Another Jekyll, Another Hyde

by Daniel Nayeri

  Still, once a particular horror has been blamed on a mind trick, it is impossible to cover up a similar occurrence that way again. And that was the reason that, as she walked down the aisle and took Charles’s hand, Nicola Vileroy was thinking of one thing only: how to put an end to the party. Because you can’t pull off the same trick twice, and she could feel herself changing now. Even though she had her old body back, last spring’s weaknesses were far from gone, her body struggling and then failing, so that soon she would be the plain-faced nurse again.

  After the ceremony, the crowd adjourned to the lavish banquet hall, and Nicola Vileroy retreated to the bride’s room, where the ancient governess doubled over and heaved. She looked up to examine her flawless face in the mirror — though not flawless any longer, because now she had a mark here, a blemish there.

  She looked down at the train of her dress. Was it that long before? Or had her body shrunk just a tiny bit? She had only about an hour, and then she would have to retreat to her nightly solitude . . . it had come early tonight. Every night since regaining her beautiful body, she had shrunk back into the body of the nurse for a few hours of private recovery. Usually, this was the time she slept. But tonight she couldn’t leave before her guests. She had to hide, since this was a ritual she couldn’t avoid. Not yet.

  Not to worry, she told herself. Very soon she would regain all her previous strength and the nurse would appear less and less, and then maybe never. Earlier in the fall, when she had not yet repaired the governess Vileroy, the school nurse had been the biggest part of her. At first twenty-three hours a day, then eighteen, then ten, as the beautiful French matron recovered at night. Then there had been the incident with the Darling children, and the nurse was beaten and no longer able to bear the brunt of the everyday. Luckily, by then Vileroy had recovered — her favorite character to play — and now . . . now she was almost finished with the nurse’s tiresome face . . . though it still plagued her, sometimes appearing unexpectedly.

  She slathered makeup onto her graying skin, pulled herself to her full height, and swept out of the bride’s room. The reception was already in full swing and Madame Vileroy marveled at the guests’ capacity for frivolity and waste. Look at their foolish preening and pretend happiness. After thousands of parties and balls and galas and coronations attended over the centuries, this old governess could almost hear each of the guests ticking things off lists. Even the ones who weren’t here to suck up to the groom or finish off a business deal or win an invitation to Mrs. Wirth’s Christmas party had their agendas. She eyed a middle-aged man in a cheap suit, sitting alone in a corner. He didn’t belong here. He was probably here as someone’s date, and he looked like he was worrying about a hundred small things.

  Work is not everything. I will have fun like a normal person. Work is not everything. I will have fun like a normal person.

  Madame Vileroy nodded to the man and plucked his name from among his thoughts. Paulie. She would keep this for later. Then she spotted her target. Thomas was sitting alone at an empty table, while his friends were gathered around the bar.

  “Hello, Thomas,” she said as she accepted a glass of champagne and sat in the chair beside her new stepson.

  “Hi, Nicola,” said Thomas. “Look, I’m thinking of taking off.”

  “Call me Mom.”

  “No,” said Thomas. Madame Vileroy was not surprised at his response, since this wasn’t the first time they had had this conversation. He got up and started to walk away.

  “Leaving so soon?” Madame Vileroy asked.

  “I’m tired.”

  From one side of the room, the photographer emerged and began snapping candid shots of Madame Vileroy and Thomas. From another side, a trio of women started to descend on the governess with their oohs and aahs about the wedding and her dress and her exquisite taste in cakes (“There is no food like devil’s food!”). Madame Vileroy saw the middle-aged man watching her from his lonely corner. She made a show of ignoring the women to approach him. As she came closer, she saw him sitting up higher, looking around nervously as if he expected the bride to be approaching some invisible person sitting next to him.

  “Hello, Paulie,” she said, and took the seat beside him. The police commissioner. That’s handy. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

  The man’s watery eyes grew large, and he pointed to himself and said, “Me?”

  Madame Vileroy laughed. “Who else? Look, darling, I have a favor to ask of my favorite police commissioner. Though I really shouldn’t make you work.”

  “Why not?” The man was looking eager now, and curious. He tried to make a joke. “Your other guests are working.”

