Plenty of men use more than I.
I try not to use more than one a month.
I know. I haven’t been at it long.
But what I lack in experience, I make up for in enthusiasm.
I have collected six bras, seven pairs of panties, two skirts, a sweater, five blouses, four pairs of jeans, two pairs of shorts, two t-shirts, five pairs of tennis shoes, three pairs of dress shoes, four pairs of nylons, an odd number of socks, 14 rings, 8 purses, 19 earrings.
Inside the purses were 17 tubes of lipstick, nine compacts, six wallets, three eyelash curlers, a collapsible umbrella, four address books, 132 photos (102 color, 30 in black and white), seven sets of keys, $657.23, 34 credit cards, nine packages of chewing gum, 7 packages of condoms.
I have kept all this, kept it in separate containers in a locked room, each marked with the girl’s number: 1 through 8.
Everything is orderly. Everything is neat.
It should last a lifetime.
I can unlock the door, take down a box and go through the items in it anytime.
And remember.
How Girl 3 was so hard to follow.
The way Girl 6 looked underneath her clothes.
Where the greater portion of Girl 5’s body was left.
The way they all looked when I took out my knife.
Through it all, though, just one knife.
I have not used it up yet or broken it, oh no.
I don’t have to get another.
Mother would be so pr—
Damn!
Four thousand, two hundred and seventeen.
* * *
Thursday: Penance
My mother always told me not to do this… not to touch it.
You’ll wake it up. And it will want to do evil things.
But she was wrong… about so many things, I see now.
Sorry, mother.
It’s sharp though, and it hurts me to touch it. It cuts me, eager to drink my blood if I will give it no other.
Sometimes when I touch it, it wakes for just a while, and the world is white, all white, glorious, cleansing white.
It floods through me, scours me out.
Just when it seems as if it might awaken… that it might want to… do evil things… it slumps back, returns to its deep slumber.
And I am anointed with its blood and mine, in equal parts, covering my stomach and chest.
Disgusted, I go to the bathroom, and mop myself off with a wad of toilet tissue—just ten sheets, be sure to count them as they roll off—then drop this clotted, pinkish clump into the toilet.
Then, I must bind my hand, for the cut throbs with my pulse and stings something awful.
Tomorrow, it will be healed.
Alleluia.
* * *
Friday: Annunciation
She is in the park today, late.
But Her light is like a beacon, drawing me in.
I toy with Her, passing Her again and again as She walks, waiting to see if there is the barest glimmer of recognition, suspicion, wariness.
But there is none, and thankfully Her eyes do not touch me with their fire.
And I know She is the one.
She is the one.
The true sacrifice never recognizes the nature of divinity.
Until it is thrust upon Her.
* * *
Saturday: Transfiguration
In the end, it happens so fast.
The way it always ends… so fast.
It was twilight when I found Her in the park, running. Always running.
And from what? Not from me, surely.
I shivered at that… what if She knew?
That had never happened before.
But, She was the real one… She never knew.
She took the blade eagerly, gratefully.
I embraced Her, felt Her hot, firm flesh turn to liquid as I thrust in and out.
She leaned her head onto my shoulder, gurgled something appreciative.
But then, the light built… bright, hot, white light, and it was over.
So fast.
I kissed Her when it was done, took Her clothes and other belongings, walked quietly in the moonlight to the old penny fountain, nearly overgrown with weeds and bushes, bathed there.
The grey water turned black as I slid in, scrubbed the blood from my body.
Later, I found my own clothes, dressed, and came home.
I felt cleansed, renewed.
A whole new person.
* * *
Sunday: Rest
I woke early on Sunday, feeling ill.
By that afternoon, I still didn’t know why.
In the shower, I found dried blood matted in my pubic hair, flaking in the folds and wrinkles of my penis… from me?
I’d better tell the doctor about this.
Maybe tomorrow… I feel so tired, so disassociated…
* * *
Monday: Revelation
Man, I hate Mondays.
I nearly threw the alarm clock from its perch on my nightstand.
It was the same dream… every Monday… why would I dream like that?
And the blood… just a speck or two on my pillow, the bed sheets?
Shit… it’s like… I don’t know… so… fucking insistent.
I can’t stay here in this apartment today, with all its voices and echoes and locked doors.
I think… I think I’ll take a walk in the park… I don’t usually do that.
Sounds kind of nice this time of year, with the autumn leaves turning.
Who knows, maybe I’ll even see a girl.
Just what I need to take the edge off…
THE LACQUERED BOX
Stephen Becker ended in death where he had spent a great deal of time in life.
In a box.
But this was not quite the type of box that Stephen was accustomed to. This box had neither lock nor chains. Only the weight of its enameled aluminum lid kept it closed.
This box had no sliding panels, no false bottoms, no mirrors. It would be closed, with no great fanfare and by no beautiful assistant. And chances were that if it were opened later, Stephen Becker would still be there.
* * *
Warm autumn sunlight reflected dully off the brass key Vivian thrust into the door’s lock. She turned the key, expecting resistance, meeting none. Gin from the glass she held fell in a spray: silver in the sunlight, dark stains on the hallway carpet.
