Mr. Real

by Carolyn Crane

  Just then Alix’s mother came over, exhorting Sir Langley to start the Greek dance he’d promised. They had located the Zorba record.

  “We’re in a conversation,” Alix said.

  “Oh, the Kavanaughs have to go soon, and they were so excited…”

  “We’re done here.” Sir Kendall rose, adjusted his jacket. “Make hay while the sun still shines, that’s what I always say.”

  He strolled across the room with her mother. The hi-fi went on, Sir Kendall took Mrs. Kavanaugh’s hand, and the two of them began a complicated series of steps. A traditional Greek dance. Everybody started clapping rhythmically.

  “Whoa,” Karen said.

  “I know!”

  “Was that a threat?”

  “What?” Alix knit her brows. “I don’t think so.”

  “It seemed sinister,” Karen said.

  “But it’s true what he said,” Alix pointed out hopefully. “If you don’t get out in front of the truth, it can bulldoze you.” God, she’d wanted him to make a good impression on Karen.

  “I don’t like this,” Karen said.

  The doorbell rang. Nobody in the party seemed to hear or care. They were all mesmerized by Sir Kendall. “Don’t worry, everybody, we’ll get it,” Alix joked.

  She and Karen made their way into the dark little foyer to the door.

  “That’s the art of the threat,” Karen pointed out. “If he has to find out on his own, there’ll be trouble. That’s what he’s implying.”

  “It’s his spy talk,” Alix said. “It’s called being in character. It’s just how he is.” With that she swung open the door and there, standing on the stoop, looking like a hungry, hunted animal, was Paul.

  The area around his eye had turned outrageous shades of red, black, and blue, and the gashes on his eyebrow and cheekbone were swollen and red.

  How fast had he driven here? Had he run up the drive? He was practically panting. “You’re okay.”

  “Of course I’m okay,” she said, stunned. “How’d you…”

  “Wasn’t easy.” The sound of clapping came from the living room.

  Alix had a déjà vu of sorts, standing there, looking at Paul. A flashback to an old Sir Kendall fantasy—he comes to her door injured, fleeing from some spy world threat. Except Paul wasn’t fleeing. He was running to her, to protect her.

  Paul was so much more like that fantasy man than Sir Kendall could ever be. But beyond—more thorny, more dimensional, more exasperating, more intense, more….everything.

  “Is he here?” Paul growled.

  “Yeah, he’s here. As my guest.”

  “Paul.” Karen stuck out her hand. “I’m Karen. Alix’s friend. We met back in that class. You probably don’t remember.”

  “Of course I do. The partner in crime.” Paul shook her hand. “So you’ve met Sir Kendall. You get that this guy’s dangerous, right?”

  “You think he’s dangerous?” Karen said. “Why?”

  “Because he’s a delusional freak. You know what he was doing to her this morning?”

  “Oh, come on, Paul!” Alix turned to Karen. “He’s been fighting Sir Kendall since the second he walked in the door.”

  “For good reason,” Paul said.

  “Why? What was he doing to her?” Karen asked.

  “Paul misconstrued something.” Alix pushed Paul toward the door, pushing him away, though she was stupidly excited to be near him, like a breathless schoolgirl. “You need to get out of here, Paul.”

  Paul let himself be pushed just two steps before he planted his feet. “We had a deal.”

  “Which didn’t include anyone being chained to the radiator or you stalking us. Our deal was that I had twenty-four hours to prove the magic, that you’re on the porch at eleven-fifty tomorrow morning to see your stuff appear, and that you leave when you’re satisfied I’m telling the truth.”

  “If I’m satisfied.”

  “You will be. And you will leave. You will not pass Go.”

  “I’m not leaving you alone with him,” he said.

  “I’m not alone with him.”

  “This doesn’t sound like an all-night party to me. Where do you go after?”

  “What was he doing to her?” Karen asked.

  Alix scowled warningly at Paul. The hero, the fighter, the stand-up guy. His eye was so swollen it was partly closed. It pained Alix to look at it. “We’re sleeping over here,” she said. “It’s all fine.”

  “Let me stay, too. That’s all I ask,” Paul said, “that I stay with you. I just want to make sure you’re okay. I need to, okay?”

