LiGa

by Sanem Ozdural

  Roni had braked maybe a hair’s breadth too late into the Lesmo corner. It shouldn’t have been a big deal; he recovered out of it and picked up speed along the Serraglio straight. But Roni was quicker out of the Lesmo and was bearing down on the Ferrari as they approached the “S” of the Ascari chicane.

  You won’t overtake me in the chicane, Storm thought, as Roni got closer. Roni bearing down … behind him as they veered into the snaking chicane… He’d taken it a little wide to keep Roni away.

  And straight ahead lay the Parabolica corner… The most dangerous part of the track.

  He was picking up speed… but so was Roni. And Roni came closer.

  And closer…

  Don’t try to overtake me into the Parabolica! It’s too dangerous!

  When he braked, the Renault was almost upon him. On the outside. Roni’s left front wheel almost touching his right rear one… Almost pinning him between the Renault and the tire wall…

  He steered the Ferrari to the right, away from wall and into the Renault.

  Move! Move away!

  But Roni was pushing…

  And then …

  When he awoke all he saw were white walls. All he felt was pain. An all-body, overwhelming sort of pain. What happened?

  There was something wrong with the Renault, they had explained later. Roni was pushing hard but he’d tried to veer away, Roni had tried to brake…

  It was the brakes that did him in at the end. Not his brakes, Roni’s.

  Roni had pushed the car too far; he hadn’t conserved his brakes.

  Monza’s hard on the brakes. Everyone should know that.

  Still, he was lucky. He’d broken three ribs, a leg, and almost sliced half his face off. It could have been worse…

  *

  Natalya Chen acknowledged – in the privacy of her mind only – that her life was not hard. It was a thought that made her very happy, but it was not a thought to be shared with anyone, least of all Sinclair.

  She made herself as comfortable as possible – given the state of her complete undress – on the black leather couch. Visuals were important, but leather was such a drag on bare skin. She wished he would come home soon so she could get the whole thing over with and get dressed again. Why was he taking so long?

  Although her life was decidedly easy, there was no reason for it not to grow easier. And longer. A frown creased the planes of her smooth forehead. She was just as good at bridge as old Sinclair.

  Ah, there he was! The key turned in the lock, and she heard his familiar step.

  “Hey baby,” she cooed.

  Sinclair sighed. “Hi sweetie,” he called out unenthusiastically, as he walked to the master bedroom. He sat down heavily on the bed, and started to remove his shoes. Her bare feet made no sound on the carpeted floor, and it was the heavy sweet scent of her perfume that let him know she was close.

  “Hi Sinclair…” she purred invitingly from the doorway.

  The clock on the wall, to which neither of them paid attention, showed that the time was 8:35.

  *

  Martha Other knew that there was only one place she wanted to be when the time came…

  She opened the door to her garden, and walked along her rose bushes, clearing debris, checking, as she did daily, for signs of disease and pests. She was not wearing her gardening gloves.

  *

  Danny noted that it was precisely 8:37 when he walked through the doors of the Borgata, the most opulent of the Atlantic City casinos. He was greeted with deferential familiarity by the casino staff as he made his way to one of the high stakes craps tables. Above, swan-like chandeliers swooped from a soaring ceiling.

  He chose the most populated table. There would be more people, he knew, once he started to play.

  A pretty blonde cocktail waitress in a black and gold bustier appeared at his elbow as he positioned himself across the table from the shooter. It would be his turn soon…

  “Mr. Cross–” the waitress offered him the drink he had not yet ordered. A double shot of Maker’s Mark, straight up. Danny felt his life slotting back into place as he watched the dice cascade from the shooter’s hand, and bounce once on the table before ricocheting off the back wall, and roll to rest on… 3-2.

  Danny smiled as the man across the table readied to roll again… Amateur, thought Danny: a casual, unthinking player. He will lose a lot of money. The shooter let out a loud whoop as he made a flamboyant shaking motion with the hand that held the dice.

