The Delphi Room

by The Delphi Room (v5. 0) (epub)

  Yours very truly,

  Brinkley

  P.S. Astaire and Ginger, those were the days. I do not blame you for swearing off Gene Kelly after the Shadowman appropriated his raincoat.

  Dear Brinkley,

  All right. Fine. Truce. (For the record, I don’t think I have to worry about you stopping your letters. An empty threat. You would be just as lonely as me. No one else is accepting your mail.) We don’t seem to have an endless supply of paper, and there’s no sense in using it up fighting about things that are irrelevant now.

  My mother always insisted that my father had been hit by a car. (An existential car, perhaps? A meaningless Mustang with no muffler? And if she was going to lie to me, why didn’t she think up a better lie than that?) So if the topic ever came up, I always insisted the same. But I know what really happened. Clearly, some legacies are inescapable. And you’re right, the Shadowman may have targeted my dad first, and after doing away with him, eventually fixated on me.

  I never was an optimist; that much is obvious. But you have given me hope. Because even though you’re a wimp, you’re a good wimp. Someone as good as you could never be left here for Eternity. Even if I deserve this fate, I refuse to believe that you do.

  I thought I was going to Heaven, thought I would meet my dad. (Maybe he’s locked in the room next door. Does irony exist in Hell?) But given the circumstances, the pain I have caused those I love, I see now that I was far too generous with myself in expecting that there would be any measure of mercy for me. I could’ve tried harder to resist the Shadowman’s threats. Your case is entirely different, though. If this is Hell, then Heaven must exist and there must be a place in it for you. I am terrified that you will leave me. Terrified, and yet I hope, for your sake, that I’m right.

  Memories are the living monsters of this place. Everything in this room reminds me of what used to be, and everything in my mind is scourging me from the inside out. I remember staying with my mother and her then-boyfriend in a cabin by the sea. From the beach I would gather buckets of shells and then sit on the deck in the hot afternoons to lay them out in patterns. I remember the smell of sun on the wood cabin mixed with the salt from the sea, a heavy, warm, sad smell, the scent of tears. The shells, mostly broken, joined to form jagged hearts. Sometimes a small star. An unoriginal artist, I was. My mother and her boyfriend mostly stayed out of the heat, sitting inside in front of a fan, drinking beer and eating salted peanuts. I used to have dreams about Mr. Peanut dancing with me like Gene Kelly, and I often made my own monocle by biting the centre out of a cucumber slice. One evening my mother had too much to drink and went swimming, and nearly drowned. Her boyfriend had to rescue her. I sat on the deck watching them lying on the sand, her gasping and choking. Funny, I didn’t run down to the beach. I remember feeling like there was concrete in my shoes and in my hands. All I kept thinking was: I wish Delilah was here, I wish she had come with us. (She’d moved away, and we lost touch.)

  Do we really love the people we think we love?

  Sincerely, Velvet

  P.S. I caught myself humming “As Time Goes By.” Irony reaches new heights.

  Dear Velvet,

  My mother has her reasons, I am sure, for being satisfied with my current predicament. But I am confused as to why the Powers That Be have not recognized my noble intentions, have not recognized that I took care of her much more than she ever took care of me. She was a beautiful woman, so beautiful that even I, the one who saw her every day, could look at her and miss a breath. Well, I do not have to tell you, you have seen her. Perhaps every man’s mother assumes mythological proportions that refuse to be diminished. Beautiful people can be deadly. I think she often wondered how it was that she produced such a physically inferior child, and I always wondered why it was that God failed to outfit her with the biological blinders that so many parents wear, the ones that cause them to regard an average-looking child as beautiful, and to see the promise of genius in the child’s ability to stack blocks. She used to speak often of how beautiful my sister was, but she didn’t keep any photographs of her around.