  Alix sniffed her displeasure.

  “I’m your guest, too, okay?” he said. “And I’ll ride back with you.”

  “You can’t. The plan was to go back after your stuff appeared, so Sir Kendall wouldn’t see. And what about Lindy?”

  “My buddy’s there taking care of her,” Paul said.

  “You let a strange guy in my house?”

  “You really want to talk about strange guys in your house? Fifteen more hours, okay? What do you have to lose?”

  Cries of Opa! went up from the living room.

  Paul furrowed his brow and beelined to the end of the foyer hall.

  Alix followed him. “You aren’t setting the terms here.”

  But Paul wasn’t listening. He stood at the threshold, mouth hanging open. “What the hell? What…the hell?“

  Alix followed his gaze to the living room. The music had stopped—her father was at the hi-fi, turning the record, and Sir Kendall was talking animatedly to her sisters.

  “What?” Karen asked.

  “His face,” Paul said. “A few hours ago his face was messed up worse than mine. He should have a lip the size of a sausage right now. But he has no injuries or bruises. It’s as if...” Paul squinted. “Is he wearing make-up or something?”

  “Try or something,“ Alix said.

  Karen asked, “You’re saying he looked like you?”

  “Worse.”

  “It’s true,” Alix said. “Sir Kendall’s lip was split. I thought he needed stitches.” Alix motioned to the side of her face. “Red all over. Puffy.”

  “Broken rib. At least one,” Paul added. “Got his hand, too.”

  “Shit.” Karen said.

  “What the hell?” Paul said.

  “Doesn’t add up, does it?” Alix said. “Unless there’s something different about him. Unless, perhaps, I’ve been telling the truth all along—”

  Her mother caught sight of them. She left her little group and came over, a vertical furrow forming in her forehead above her glasses as she approached.

  “Crap,” Alix muttered under her breath, thinking about Paul’s battered face, his likeness to Sir Kendall, the whole dark arts bit. Two strange and exotic men. It didn’t look good.

  “You must be Mrs. Gordon.” Paul beamed at her through his injuries. “I’m Paul Reinhardt, a friend of your daughter’s.” He held out his hand, “I’m sorry to show up like this, I just needed to check on a few things. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Alix’s mother introduced herself, taking Paul’s hand with concern. “Are you all right? Do you need medical attention, honey?”

  “Nah, I’m a fighter. I’m used to this.”

  “He’s my old martial arts teacher,” Alix put in.

  “Right,” Paul said. “And I want to say, happy anniversary. Thirty-three years, that is such a big accomplishment. Alix is so lucky.”

  Alix fake-smiled. He’d studied the invitation well.

  Paul said, “You two look so much alike.”

  “Not as much as you and Sir Langley,” Alix’s mother said.

  Again the doorbell rang.

  “Must be the Denali,” her mother said.

  “I’ll handle it.” Alix said, escaping back down the front hall. She opened the door to find a delivery boy from the liquor store, holding a cardboard box containing three bottles. She took the box from the boy and handed it to Paul, who’d fol
lowed her, and then grabbed her purse out of the closet.

  The delivery boy gaped at Paul. “Puma Reinhardt? Are you Puma Reinhardt?”

  “Hey there,” Paul said, still holding the box.

  “Puma, oh my god. I saw you in the fight against Brunswick. You were amazing. That kimura? Where you…” the boy did a quick pantomime, “bop, bop. Do you think...I’m sorry, do you think you could sign an autograph for me and this one friend of mine?”

  “I’d be happy to,” Paul said. “Brunswick is an excellent fighter. I was lucky to get that on him.”

  Karen took the box from Paul.

  “I’ll get some paper for your autograph, honey.” Alix’s mother said to the boy, going into the kitchen.

  “I’ll get it.” Alix followed her mother to the telephone-and-scrap-paper area of the kitchen. “We have this handled, Mom. You go enjoy your party.”

  Her mother eyed her. “Alix…”

  “What?”

  “These two fellows. It’s just a bit strange…”

  “What’s so strange about twins?” Alix pulled out paper and a pen. “Everything’s fine,” she snapped.

  “I know that you have a good head on your shoulders.”