Vivian took no notice of this as she pulled the door open onto darkness, thick and secretive. She took a cautious step into the room, her hand fumbling for the light switch.
The room filled with slow, heavy fluorescent light. It spilled from the ceiling, crept along the floor like ether. Where it oozed into the hall, the sunlight seemed to retreat.
Vivian took the last of the gin in a pinched swallow and set the empty glass onto a small table near the door.
Trunks, cabinets, boxes of all kinds. Swords, crystal balls, colored silks. They filled every corner of the room, all neatly arranged. The walls were covered with lurid playbills depicting magicians such as Houdini, Thurston, Blackstone, Chin-Ling-Soo and others Vivian had never heard of.
One of the playbills hung alone on a wall, framed, as if valuable. It proclaimed:
THE GREATEST MAGICIAN
LIVING, DEAD, OR BOTH!
THE AMAZING
* S * U * R * A * Z * A * L * I *
WILL BE
BURIED ALIVE!!
AT THE
ORPHEUM THEATRE
SATURDAY EVENING, MARCH 3, 1888
8:00 P.M.
Above this was a picture of a man Vivian supposed was Surazali, reposing corpse-like in a beautifully lacquered Chinese box, hands clasped tightly over his breast, eyes wide and glassy.
Vivian’s eyes lingered there for a moment, turned to the profusion of items in the room. These things held no memories for Vivian, and certainly no magic.
When Stephen first began to practice m
agic, she had been mildly interested. She wanted to know how things worked, how Stephen was able to fool her, deceive her into seeing things that weren’t actually there, weren’t actually happening. This was useful information, for once she knew, he would never be able to do that to her again.
But Stephen wouldn’t tell her. He would shake his head and say, “It’s magic, honey.”
Vivian didn’t see it that way. It wasn’t magic. Stephen was keeping a secret from her.
She kept no secrets from him, for, in truth, she had none to keep.
No, it wasn’t magic. There was no room in Vivian’s life for that. Magic paid no bills. It cooked no meals. It drove no one to work. It simply occupied a space in her home and in Stephen’s heart, neither of which she would ever be able to enter.
Now that he was gone, it, too, would simply have to go.
Vivian emptied the room quickly into one of three large traveling trunks. Every type of object, every imaginable color found its way into these trunks. Minutes became hours, measured in swallows of gin, as the room emptied itself of its secrets.
At times, Vivian would pause, holding a particular prop Stephen had deceived her with long ago. She would not put it down until she had figured out how it worked. And each time, she would curse herself when its simple answer became apparent.
Eventually, the three trunks were filled and pushed out into the front hall, near the door. Only the closet remained to be cleared. Its unadorned door swung easily on its hinges, and the aroma of cedar drifted out.
The incandescent bulb spat light onto the contents of the closet, filling it with sharp colors and harsh shadows. In contrast to the main room, the closet was surprisingly bare. The makings of a black tuxedo, crisp and recently pressed, hung in a plastic bag from one of the clothing rods. She had denied her husband’s request to be buried in it. So it hung here, like the skin of some dead animal, limp and docile.
Several pairs of white gloves, a pair of highly polished black shoes, a silver-capped cane, and a silk top hat sat on a small shelf above the hanging clothes, all neatly arranged.
At the rear of the closet, there was a large object covered with a heavy, padded quilt. Vivian assumed it to be another false-bottomed or mirrored trunk.
She tugged at the thick quilt, and it slid off as easily as if it were resting on ice.
A large, black box with brightly colored designs, heavily lacquered, gleamed in the bright light. It looked Oriental, and it was perfectly beautiful. Not a scratch, not a smear, not a fingerprint marred the black, glassy finish.
Vivian, in unwanted admiration, drew her hand along its smooth, ebony surface.
A look of revulsion twisted her face, and she quickly snatched her hand back, rubbing it against the legs of her pants.
The box felt slick, cold, and wet.
It must be another of Stephen’s stupid tricks, she thought. And not one she was particularly interested in unraveling.
It would go to the garbage with the rest of it.
The box was empty, so she pulled the tuxedo carelessly from its hanger, tossed it inside. The gloves, hat, cane, and shoes followed without ceremony. Using the quilt like an oven mitt, she closed the lid of the box and pushed it out of the closet.
As she closed the door, her eyes fell on the playbill depicting the reposing Surazali, to the box he rested in.
It was the same lacquered box.
Angrily, she covered the box again and pushed it into the hallway with the other three trunks. Minutes later, all four boxes sat outside, in the place usually left for trashcans.
And though the body of Stephen Becker had been buried three weeks before, Vivian laid to rest more of him in those boxes now waiting with the garbage than what was contained in the aluminum casket wrapped snugly in six feet of cold earth.
More, that is, of who he was. More than she could know.
Vivian Becker went back inside of her house, a house now empty now of Stephen, of magic and of secrets, and slept a kind of sleep.
And for a while, at least, she was at peace.