  I was hit by a car and then I arrived here, without fanfare. I have said all that I can say about my mother and her feelings about me. If your mirror chooses to reveal anything else—it is out of my hands. Of course I was a sinner, but I tried hard, cobbled together an effort toward goodness, believing all the while that God was not as picky as God is at present demonstrating Itself to be. But maybe the concept of “trying” is really what is most hateful to the Higher-Up, such a pathetically human sweat- and tear-covered automatically self-excusing notion. If mercy were mine to give, I would lay it at your feet.

  Memory is a ghoulish machine and the cog of memory is regret. I will not be missed by many on Earth and this realization is scorching. But I think Clara misses me. I need to believe that. So I mattered to one person. Perhaps that is all we need. I think I matter to you, now. Clara was hard on me and perhaps a wee bit misguided in some of her advice, but I could depend on her to appear with some regularity. Dependability is a great quality in a friend. She was always there for me, and I could tell her all my troubles. We would talk about cinema and the difficulties inherent in transitioning from silents to talkies. When I was with Clara, I never felt lonely.

  Yours very truly,

  Brinkley

  P.S. Which Fred Astaire bit is your favourite?

  INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—

  VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—KITCHEN—MORNING

  Velvet sits at the kitchen table. Mae/Mother dances at the stove, sprinkling dill onto an omelette. She belts out “Fly Me to the Moon.”

  Velvet watches her, stone-faced. She gets up and goes to a cupboard, retrieves dishes and cutlery and sets the table for three.

  MAE/MOTHER

  Oh Vee, he’s a dream! A dream! What do you think? Should I really go blonde?

  She carries the frying pan to the table and places an omelette on Velvet’s plate.

  MAE/MOTHER

  Why did you set the table for three? He had to leave early this morning.

  (giggles)

  But he’ll be back!

  VELVET

  I set a place for Delilah, in case she comes back.

  MAE/MOTHER

  Huh? Oh, didn’t know she was missing.

  VELVET

  She went missing yesterday.

  MAE/MOTHER

  Jesus, Velvet, you’re carrying this imaginary friend thing a bit far. Get some real friends.

  Velvet starts screaming.

  MAE/MOTHER

  Velvet! Velvet!

  VELVET

  (screaming)

  I want Delilah! I want Delilah! I want Delilah!

  Mae/Mother slaps her. Silence, like a box, shuts Velvet in. Then come the tears.

  MAE/MOTHER

  Oh honey, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Mommy’s sorry, you were hysterical, you have to slap hysterical people, I saw it in a movie! Oh, don’t cry, don’t cry, no reason to cry!

  Mae/Mother rocks her back and forth.

  MAE/MOTHER

  Eat your omelette, baby. I put dill in it, just the way you like. How ’bout some cookies, too? I bought the ones with Smarties in them.

  She runs to a cookie jar on the counter and brings it to the table.

  MAE/MOTHER

  Does Delilah want a cookie?

  VELVET

  Delilah’s not here. She moved away. I don’t know where. And she hates Smarties.

  MAE/MOTHER

  Oh. Well, more for us then, right? Eat your omelette, Vee. No more screaming. It’s a beautiful, beautiful, glorious, fabulous, wonderful day!

  (giggles to herself)

  He’ll be back, oh yes, he’ll be back . . .

  VELVET

  What happened to my dad?

  Mae/Mother is still. A moment passes.

  MAE/MOTHER

 
(slowly)

  I told you what happened. There was an accident.

  VELVET

  You said something else. I heard you say something else.

  MAE/MOTHER

  No, Velvet. You must’ve been dreaming.

  VELVET

  I heard what you said. I heard you.

  MAE/MOTHER

  There was an accident. He was hit by a car. You know this. I’ve told you. He loved you, Vee. Pinky swear.

  Velvet is silent. She stares at her lap.

  MAE/MOTHER

  Honey . . .

  VELVET

  (looks up suddenly)

  I don’t like your date.

  MAE/MOTHER

  (sharply)

  What? You haven’t even met him.

  Velvet shrugs.

  MAE/MOTHER

  Eat your omelette.

  VELVET

  I don’t want my omelette.

  MAE/MOTHER

  Then starve.

  Silence.

  VELVET

  I’ll have a cookie.