  No you don’t know that, Alix thought, but she didn’t say it aloud.

  “Can’t a mother worry?”

  “I wish a mother wouldn’t. And that a mother would go back to her guests.” Alix fixed her mother with a serious gaze. “It’s all fine.”

  Alix’s mother tapped her on the nose, a maddening little warning thing she’d always done, and returned to the living room.

  Alix felt a rush of shame and guilt. Could she be more of a bitch? She brought the paper to the foyer and gave it to Paul, who was leaning in the doorway, answering the boy’s questions. So Paul was a known fighter?

  Karen pulled her back into the kitchen, set the box with the Denali bottles on the counter, and spoke in hushed tones. “So Sir Kendall was injured what? Seven hours ago? You didn’t tell me that. Alix—why does his face look so freaking perfect?”

  They gazed over the counter into the living room where the dancing had begun again.

  “He’s the Denali man. It’s part of his thing to look good. We always knew he wasn’t natural.”

  “We knew he wasn’t natural, but on the lines of Pinocchio or something. This…even Paul thinks he’s dangerous.”

  Alix shot a look into the foyer where Paul spoke with the boy. “He’s the most biased person on the planet when it comes to Sir Kendall.”

  “Let me ask you, where the hell did Sir Kendall learn those languages?” Karen asked. “Does he do a Greek dance on the commercial? He has insight into people, but as you say, he’s only been around humans for three days. He seems uncannily intelligent. Where exactly did he come from? What’s up with that weird charm of his? Even I wanted to fuck him, and he’s totally the opposite of my type. I think Sir Kendall could pose a supernatural level of danger. Worst case scenario, Sir Kendall is a kind of super-being. Or a monster.”

  Alix stared at her, stunned. “He’s not a monster.” Though she couldn’t help but flash on the handcuffs, the tickling. But was a man not entitled to mistakes in a new land? “He’s not.”

  Karen crossed her arms. “The writer E.M. Forster has this theory of Homo Fictus. It goes like this: fictional beings are not human beings. Fictional beings don’t sit and watch TV, or go to the dentist. They don’t buy soap. I mean, James Bond, he’s not cleaning the lint out of his belly button. He has super-skills in action, relationships, fighting, danger. Sir Kendall gets into a bloody fistfight, but he looks great for the party. Fast healing is a quality of a fictional being. And let’s not forget he appeared out of thin air.”

  “He’s not a monster,” Alix said.

  “What he’s not,” Karen said, “is human He’s not human. He makes veiled threats, too.”

  “He’s a spy, Karen. That’s what his commercial is all about, all cloak and dagger. It’s all he knows. I want him to have a chance to learn how to be human.”

  “I think it might’ve been better if he’d died when he drank Denali.”

  “Like hell!” She lowered her voice. “I can’t believe you. He’s different. He doesn’t get how this world works. And suddenly he deserves to be killed?”

  “He may not even be killable.”

  “Jesus!” Alix whispered.

  Karen held up her hands. “I’m just saying.”

  “He’s stuck here now because of me. And I’m not killing him. Plan B is to help him get along in this world. And you need to trust me.”

  Karen raised her eyebrows. As though to say, really? As though the idea of trusting Alix was humorous.

  It felt like a punch in the gut. “Yeah, guess not,” Alix snapped.

  “Oh, come on,” Karen said. “Joke.”

  Alix sniffed. Sir Kendall needed her. He needed her to show him things about life. He had nobody else to do that.

  The idea terrified her. Would she mess it up? Was he dangerous? But what was the alternative? Kill him? Let him loose as a super-spy?

  “Stop it. I’m sorry. Damn.” Karen pushed off the counter. “I have to get ready for my flight. But I changed my mind about telling him. Don’t tell him. Don’t let him know he’s different. If he’s a powerful and dangerous super-being, it’s better to keep that information away from him for as long as possible. Assuming he doesn’t know already. And we need to think about your safety.”

  “He’s not a monster.”

  “Don’t be mad. I can’t help where the information took me. Come on.”

  Alix walked Karen to the door, where Paul still stood. The delivery boy had left. “So what were you going to tell me?” Karen asked Paul. “What was Sir Kendall doing?”

