by Judith Gould
All those years, those wasted years . . . Could it be that it had been R.L. whom she’d really loved all along?
But fate had been cruel, had thrown Duncan between the two of them and forced her to choose. But fate had been kind too—had given her her most precious possession, Hallelujah.
And now fate had intervened once again by bringing R.L. back into her life.
What was fate going to dish out this time? Kindness? More cruelty? Or a bittersweet mixture of both?
Were second chances at love really possible? Or was that another pipe dream?
She honestly did not know. But she did know that she really had no right to love R.L., not after she had dumped him once. Just because she was free again and R.L. had reappeared, she couldn’t, wouldn’t, mustn’t let herself get involved with him again. Not for her sake, but for his. She shouldn’t even have come here with him. It had been a mistake to make love.
Suddenly she was very tired. “Let’s go, R.L.,” she said quietly. “Please take me home.”
Same World/Same Time
In the Realm of Miss Bitch
Some people have secret rooms. Others, locked closets or drawers.
For the past year, the man had rented an eight-by-twelve-foot storage room in a spruced-up old industrial building in the West Twenties. There was no view out of the storage room: it had no windows. It was cold also: there was no heating. Entry was granted by a guard in the lobby during normal business hours, and storage tenants were free to come and go as they liked—they had their own keys for their own individual rooms. Rent was paid by the month.
The small room was uncomfortable, but the man didn’t care. It wasn’t as if be or anyone else lived here. He came only once a week or so, and never stayed long.
Making certain that the door was locked behind him, he put down the shopping bag he carried. His rectangular little room was almost empty. Against the far end were a single chair and a vanity complete with stool and mirrors. Lined up on it, a series of white, faceless Styrofoam wig stands stood sentinel. That was all.
First he undressed completely, neatly folding each item of his clothing and stacking it in the far corner. The concrete floor felt ice cold and hard under his bare feet, but he didn’t seem to notice.
Naked, he took a seat on the stool and opened the drawers of the vanity. They were filled with enough cosmetics to open a booth on the first floor of Macy’s.
Carefully he arranged the bottles and brushes and tubes and jars and compacts and eyelash boxes on the vanity, putting the base makeup on the left, eye makeup in the middle, and blushers, rouges, and lipsticks on the right. He arranged the packages of glamour-length Lee Press-on Nails along the front. He had a collection of all colors, from frosty white to blackish-red.
Slowly he reached into the shopping bag he’d brought and took out a white plastic garbage bag that was slightly inflated with air. He undid the twist tie and took out the length of long ash-blond hair. Carefully he arranged it on the left-most of the wig stands. Then be took out a facial cutout of Vienna Farrow, which this month graced the cover of Vogue, and pinned it onto the wig stand.
His excitement was almost more than he could bear.
He thought: Now I will become her. I will be Vienna Farrow!
Solemnly be covered his head with a skin-tone cap so that be looked entirely bald. Then he began the painstaking process of making himself up. It began with the skin-tone base, shading, eyelashes, and lipstick. Then the scarlet fingernails.
He stared into the mirror. It was Vienna’s hairless face, grotesque but beautiful.
His penis throbbed. The blood rushed madly through his veins.
Now for the crowning touch.
He reached for the wig stand, reverently lifted Vienna’s scalp off it, and carefully set it atop his own head. He had shampooed it several times, but under the smell of soap he could still detect the odor of decayed flesh. That didn’t bother him in the least.
Now he was Vienna Farrow.
This—this was what he’d always wanted. To become a cover girl. To be Miss Bitch.
A tortured gasp escaped his lips, and in a frenzy be grabbed a tube of blood-red lipstick and slashed it across his—Vienna’s—face.
The lipstick became his knife and blood both. Violently be slashed gashes across himself, bloodying himself unrecognizably, until his face was a mass of scarlet. Without his even touching himself the juices leapt from his penis and burst through the air.
He slumped, his body shaking with spasms of tortured pleasure. In the moment of death he had come truly alive.