* * *
Halloween. The setting sun had faded to a dull orange on the horizon, a pumpkin pie burnt at the edges. Now, the moon, bright enough to fool people into thinking it was completely full, appeared over the horizon. Its yellowed-white light gave the evening sky a muted, silver patina.
The crowds of kids, costumed, laden with bags of candy, were home now, the streets abandoned, dark, quiet. Leaves, driven by the chill autumn breeze, whispered momentarily, were silenced.
“Get down, you dork,” hissed a shadow moving along the lawn of the house next door to the Becker’s.
“What if she’s still awake?”
“She’s not awake. She never answered her door all night. An’ even if she is, she’s half-crocked by now. Anyway, whaddaya think, she’s gonna be out guarding her garbage? She threw the stuff away.”
“I guess, but…”
“Why d’ya think she did it?”
The dark shapes on the lawn inched closer to the Becker property, pausing at the driveway. The flickering streetlight reflected four sets of eyes, cast four silhouettes.
“She never liked him.”
“We’d better not let her see us in the yard,” said the older-sounding voice.
“I told you guys…”
“Aww, Glen, if you’re chicken, go home.”
With a rustle, two of the three remaining shapes stood and walked slowly, cautiously into the circle of light.
From the darkness behind them, the fourth voice whispered, “Isn’t this stealin’?”
Mike, the older boy, glared back. “You can’t steal garbage, numbnuts.”
Confronted by the logic of this, Glen slowly rose to his feet, though he kept well outside the glare of the streetlight. His eyes busily scanned the streets for police or a neighbor.
The first boy onto the Becker’s lawn, Eddie, had opened one of the trunks and was pulling treasures out of its depths, unimaginable treasures. Mike and Scott hunched side-by-side, digging through one of the other trunks. A pile of discarded items grew at their feet.
“Can you believe this?” asked Mike.
“I’d die if my mom threw out all my stuff,” said Scott, sniffling in the cold wind and drawing the denim arm of his jacket across his nose. “And my stuff isn’t half as neat as this junk.”
Eddie moved to the trunk covered with the heavy quilt. His hand lightly brushed the quilt, and it slid to the ground. The lemon yellow of the gaslight flickered on the trunk as if it were trapped inside its obsidian finish.
“Wow, Eddie, I’ve never seen that box before,” said Scott.
“Neither have I,” said Eddie, gazing into the trunk’s depths.
“What’s in it?” asked Mike, lifting himself from the trunk he was pillaging. He spoke with the authority of one who knew that if anything really neat was found, he could—and would—take it.
“I dunno. Wait… yuck! It’s all wet in here.” Eddie pulled out a single black shoe with a crumpled white glove tucked inside.
“Just a shoe,” said Mike as he turned back to his trunk.
“Everything’s wet an’ sticky.” Eddie pulled out a black jacket, a pair of trousers, the other shoe.
“Wow, she even threw away his clothes,” he said. He groped around, then smiled suddenly and pulled out a top hat.
“Is there anything in it?” asked Scott.
“Like what, stupid? A rabbit?” came Mike’s reply.
“No, nothing,” answered Eddie. The hat felt smooth and warm and lighter than he had thought. He started to lift it to his head, when Mike grabbed it.
“I know what we can do,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.
Glen groaned, “What now?”
“Well, we’ve got all these clothes, and I’m sure we could find a plastic milk jug in someone’s trash. We’ve got everything we need to make a traffic victim,” finished Mike.
“Cool,” said Scott.
“No,
” echoed Eddie and Glen, surprised to be in agreement.
“If you want to play victim, let’s go home and get other clothes. Not Mr. Becker’s stuff,” said Eddie.
“Why not?” Mike laughed. “He’s not gonna need ‘em.”
“It’s not right,” said Eddie. “He was our friend.”
Mike turned to Scott. “You in?”
“You bet!”
“Guess I don’t even have to ask you, huh, Glen?”
Glen dropped his head to look at the debris scattered across the lawn. “C’mon, Mike,” he pleaded. “The last time, I was grounded for a month.”
“Figured,” snorted Mike. He faced Eddie. “So?”
Eddie hesitated. “Yeah,” he sighed. “I’m in.”
“Great. You hit some of the other houses and find a milk jug in someone’s trash. Scott, gather up some of those handkerchiefs and that rope.”
“Guess I’ll be goin’,” mumbled Glen.
“Say goodnight to your mommy for me,” called Mike after him.
Glen shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Shithead,” he muttered to himself.
* * *
When all the stuffing was done, when all the strings were tied, the three boys had a pretty good approximation of a body. A tuxedo-clad scarecrow stuffed with silk and tied together with handkerchiefs and the white rope magicians cut into pieces and then mysteriously restore.
The milk jug, which Eddie had found and quietly filled with water from the faucet outside his home, was handed to Mike. He tied it securely to the dummy. It flopped forward on the dummy’s rope neck to rest against its silk-stuffed chest. Mike lifted it, crowned it with the black top hat. A section of rope looped through the hatband held it tightly to the milk jug.
“Sorta looks like Frosty the Snowman,” said Scott, sniffing against the back of his hand. “Except for Halloween, instead of Christmas.”
Little Deaths Page 20