  The shooter’s reign was short-lived, as Danny expected. Two people stood between him and the world of the thrown dice…

  First, a middle-aged man took the helm, and rolled a 2 on the come out roll. He lasted one roll of the dice…

  The next shooter-to-be was a woman of indeterminate age with a smoker’s gravel in her throat, dressed in clinging leopard print. “Danny!” she shouted, beckoning to him. “Danny Cross! Take my turn. I want to win!”

  Danny did not recognize her, but it did not matter. There were many he did not recognize, who knew the Shooter…

  He took the dice and placed them with an expert motion between his right thumb and first two fingers. The table was more crowded now – just as he had expected. People had noticed the Shooter.

  Danny had tried out countless positions of the fingers to hold the dice. The gentle grip in which he held them was the one he had perfected over years of calculation and practice. It provided the perfect angle from which to launch the attack…

  *

  It was to be a clear night, but for now, the dusky hue of early evening lay still upon the roses. And they all stood in muted silhouette, like soldiers on sentry duty, and Martha Other ignored them. She knelt beside a tall-stemmed, single rose with voluptuous pale petals that glowed with a cold silvery crown. She bowed her head before her most treasured creation: Silver Dawn.

  The judge laid her hands on the cool, fragrant earth by the flower and waited.

  Her wristwatch told her that the time was 8:50. Ten minutes left…

  As the minutes passed, she wondered if she would notice anything unusual. I suspect nothing will happen, she decided.

  *

  The throw was perfect, of course: as straight as an arrow. The dice bounced lightly off the foot of the opposite wall, and came to rest with minimal ricochet.

  4…3

  The table erupted in applause. The winning 7.

  *

  Storm looked at his watch as he lay on the bed. 8:56. Four minutes… It was hard to relax.

  *

  Danny smiled at the world, at the cameras. Everyone knew the Shooter. And the Borgata welcomed him because he was good business, after all. Where there was one Shooter, there were a thousand shooter-wannabes, who would not roll a 7 on the come out roll…

  Danny readied for the second roll. Again, he felt the familiar edges of the dice between his fingers, and looked out at the green expanse of the world in which he held supreme control…

  *

  8:58…

  Storm closed his eyes, willing his muscles to relax. Feet, legs, torso, arms, hands… neck… his head….

  *

  As the flick of a switch sends an electric current in an unfathomable instant, transforming flat darkness into a layered world of light and color, so the cold earth under her palms and fingers grew ripe with possibilities, and the warm evening air promised more than she had ever hoped or thought possible. Her skin was a live thing: warm and supple and ready – for anything.

  It is not real, she told herself, knowing that it was.

  It is like a drug. She would not allow herself to feel good because it was a trick. A trick of brain chemistry, that was all.

  But Martha Other did not feel well, and she did not feel ill.

  She felt more.

  *

  As he flung the dice, Danny felt as though he had been hit with a sandbag to the solar plexus. A heaviness held him in a loose, impregnable grip. “No,” he mumbled, slipping helplessly to the floo
r. The dice came to rest on 6-1, as Danny heaved, loosing the contents of his stomach upon the black polished feet of the casino security …

  *

  When the time came, it wasn’t like Monza.

  Storm knew pain well. And he was at home with extreme discomfort.

  And yet, Storm Drake was shocked at how unprepared he was for a portion of his life to be taken from him.

  That must never happen to me again, he decided. After Monza, he had been out of the hospital and in the cockpit of his Ferrari within five and a half weeks (against his doctor’s wishes naturally!). No, it wasn’t the pain. Those weeks – months, even – after Monza had been excruciating. He knew he had almost died on the track. He had had to go through months of rehabilitation.

  It’s the knowing of it… I think. Knowing I’m aging faster. It was not like that after Monza. I hadn’t died and that was enough.

  Now, I know I’m dying…

  *

  “It’s all right, babe. You’re probably tired,” Natalya said lightly, rolling away from him. She rose from the bed and started to dress. “Come on, honey. Let’s get dinner,” she nudged his inert form.

  “What’s wrong, Sinclair?” she prodded him playfully in the ribs.