Cleaning up, without the benefit of water, using only cold cream, Kleenex tissues, and cotton balls, took a lot longer than his preparations. Everything was put back where it belonged, the makeup in the drawers and Vienna’s hair on the wig stand, framing her cutout face. He would leave it here for the next time.
When he left, carefully locking the door behind him, he took the garbage bag containing the used tissues and cotton balls with him. He would toss it into a trashcan somewhere along the way.
His excitement was still almost feverish. He had scalped Vienna Farrow and become her.
There was a whole city of gorgeous women out there—thousands of Vienna Farrows. Thousands of female identities for Miss Bitch to choose from.
He had killed before. In Chicago, Seattle, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Miami, and Kansas City. He had even slashed some of them. But never had he scalped and taken their hair for himself. This was new.
And never before had he killed in this, his own city. Until now, the old adage had always held true: he didn’t shit where he ate.
But he didn’t let that stop him any longer. He’d never been caught before, so why should he fear it now?
Miss Bitch was invincible.
Suddenly he felt like a child let loose in a candy store. He hummed happily to himself
Next time, Miss Bitch would be a brunette.
Part Two
Over the Rainbow
April-September 1989
Chapter 27
“ ‘Oh! poverty is a weary thing, ‘tis full of grief and pain,’ “ Edwina quoted with a melancholy sigh. “I don’t remember how the rest of the verse goes, but it’s right on the mark, my sweet, right on the mark.”
Hallelujah watched her mother worriedly as Edwina eyed the lavish display of larcenously expensive clothes in the window of Ungaro on Madison Avenue.
“Oh, to be able to go in and buy that little red number without compunction,” Edwina said wistfully, ‘it sings to me, Hal. It really does.”
“Ma,” Hallelujah scoffed, “clothes don’t sing.”
Edwina gave Hallelujah a compassionate and, above all, pitying look. “Don’t they, my sweet?”
“No, Ma, they don’t. You don’t have to spend money to enjoy yourself, y’know? There’re lots of freebie pleasures in life.”
“Name one.”
“Well . . . it’s spring, Ma! The trees are green and the sky is blue—”
“Are they?” Edwina murmured absently, her head tilted as she regarded the little red dress longingly.
“You’ve got your health.”
“Have I?”
“And there’s always window-shopping!”
“That does it!” Edwina said in disgust. “I’m going right in and buying that dress.” She marched up to the door, and it was all Hallelujah could do to pull her back. “Ma, we can’t afford it!” she cried. “Get hold of yourself!”
“Hal, dammit! Can’t you see that I can’t afford not to buy it? I’m going to go absolutely bonkers, certifiably stark raving mad if I can’t buy something right away. Clothes are my weakness! My bread and water. My oxygen!”
“Ma, like I don’t know what’s gotten into you. You’re getting like totally tragic. Like one of those ancient Greek women. You know, Phaedra or Medea?”
Edwina turned to her daughter slowly. “Since when,” she asked in a faint monotone, “does a punk kid like you know so much ab
out the Greek classics?”
“Since Les told me all about them, that’s when. He’s a real bookworm.”
“Books . . .” Edwina sighed dreamily. “It seems ages since I’ve splurged on a stack of frivolous slick oversize art books. But they cost so damn much!”
“Nobody’s twisting your arm to buy ‘em at Rizzoli, Ma. You could go downtown and try the used bookstores. C’mon! Why don’t you go right now?”
Edwina shuddered and made a face of pure terror. “All that dust! All those dog-eared pages! Those mouse-chewed spines! Hal, you know how my allergies will revolt! Besides, there’s something else your poor penniless Ma has to do today.” Shake the money tree, she didn’t say. A tree which, so far, had proved depressingly barren and totally fruitless.
“No, my sweet, my pet, the love of my life,” Edwina continued miserably, “what your poor, poor Ma needs desperately is not to rummage through stacks of remainders, but to find herself a money-producing job so she can buy all the nonessential essentials she so desperately needs. Oh, why the hell doesn’t Geoffrey Beene or Oscar de la Renta or Bill Blass need a new, experienced, loyal right hand? Can you tell me that?”