  “I’m sorry?” she asked, pretending not to get the joke, because it is always good to make people feel inadequate and grateful.

  “Um . . . my date,” he said. “Never mind . . . I just meant that Cindy’s networking with clients over there, so I have time. What can I do for you?”

  Madame Vileroy glanced at the chattering redhead wearing a pantsuit to a wedding. “Lovely. Well, I know you’re enjoying the party. People come to these things to have fun, after all.” And then she laughed and touched his hand. “But since you’re offering, I’m worried about my new stepson. I think he may be under the influence of the wrong sort. . . . I’m not sure. . . . I think some of his friends may have crashed the wedding . . . and maybe even carried in unsavory substances.” She whispered the last part and looked at him with whimpering eyes. Did he see the broken left eye? Probably not. She had a way of displaying or hiding it according to her needs.

  Commissioner Paulie practically jumped up from his chair. “Which one’s your stepson?” he asked, and Vileroy smiled with genuine satisfaction — because this oblivious man was the only person at the party who didn’t know exactly who was who. His world was made up of suspects and victims and perps, so much so that he apparently hadn’t even noticed Thomas standing in front next to his father throughout the ceremony.

  “That one,” she said, and pointed to a circle of boys that now included Thomas, Connor, and an out-of-place John Darling. “The little one . . . the one with glasses.” And then she pointed right at John Darling. “That’s my Thomas. Please be discreet.”

  A few minutes later, Madame Vileroy was at her new husband’s side, surrounded by acquaintances, hangers-on, and well-wishers. From the corner of her eye, she watched Commissioner Paulie in action.

  First he stood a foot away from them, expertly scanning each teenager to see which one was most likely on drugs. Which one was fidgeting? Which one had red eyes?

  She willed him to move faster. Already she could feel herself losing the battle to keep her body for a few more minutes.

  In the middle of Mrs. Wirth’s monologue about upcoming fund-raising activities at Marlowe, she began coughing uncontrollably.

  “Are you OK, Nicola?” Mrs. Spencer asked.

  She nodded and dabbed her lips, now just a bit thinner, with a napkin.

  Commissioner Paulie had zeroed in on Thomas and was approaching the boys. He took care to place distance between Thomas (the perp) and John Darling (the victim). Having recovered somewhat, Madame Vileroy smiled graciously at her guests.

  The commissioner pulled Thomas aside. At first they talked quietly.

  Then Thomas began gesticulating, and the commissioner grabbed his wrist.

  Thomas shoved him away.

  It took only a second for Paulie to pin Thomas’s hands behind his back.

  “Oh, my goodness,” said Nicola as she pulled on Charles’s tuxedo sleeve to distract him from his conversation with Mr. Wirth. “What’s happening to Thomas?”

  Charles looked up and immediately started to rush over to his son. By now, the whole room had grown hushed and everyone was watching. Before Charles could reach the commissioner, Paulie had pulled a small plastic bag of herbs out of Thomas’s pocket.

  “What in the hell is going on here?” Charles demanded. “Who are you?”

  “Don’t
worry, sir,” said Commissioner Paulie. “I’m taking this boy in. You just go on with your party.”

  “That is my son, you loon!” Charles roared. “Let him go right now!”

  The commissioner looked baffled. His face went white, and he began to stammer. “But . . . but . . . she told me . . .”

  A few snickers and disbelieving sighs drifted from the crowd of guests. The police commissioner’s wife, Cindy, stood by, horrified, probably hoping that she hadn’t introduced Paulie to anyone important. The commissioner was humiliated. From across the room, Nicola Vileroy challenged him with her eyes, daring him to see the truth. A blue and broken flash telling him that it didn’t matter what these people thought. He collected himself and faced Charles. “I’m sorry, but I have to take him in,” he said. Suddenly his job was everything to him. “I have to do my job.”

  With that, Thomas was dragged away.

  Charles Goodman-Brown forced out a funny speech asking the guests to stay and enjoy the party. He and his new wife made a quick and strategic exit — he to the police station, she to the warmth and privacy of her nightly bath, where she shut herself each night, avoiding Charles, communing only with the colonies of moths who, for a few nightly hours, were the only witnesses to the whereabouts of Marlowe’s missing nurse.