  “Nothing!” he replied viciously, pushing her hand away. “Can’t you leave me alone for one minute?” He stumbled out of bed to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

  Running his fingers through his hair he examined his face carefully in the mirror. Was his vision blurred? It couldn’t be, right? Crow’s feet fanning out from the corners of his eyes – they had been there this morning, he was almost sure. Salt and pepper at his temples… He closed his eyes and took three deep breaths. Xanax. That’s what he needed. It was just anxiety. He found the pills in the cabinet. Turned on the tap. Cold water felt good on his parched skin. He swallowed two pills with a glass of water.

  Shivering, he sat on the commode, and took stock of his body. It had been a freak anxiety attack. It had never happened before. Just tired and anxious. He had a lot on his mind. What did she know about stress? All she did was shop and get spa treatments. I wish I hadn’t told her about LiGa…

  “Baby, are you ok?” Natalya called out, with, quite possibly, genuine concern.

  “Yeah, fine. Be out in a sec.” He replied, trying to sound cheerful.

  I don’t want to go out, he thought, burying his head in his hands. I don’t want to see her. I don’t want this to be happening to me!

  He rose, feeling as though his whole body was encased in lead weights. “No!” he shouted, clinging to the cold, hard marble of the counter.

  “Sinclair!” Natalya rattled the door urgently. “What’s wrong? Let me in baby!” But all she heard was the sound of breaking glass.

  “Sinclair, if you don’t come out now, I’m going to call 911!” she threatened.

  The bathroom door opened slowly and Sinclair emerged. He stumbled towards the bed and fell spread-eagled among the crumpled sheets. He didn’t appear to be bleeding so she looked inside the bathroom hesitantly for evidence of broken glass.

  Fragments of the shattered water glass lay where he had thrown it. At the mirror. A shard of mirrored glass glittered among the clear pieces. Cracks in the mirror cut into the perfection of her reflection, but she did not notice.

  He lost, she thought.

  Coiling her long raven-black hair into a knot, she set about cleaning up the remnants of broken glass. When she was finished, she went to check on Sinclair.

  “Honey, are you ok?” she whispered, leaning close to hear his breathing. He’s not even snoring, she thought, listening to the deep, even sound. “Try to sleep it off, baby…” she threw on one of his t-shirts, blew him a kiss and softly closed the bedroom door.

  *

  The cell phone by the bed rang insistently. He reached for it as though through a thick fog.

  “Hello Storm,” came her voice. Confident and sweet. She paused, waiting for him to respond.

  “Hello, Helen,” he replied slowly. Her voice was what he wanted most to hear now, but she should not see him like this …

  “Today was your first game wasn’t it?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Yes,” he said, unable to shake off the cocoon that held him in its mealy grip.

  “How are you?” Helen asked, concerned.

  He said he would call later. “I love you,” he added.

  “I love you too, Storm!” she cried. “Storm?” He had already hung up.

  He didn’t want to feel this; he wanted to feel what it was like to get more life. Then, he would talk to Helen. She wouldn’t want to see this… He looked at the caller ID. She had called from a number in New York. What was she doing in New York?

  *

  Natalya curled up on the couch and looked out towards the dusky sky and grew thoughtful.

  He lost…

  Idly she turned on the television and pressed the mute button. She looked without seeing at the moving images, flipping through channels methodically, as her mind remained inside the room where Sinclair lay.

  But the images found their way to the part of her mind that was sitting, curled up on the couch. The part of her mind that was looking for something…

  And without consciously knowing why, she stopped flipping and turned up the volume.

  On the screen: a middle-aged man with graying hair was smiling at his doctor. The doctor – trim, capable, confident of his product – turned to the camera:

  “Acyuta has been proven to extend life by up to twenty percent. Call Acyuta today for a free consult!”

  A familiar advertisement. She had seen it before without paying attention. It had not applied to her. She was young and beautiful. She was not dying…

  Acyuta… wondered Natalya.