“ ‘Cause,” Hallelujah answered with incisive reasonableness, “nobody who’s got one of those plum jobs is about to throw it out the window. ‘Cept for my ma. And now she’s goin’ around tearing out her hair and acting positively mental. Is it normal? I ask you.”
“Sweetie, are you certain spring recess isn’t over?”
“You’re becoming impossible to be around, Ma. You should hear yourself! All you ever do is moan and groan and complain about money! I mean, enough is enough.”
“Money makes the world go round, kiddo.”
“You’ve got to control yourself. You’re obsessed! You gotta learn to relax.”
“Hal, sweet Hal, why do you think we’re doing Madison Avenue?” Edwina asked in her most patient sweet voice. “This is urban relaxation.”
“Unh-unh.” Hallelujah shook her head. “Not for you, it isn’t. It’s an exercise in masochism.”
“Hal! Where on earth do you pick up words like that at your tender age?”
Hallelujah prodded her and slid her mother a meaningful sideways look. “I think we’d better get a move on, Ma,” she suggested in a low voice. “We’ve been standing out here too long, and some of the salespeople are starting to stare at us. You think maybe they think we’re like casing the joint or something?”
“Yes, sweetie, you’re right,” Edwina said with resignation. “They are staring. I suppose maybe we should get a move on. If I stand here and have to look at that little red dress for one more minute, I might be severely tempted to do something utterly rash.”
Hallelujah looked alarmed. “Then let’s go!” Gently she put a protective arm around Edwina’s waist and led her away.
From the Ungaro boutique they drifted aimlessly uptown along ten more blocks of that thieves’ paradise where the tiniest shops rented for sixteen thousand dollars a month and up, and were chock-full of nonessential luxuries. Normally, strolling along this golden stretch of Madison Avenue was to Edwina what psychotherapy was to people with troubled minds. For her, nothing under the sun could quite compare with the thrill of discovery—except the thrill of acquisition.
But today, she thought morosely, Hal was right. Doing Madison Avenue was an exercise in masochism. Never before had so many tempting goodies met her hungry eyes. Pansies and butterflies fashioned of diamonds and sapphires at Fred Leighton; extravagant majolica cachepots at Linda Horn; luxurious smooth cotton sheets embroidered with silk thread at Pratesi. And clothes! Madison Avenue was the world’s showcase for her single greatest weakness: Givenchy, St. Laurent, Sonia Rykiel . . . Just the sight of all those glorious, unattainable clothes was enough to make her knees go weak.
“Money,” Edwina, almost on the verge of tears, sighed painfully. “I could have anything my little heart desires. All it takes is gobs and gobs of money! Never say I didn’t warn you, Hal! Happiness can be bought and don’t you ever believe differently!” Then she collapsed against Hallelujah and sought comfort by hugging her daughter. “Oh, sweetie!” she moaned. “How are we going to pull through this horrid dry spell?”
“I dunno,” Hallelujah said with a disgusted sigh, “but it sure better be soon! I don’t know if I can put up with you much longer.”
It was glorious in Central Park. The trees were decked out with new green finery, and overhead, crisp starched white clouds raced across a china-blue sky. On the other side of Fifty-ninth Street, the Plaza Hotel rose in wedding-cake splendor.
The model was too busy to appreciate the weather or the view. Hands in her skirt pockets, she posed fluidly beside the hansom cab and its tired, droopy-headed old nag. A powerful electric fan hooked up to a big portable generator was blowing her waist-long hair high into the air, like the towering flame from a funeral pyre. This photo shoot, for July’s Vogue, was her third job this week. The wide-shouldered ten-thousand-dollar beaded bolero jacket on her back, worn with washed-out Levi’s, was from Lacroix’s fall collection. Olympia had negotiated a six-page spread.
“That’s right, baby! Keep moving!” Alfredo Toscani shouted approvingly as he crouched in front of Billie Dawn, his Leica clicking rapidly. “Keep those shoulders moving from left to right . . .”