  Journal entry #1

  Let’s get this over with. I have to write at least four hundred words on “how I feel” for Dr. Alma. Well, Doctor, I feel fine. Or, to put it another way: the way that I feel, physically, emotionally, and most of all psychologically, is a state of being that would best be described as “fine.” Thank you, Doctor, for asking. Now that I’ve expressed myself, I feel better than fine. Maybe even “fine and dandy.”

  That was only 76 words. This is brutal.

  I guess I can talk about my mom. She had long sandy hair and a thin face, high cheekbones. She’s been gone for years now. My dad says, “She is no longer with us,” as though she ran off into the woods of Central Park and never showed her face again. I think he still can’t say “died,” even though the funeral was the summer before eighth grade. I remember random things, like a jingle she hummed all the time. A ruby bracelet she dropped down a sink. Our monkey-face tournaments. Dumb stuff.

  The psychiatrist they gave me back then was a fat guy named Jeff. My dad buried himself in work. He’s a business guy. He’d be on the phone and say something like, “Tell them we can’t put it in the contract, but we’ll move forward in good faith.” And I’d jolt from whatever I was doing — my mom’s name was Faith.

  Jeff was useless. I’d come home and yell about his idiotic suggestions. (“Why don’t you make a diorama of your mom’s photos?” Yeah, no thanks, numb nuts. She’s my dead mother, not my science fair project.) I’d always end up crying. Dad would listen, then we’d go up to the roof deck and throw paper planes off the side. If he was still at the office, I’d get online and he’d play an MMO with me. I bet he’s the only CEO dad who plays as a Dwarf Fighter. We’d just run around and talk. We haven’t done that in a long while. Our guild probably moved on.

  How many words has it been? 352.

  Apparently, I have depression issues just because Dad’s marrying the governess of the girl who dumped me last year and then flew off to Geneva. And I’ve been getting these flashbacks of stuff that never happened. Belle crying. Victoria attacking me. Whatever. Six. Words. Left. 398. 399. 400.

  The holding cell was an empty cement cube, except for the camera in the corner of the ceiling, the wooden bench along one wall, and the billionaire’s kid sitting on it. Thomas Goodman-Brown leaned on the wall, arms crossed. His tie and jacket were slung over the bench next to him. His collar was unbuttoned; his eyes were closed. He didn’t move. After about an hour he realized that no matter what you do in an empty room, you end up looking crazy. Sane people don’t hang out in empty rooms. It’s about as unnatural as a Twinkie. There’s no civilized way to be inside — if you sit and stare into space, you look like a cold-blooded killer; if you pace in circles, you’re a meth head. If you lie down on the cement floor . . . well, nobody lies down on that floor. So they set up a camera to watch it all — the perfect evidence. Some junior officer might put it up on YouTube, and no matter what you’re doing inside that vacant space, the comments will still say, Holeeee Sheeeeeeets. That iz 1 crazy F&#k!

  That’s what the camera was for — to make you look crazy.

  Thomas alternated between leaning on a wall and pacing. He had so much energy that he was shaking. His wing tips made an aggressive clacking sound. Through the long vertical window in the metal door of his cell, he saw an officer walk by and he ran to the door. But the officer was already gone. He tried to look as far down the hall as he could through the reinforced glass. Nothing.

  “It wasn’t even my weed!” Thomas roared with frustration and slammed his palm against the metal door. Then he remembered the camera. He took a second to slow his breathing, the way he was taught to do just before hitting a golf ball. Then he crossed the empty room and sat on the bench. He didn’t move for the next half hour.

  His dad would be proud. If the old man ever showed up.

  The door of the holding cell slammed open. Thomas looked up. An officer he hadn’t seen before stepped to the side to let Connor Wirth and two men in gray suits enter the cell. The commissioner who had brought him in from the wedding was probably at home asleep right now. “First of all, I don’t know why you took him to Washington Heights,” said Connor as he tossed a handkerchief to Thomas. Thomas wiped the ink from his fingers and looked at the two men in business suits. Neither of them looked older than twenty-three. “Who are they?”