  *

  The church of St. Francis Xavier was empty except for the man kneeling before the altar. He knelt under the most beneficent and watchful gaze of the saints and martyrs. Above him, the angels proclaimed, from their exalted height, the virtues of Saint Francis Xavier – the Most Poor, the Most Chaste and the Most Obedient.

  When the time came, he did not fight it. He let the feeling exalt him. With eyes closed, kneeling before Him at the altar, Roland Griffith breathed deeply, and recited in a low voice:

  “Storm Drake,

  Daniel Cross,

  Sinclair Davis,

  Frederick Heath.”

  With head bowed, in His presence, Roland Griffith acknowledged those from whom he had taken life. He raised his outstretched arms and lifted his eyes to the heavens.

  “Lord, have mercy. Amen.”

  8

  “More, daddy, more!” Demanded David Heath, bouncing happily.

  “Not now, David,” his father tried to wave away small, insistent sticky fingers.

  “Come here, David!” Elizabeth Heath sighed in exasperation. She had to do everything as usual – packing, feeding the kids, everything! “Leave your father alone. He’s … tired,” she added in a tone that David, at three, probably did not understand. She picked him up with a pointed look directed at her exasperating, unhelpful husband.

  Frederick Heath watched them from behind the bars of his sudden ineptitude. I would help if I could, he wanted to tell her. I want to play with him. I would if I could. Don’t be angry. I can’t.

  And there was Elizabeth telling him to get his sorry butt off the couch. They were supposed to leave in an hour and a half. There was packing to be done, children to be gotten ready.

  “I can’t…” he pleaded. “Please, can you go without me?”

  “Are you all right?” she asked, suddenly worried. “You look ill.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he answered, mustering the strength to smile and raise himself on his elbow. “You go. Please.”

  Elizabeth Heath sighed, David squirming in her arms.

  “I don’t believe it!” She stamped her foot in frustration at the inner duel that pitted concern for her husband against Duty to Mother. Since he
r father’s death last year, Mother had been Alone. Everyone knew it. “Oh, Fred…”

  “Can you manage the kids?” he asked softly, lying back against the cushions.

  “David, no! David, listen to me– look, see now your sister’s woken up!” Elizabeth’s concern for her husband had been upstaged, as she trotted to her daughter’s side.

  Frederick Heath sank back into the couch. This would not do. He must find out how to get over this incapacitation. Should he call his doctor? But the doctor probably wouldn’t know how to deal with this. Besides, he did not want to explain what he had been doing. Elizabeth didn’t know.

  LiGa? He would call after Elizabeth left with the kids.

  Elizabeth had managed to organize David and Cassie into something fit for public consumption – although probably not what Mother would deem “show ready” – when she looked into the living room at Fred, now sleeping deeply on the couch.

  “Daddy sick?” David asked in a tremulous voice, pulling at her hand.

  “No, no. He’s just tired,” she said, trying to sound reassuring. She guided him towards the door, looking back with growing concern at her husband’s decidedly unhealthy complexion and too-deep sleep.

  I’ll call him from the road, she promised herself. If he’s ill, I’ll leave the children with Mother and drive back tonight.

  *

  She took a sip of the soup. It was perfect, as usual.

  “A splash more sherry, Miss Cat?” the hovering waiter gave her a mischievous wink. He had forty years at New Orleans’s own Galatoire’s on Bourbon Street under his substantial belt, and she would always be ‘Miss Cat’ to him. All the way through her three marriages and governorship … She was Miss Cat at Gal’s. And he knew just how she liked her turtle soup.

  She shook her gauzy white head delicately. “Oh no, this is perfect,” She smiled up at him affectionately. Turtle soup was her favorite. With an extra splash of sherry.

  Catherine Maria Trahan, née Catherine Maria Voisin, had accented her wine-red silk dress with a small oyster-bed’s worth of white and black pearls. They cascaded in strings from her frail white neck and negotiated the curves of her ample bosom. She sat with her back to the wall, tastefully framed by the forest-green wallpaper with its gilt fleur-de-lis motif.