  “Sir Kendall was tickling me,” Alix said.

  “Handcuffed. Don’t forget that part,” Paul said. “And the blood-curdling screams.”

  Karen raised her eyebrows.

  Alix felt the heat invade her face. She glared at Paul. “This from the most un-objective person on the planet.”

  “I’ll take care of her,” Paul said to Karen.

  She didn’t miss the look Karen gave him. The look that said, Yes, help her! Anger speared through Alix’s chest. Help the screw-up, take care of the screw-up. Like she was this imbecile.

  She gave them both the finger, one for each.

  Just then, Sir Kendall came strolling into the foyer. “They tell me my twin brother has arrived. What a capital surprise!”

  A deadly look appeared in Paul’s puffy eyes.

  Sir Kendall beamed, but it was false, somehow. Overconfident. Alix had watched those commercials enough times to recognize when something was off with Sir Kendall.

  This realization stunned her. It was just a flash, but she knew what she’d just seen. He seemed…bewildered. Was it because Paul had shown up? Was he surprised by Paul’s still-battered face? The way they were surprised by his healed one? Was he starting to intuit that everyone was against him? Here he was in a strange land. Of course he was bewildered.

  He turned to Alix. “I’ve spoken with your mother, Alix, and she’s invited Paul to stay over in your sister’s room.”

  “Paul’s leaving,” Alix said.

  “Not gonna happen,” Paul said.

  “Well, I’m leaving.” Karen made her goodbyes. She grabbed Alix’s hand and kissed her on the cheek. “Call me.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you have a good trip.” Alix kissed her back. She could never stay mad at Karen for long.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Paul gritted his teeth as Sir Kendall pulled him into the living room and introduced him as poor long-lost Paul, his twin brother. Be cool, he told himself. Alix needed to see he could be cool.

  After introductions, Sir Kendall, who was going by the name of Sir Langley for whatever reason, ensconced himself in a couch, where he was immediately surrounded by the Gordons’ friends and neighbors. Paul stood back and watched Sir Kendall charm one and al
l with tales of Livinio, the ski instructor he’d had as a boy growing up in the Swiss Alps. The guests, including Alix, laughed uproariously.

  And she’d been sleeping with him. The thought made him queasy.

  Sir Kendall droned on. The story was far-fetched, but it was Sir Kendall’s injury-free face that was messing with Paul’s mind. Paul knew how hard he’d hit the man, knew what he should look like. He’d heard of people on drugs being able to perform superhuman feats, or mothers able to lift cars to rescue their babies. Maybe there was some crazy-man metabolism at work. He wouldn’t accept that it was magic. He couldn’t.

  He needed to talk to Tonio about it, see if Tonio had ever heard of such fast healing.

  Alix caught his eye from where she sat on the couch. She looked beautiful tonight. Her dress was short and black with a glittery horse head right on the front. Not only did she look incredibly hot in it, but it was the kind of dress that said, I’m here to have fun. He remembered how he’d loved that about her.

  And he remembered how she twisted him up inside because she was twisting him up inside again. He wished she could trust him enough to let him in. She wasn’t crazy—her wit was too quick, the intelligence in her eyes blazed too brightly. And most of all, he felt her—felt her rightness in a way he couldn’t articulate. Like the rightness of sunshine.

  Which made the fact that she carried on the charade, threw the magic bullshit into his face, all the more awful. Was it a way of holding him off? Was she trapped? Embarrassed? He hoped very badly she hadn’t encouraged the man to alter himself to look like that.

  Fake Sir Kendall continued on. “…I say, old chap, I told the man, whatever you do, don’t go into the truck driver training business…”

  Old chap. The phrase catapulted him back to a time when he was small and vulnerable, helpless with fear and rage, cowering under Gene and Gary’s blows, pain exploding in his face and body, wanting to hide and kill all at once. The fight or flight urge mashed into an unbearable lump of hell. He could feel the bark gouging his back, the ropes cutting off his breath, being forced to talk like Sir Kendall, with Gene and Gary mocking him and beating him more. We didn’t hear you, old chap…

  Sir Kendall droned on “…and I said, I daresay, Lavinio, old chap…”