  One of the men introduced himself, but Thomas immediately forgot the name. It felt strange to have Connor here. The two hadn’t talked for a long time, and Thomas had the impression that Connor didn’t approve of his new lifestyle. But now here he was, his best friend, bailing him out.

  Connor looked over at the cop. “Can we go now, Officer . . . ?”

  “Detective Mancuso,” said the thin, prematurely graying officer.

  “Oh, you got promoted, did you?” said Connor, with an awkward attempt at a laugh. Then he mumbled, “Um, good for you.”

  Detective Mancuso raised an eyebrow. “You paid the bill. You’re free to go. There’s just some paperwork in the front.”

  The two men, who Thomas now figured were lawyers, said something to Connor and followed Detective Mancuso outside to handle the last of the paperwork. Connor plopped down beside Thomas on the bench. “They look for real, huh? They’re just junior assistants to some paralegal working for my dad’s lawyer. No worries, though. You’re in good hands.” He settled back against the wall and took out his phone. “I’ve done this before,” he said, and shrugged as if he considered it no big deal to get arrested. When Thomas chuckled, Connor said, “What? You don’t believe I’m street? You just wait.”

  Thomas tried to think of a way to thank his friend, whom he had shut out of his life for the past couple of months. It was easy to see that Connor was trying to seem badass for his sake — maybe he thought that’s what it would take to be friends again.

  Connor was silent for a minute. Then he took out a tin of Altoids and popped one into his mouth. “Those guys,” he said, motioning toward the door where the lawyers had just left, “they’re from a firm that could have OJ’d Jesus, if you get what I’m saying.” Connor laughed at his own joke, which made Thomas feel better. Leave it to Connor to make a bad situation seem not so earth-shattering. “Let’s get going.”

  Thomas handed back the handkerchief and grabbed his coat, and they walked out of the cell. “So,” said Thomas, “since you’ve done this before, what comes next?”

  Connor shrugged. “Well, I’ve seen it done before.”

  Thomas approached the processing desk and signed a few papers Detective Mancuso thrust in front of him, one by one.

  “I’ll admit,” said Connor. “It did seem like a particularly one-sided episode of Justice Ma
kers. But the congressman marched in there all lawyered up, demanded a bunch of stuff, and the weenie cop totally let his son go.”

  Detective Mancuso, who was still standing behind them, twirling his key ring, cleared his throat.

  “I didn’t mean you, Detective Mancuso. Ever watch that show? It’s not bad. . . .” Connor’s voice trailed off, and Thomas couldn’t help but shake his head and snicker. The clerk handed him a plastic bag with his keys, wallet, and cell phone.

  “No, son,” said Detective Mancuso. He eyed Connor with a suspicious squint. “I don’t really watch that show.”

  “You know, I don’t even know why I watch it,” mumbled Connor, his eyes on the floor. “I’m so busy doing my homework and, uh, giving of myself to . . . the poor . . . um . . .”

  “Are you OK, son?” said Detective Mancuso, leaning in to check Connor’s eyes.

  Connor stepped back. “I’m just gonna wait outside. . . .”

  Thomas followed Connor and the lawyers to the exit. “Thanks, again,” he said to Connor as he pushed open the double doors. It was past midnight, chilly and clear. In the distance, Thomas could see the penthouse of the building where his father worked. The street was double-parked with squad cars. And still no sign of his dad.

  “No problem,” said Connor. His eyes looked a little glassy, and Thomas was about to ask if everything was all right when Connor started glancing around. Then, out of nowhere, he said, “You know what you should do? You gotta change all your status updates to: Eff the po-leese. Or: Just got out of jail. No! Call it the clink.”

  “Yeah,” said Thomas. “Hey, are you feeling OK?” Connor was usually pretty serious, never hyper or overexcited. Back when they hung out every day, Thomas used to joke that Connor did everything with the focus and gravity of a Navy SEAL. Now he was laughing it up, acting almost manic. But then again, Thomas wasn’t one to judge, since he hadn’t hung out with Connor in a couple of months. Maybe this was how he was nowadays. He had had his own girl problems.