  MAE/MOTHER

  Fine then. Have a cookie.

  INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—

  VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—BEDROOM—NIGHT

  Velvet lies in bed, staring at the ceiling. Her bedroom door opens. She sits up.

  VELVET

  Delilah?

  The Toothpick Man enters.

  TOOTHPICK MAN

  Hi there, little lady. Thought I’d stop by and say hello. I was just on my way to the bathroom.

  INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—

  VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—BEDROOM—LATER

  Velvet is sitting up in bed writing Roman numerals in a notebook by the light of her bedside lamp. She tears the page from her notebook and fashions it into a paper airplane, then gets out of bed and drags a chair to the window. Once balanced on the chair, she opens the window and stares at the moon, a lidless, sightless eye. She aims her paper plane toward it, and sends it on its red-eye flight.

  VELVET

  (softly)

  Delilah. Come back.

  INT. VELVET’S HELL—MIRROR—BRINKLEY’S BEDROOM—NIGHT

  Clara sways, grace emanating like candle flame.

  CLARA BOW

  (sings)

  “Sleep my love and peace attend thee

  All through the night . . .

  Guardian angels God will lend thee

  All through the night . . .

  Soft the drowsy hours are creeping

  Hill and dale in slumber steeping

  Love alone his watch is keeping

  All through the night . . .”

  Brinkley dances, a slow shuffle.

  CLARA BOW

  That’s a corking good song. I’m so glad ya taught it ta me. Doesn’t put me ta sleep, but still a nice song.

  BRINKLEY

  When you sing, my mind is clear. I have no memories.

  CLARA BOW

  That’s like when I act. No memories. I don’t believe in the past or the future, I only believe in right now.

  BRINKLEY

  I like that philosophy. You are a wise woman.

  CLARA BOW

  Ya needta distract yaself. A good death scene is the best distraction.

  BRINKLEY

  You were the best die-er ever. Your final scene in Children of Divorce should be canonized.

  CLARA BOW

  No pope’s gonna canonize a movie, ’specially not one called Children of Divorce.

  BRINKLEY

  My mother was crying again this morning.

  CLARA BOW

  So how ya gonna help yaself? Ya wanna listenta her whinin’ the rest uh yer life?

  BRINKLEY

  I don’t know how to help myself! My nervous pills aren’t working! I hate the racket she makes! What should I do? Tell me!

  CLARA BOW

  I can’t tell ya, baby. Ya gotta figure it out on yer own. The answer’s right in front uh you. Simple as can be. You’ll figure it out. Trust me, baby. Take it from me, the best die-er in the business.

  BRINKLEY

  I tried playing Gilda for her. That’s her favourite movie. But she threw her glass at the television. My heart hurts, Clara. And my head.

  CLARA BOW

  (shrugs)

  That’s what a heart does. Damn thing won’t stop. World could blow up and there’d be a buncha hearts left ovah, still tickin’, feelin’ the pain.

  BRINKLEY

  May I kiss you?

  CLARA BOW

  Fer you, I got plenty uh kisses.

  Brinkley approaches her cautiously, then stops short.

  CLARA BOW

  You’re a shy one, aren’t ya? I love that. Just like a little boy I loved.

  BRINKLEY

  A little boy?

  CLARA BOW

  My little friend who lived downstairs. He burned to death, right in front uh me. His mother screamin’ like a crazy person, not doin’ nothin’ ’bout it. I triedta put ’im out but . . .

  (starts to cry)

  Kiss me quick, Brinkley, kiss me quick!

  He kisses her, tentative and tender.

  CLARA BOW

  Ya look just like ’im.

  (starting to fall apart)

  I loved him, I loved him, I loved him, I loved him!

  BRINKLEY

  Don’t cry, don’t cry! I love you, I love you, I love you!

  CLARA BOW

  I love ya too, kid. But ya gotta stop bein’ such a wimp. Yer ma deserves ’er sufferin’, that’s what I say. Lady’s a fuckin’ bitch. But you, you shouldn’t hafta suffer. You’re an angel.