The crowd of curious onlookers that had gathered to watch were kept at a ten-foot distance by the fashion coordinator, Alfredo’s camera-loading assistant, the dresser, the hairdresser, the makeup artist, and Olympia Arpel, whose sharp eyes, looking over the Ben Franklins at the tip of her nose, were shrewdly calculating and missed nothing. In the nearby rented trailer, watched over by a mounted policeman who hoped to be called upon to be in some of the shots, were racks of more clothing and piles of props. The stench of horse droppings from the row of hansom cabs waiting for customers was strong along this stretch of Central Park South. It was all Billie Dawn could do to keep from wrinkling her nose in disgust. The fan blew the odor of manure right up into her face. At first she had tried taking shallow breaths through her mouth, but Alfredo wanted her to pose with her lips closed, so she was forced to breathe through her nose. The odor assailed her, churning her stomach round and round.
To the people who had gathered to watch, her unself-conscious poses and striking beauty elicited pangs of envy. Obviously she was one of God’s chosen few. She had talent, looks, and surely a sky-high income. Little could they imagine how precious little glamour was involved. How, even while she posed superbly, seemingly without a care in the world, it was all she could do to stifle her nausea.
“Okay, everybody,” Alfredo called out at last. He passed the camera to his assistant. “That’s it for these rags. We shoot the red-and-black St. Laurent next.” He clapped his hands noisily. “Take five!”
His staff let out a collective breath of relief. Someone switched off the fan and Billie Dawn’s shining hair dropped. Thankfully, the miasma of manure receded almost instantly. Tabs popped off diet-soda cans and coffee gurgled. The fashion coordinator brought Billie Dawn a Styrofoam cup of mineral water.
“You were fantabulous, baby!” Alfredo cried. He bowed over Billie’s hand and kissed her fingertips noisily. “Supersensational!”
Her nose was poked in the cup of water, but she had to laugh anyway. No one could lavish extravagant praise quite like Alfredo Toscani. She adored the way he created those big sumptuous nonsense words. Then, in mid-laugh she suddenly caught sight of Duncan Cooper. He was standing over with the onlookers, herring-bone sports jacket slung over his shoulder.
As though in slow motion, she handed Alfredo her cup. “Excuse me a minute, Al, will you? I see somebody I have to talk to.”
“Sure, Superdelicious, go right ...” His voice trailed off, and he placed a fingertip on his lips. “My, my. You do have good taste.”
Billie gave him a playful punch, and pushing her hair back from her face, headed over to the plastic surgeon with that leggy coltish stride of her
s. When they were face-to-face, they stared silently at each other for a moment.
Billie Dawn couldn’t help but notice Duncan Cooper’s professional scrutiny of her face.
“I look fine, Doc,” she assured him with a smile. “Even in the sunshine. It’s really incredible. You should see the way it prints! Do you know, Alfredo swears it’s an improvement over the first shots he ever took of me?” She added softly, “Thanks again, Doc.”
“Don’t thank me, thank Olympia. She’s the one who twisted my arm.”
“Thanks to both of you, then.” Billie Dawn hooked her arm through his, guilelessly leaned her head against his shoulder, and led him over to the folding picnic table that held a huge coffee urn and an ice chest. She gestured. “There’s coffee, diet soda, and mineral water if you want some.”
He shook his head. “No, thanks, not for me. I’ve got to run in a minute. I just wanted to drop by to see how my favorite ex-patient is getting on.”
She smiled. “Do you drop by to see all your ex-patients, Doc?”
He grinned. “Nope. Just the pretty ones.”
“Well, bless my soul . . .” Alfredo said from behind them. “If it isn’t Dr. Frankenstein.”
Duncan turned around. “Al!” he said warmly, and held out his hand in greeting.
Al shook his hand and winked conspiratorially. “I just wanted to say hello to my former sort-of-son-in-law. I’ll leave you two to your own devices!” Then he turned and walked off.
“Duncan?” Olympia, bearing down on them, asked with asperity, “Don’t you have anything better to do than bother honest working folk? This is Billie’s third shoot this week, and unless my eyes deceive me, this is the third time you’ve shown up. Don’t you have a face to lift or a nose to bob?” But her eyes crinkled with warm humor and she held up a cheek for a kiss.
Duncan laughed and bussed her cheek. “That’s what I love about you, Olympia. You’re all heart.”