’t…”
She patted her hair and adjusted her wig. “Well, you are very young,” she said. “I suppose that accounts for it. You probably prefer younger women. I was young once.”
She sounded sad, but there was little he could do about that.
“Can I go now, Missus?” he asked.
She was busy fussing with her wig and didn’t answer him.
“Can I go now, Missus? Can I just take me box and go?”
She focused her gaze on the open box. “So it’s your box is it? What do you mean by having it delivered here? My apartment is not a storage facility for unwanted boxes.”
“I didn’t know,” he said. “See, we was at the train station, and we was having both the boxes sent to the new address, and then I saw this address, your address I suppose, and I just readdressed my box. I didn’t have no real plan. I just did it. Look, I gotta go, Missus. Please I can’t talk no more. I gotta get out of here and into some safe place.”
She seemed not to be listening to him. She was looking at him, but he felt as though his words were failing to reach her ears. Perhaps she was deaf. Perhaps he should shout.
“Can I go, Missus?” he said loudly.
“You’re very dirty,” she replied. “You have mud all over your face.”
He instinctively wiped his face with his sleeve.
“Oh, you’ll never get clean that way,” the fat women said. “Over there, in that pink porcelain box, there are tissues.”
He looked around the room, located the pink box amid the many items of bric-a-brac that cluttered every surface. He wiped his face with a handful of tissues. Meantime the woman seemed to be taking stock of her situation.
“You say you put me on the sofa” she said.
“After you fainted,” he confirmed. “I was very careful, Missus. I didn’t take no liberties.”
“So you say,” she replied. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm done, and obviously you’re in a hurry to leave, so I shouldn’t delay you. But I wonder if you could do something for me.”
“What kind of thing?” he asked, fearful of the type of favor she might ask.
“When you’re going down to the lobby with that box of yours, could you take my garbage down for me? I have so much trouble getting anyone to help me, and I’m not strong. I have health issues, not that anyone believes me, but I do.”
“Oh!” He was very much relieved. “I can do that for you. Yes, Missus, I’ll take it when I go.”
He realized that he would have to abandon his plan of emptying the box and leaving it in her apartment. He would have to drag it down into the lobby and out the door. Well, if that was what he had to do, that’s what he would do.
He followed her directions into the kitchen and picked up a bag of trash. He balanced it on top of the wooden crate and prepared to leave.
“Just one more thing,” said the fat women.
“Yes, Missus.” He didn’t dare refuse.
“You’ve given me a terrible shock. I hate to self-medicate but in the circumstances, I think I need a drink. It’s my diabetes you know. A shock like the one you gave me could send me into a coma. You have no idea what it’s like. I could have an attack at any minute. Over there on the bar by the window, mix me a Bloody Mary, will you. Do you know how to do that?”
He smiled. A Bloody Mary! Oh, little did she know. He’d mixed plenty of Bloody Marys in his time, real Bloody Marys; no tomato juice involved. In fact he wasn’t sure he knew how to mix her kind of Bloody Mary. Oh well, he would have to do his best. Vodka, tomato juice; that’s probably all she would need.
He mixed the concoction in a fine crystal glass with a gold rim; the apartment seemed to be well stocked with crystal and items with gold rims or gold frames. It was, he thought, an unusually gaudy apartment, full of lamps throwing muted reflections from surfaces that should have been bright but were dulled by a layer of dust. Even the glass was dusty. He decided against trying to polish it with his muddy sleeve. She seemed anxious to get her drink, better not keep her waiting. He needed to get away.
He placed the glass on a small silver plated tray, noticing that the plating was not of a very high quality, and presented it to her with a flourish and a slight bow.
She sipped and nodded. “Oh very good; very good indeed. Someone has trained you well.”
“That was the baron; he liked to have things done with class.”
“Baron?” She raised h
er eyebrows in surprise and he could have kicked himself. Why did he have to go and mention the baron? She didn’t need to know about that. She didn’t need to know about anything.
“Have you been a servant to the aristocracy?” she asked.
“I’ve been to servant to all sorts, Missus. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll just take my stuff and go.”
The fat woman shook her head, the wig slipping slightly as she did so. “Not so fast. I think you owe me an explanation. Why do you have a box of mushroom compost and why is it so important to you?”
“Oh it’s not really mushroom compost,” he said. “The baron done that so no one would suspect. It’s just mud, missus. English mud.”
The woman sniffed disbelievingly. “Why would anyone need a box of English mud?”
“Most people don’t,” he said, “but I do. It’s real important, Missus, I couldn’t have slept without it. I gotta go now. I gotta find a place before daybreak.”
She waved her empty glass at him. “Make another drink will you. The last one was delicious.”
“Missus, please,” he pleaded. “I gotta be on my way.”
“I think you should call me Miss Phoebe.” Once again she waved the empty glass at him. “Another one, please.”
“Yes, Miss Phoebe.” He took the glass from her and scurried back to the bar.
With a great deal of huffing and puffing she levered herself up from the couch and stood leaning on the arm. “I still don’t understand why you need a box of English mud.”
“It’s to sleep in,” he replied, concentrating on measuring out the tomato juice.
“To sleep in?” She walked unsteadily towards him and stood staring into his face. “Don’t be ridiculous; why would you sleep in mud; unless it’s some kind of beauty treatment? You do have very nice skin, very pale and delicate; but of course you’re very young.”
“Not really, Missus,” he said, thinking of how old he really was; how old he was going to be; how she would be dead and buried and he would still be pale and delicate.