  BRINKLEY

  Do you really think so? I would not let anyone else say that about her, but you’re special. I know you think she’s crazy. I have tried to be a good son. One time she burned me with a cigarette, when she’d had too much to drink. But I believe it was an accident. She could be so kind when she was happy, so creative. We built lots of forts together. And watched movies. We watched Gilda every Sunday, like a religion.

  CLARA BOW

  Yer ma’s definitely crazy, hate ta break it to ya. But you got yer head on straight. Ya done right by ’er, no question. Took care uh her like nobody else woulda. It’s time fer you ta be free. So if ya don’t want the bitch around anymore, then put on yer thinkin’ cap, kid.

  Dear Brinkley,

  You’re right: Clara Bow is the most beautiful movie star in the world. But somehow the most frightening. Seeing you together in the mirror terrifies me. Maybe we shouldn’t talk about the movie memories anymore. I don’t know what you’re seeing on your mirror/movie screen, but probably I don’t want to be reminded. Then again, what else do we have to talk about, other than the fact that we’re looking more freakish by the minute, or I am, anyway. Clara is a tough cookie. I admire that about her. Wish I’d been tougher. Tough enough to kick the Shadowman in the balls. I used to let Davie walk all over me, too. But I admired his bravado, wanted some of it to rub off on me. And he was loyal, I’ll give him that. He wasn’t afraid of me.

  I have to say that I agree with Clara Bow’s assessment of your mother, although I know you’re willing to take it from her and not from me. So I’m not trying to start an argument. I just understand why you love Clara so much, because it’s like she gets to say all the things you can’t. Sort of like me and the Shadowman, only I hate him and he terrifies me, a lot of the time. But he does say lots of things that other people maybe wouldn’t, gets to wear lots of costumes that other people don’t. Maybe I’m jealous of him, because he is free to be as mean as he wants—he always gets away with it.

  The Shadowman hasn’t shown up here lately, which is weird considering I’m in Hell. Since he often made my life on Earth rather hellish, I’d expect him to be camping out in this room
fulltime. I should shut my mouth, ’cause next thing you know he’ll make an entrance and I’ll have deviled egg on my face—ha ha, bad pun, sincere apologies. I’ve learned that the other shoe is always about to drop.

  Here’s the last thing I’ll say (for a while, anyhow) about your colourful painter of a mother: If she did indeed burn you with one of her ever-present cigarettes, I doubt very much that it was an accident and therefore when the time was right, you should have snuck up on her and put a pillow over her face once and for all. That’s just my opinion and I’m not saying it to upset you, I’m saying it because I like you a lot.

  I used to have recurring dreams that I was a Victorian-era scribe ravaged by TB. Oh, why couldn’t I have been born way earlier and died of consumption instead?!! Maybe I shouldn’t have read so much poetry. I think it should come with a Surgeon General’s Warning. Not that there is a direct, provable link between poetry and suicide, but you do have to travel the depths to come up with some decent lines, and not everyone who goes down comes up. Obviously, the same is true of prose as well, as evidenced by me. But it really wasn’t writing that killed me, it was the Shadowman. The thing is, he’s so creative that I probably got all my best inspirations—and therefore a measure of happiness—from him.

  I’ve taken another “escape hatch inventory” of my room. This place makes Fort Knox look like Legoland.

  I also, in a fit of despair, plucked all the eyes out of the stuffed animals that are sitting on the bed, staring (formerly staring) at me dumbly. Now I’m wracked with remorse. The eyes are the window to the soul, and I just broke all the windows. Not that stuffed animals have souls, but they have pretend-souls and that’s better than nothing. And let’s face it, maybe I don’t have a soul, either. If I do, it’s probably like my brain: a doily. In other words, a lot of holes in it and not very useful.

  Sincerely, Velvet

  P.S. Even though it’s not a fancy dance sequence, the Fred Astaire bit I loved best was in Funny Face, the part when he sings “’S Wonderful” with Audrey Hepburn.