Heiresses of Russ 2011

by JoSelle Vanderhooft

  In front of the rabbit cage, a big, white and fluffy dog stood on his hind legs with his paws on the wire mesh. When Amanda turned, she saw it was the little girl. The child waved her stubby arm, then plopped down on the ground. She was melting disturbingly fast.

  Soon there will be nothing left, thought Amanda, watching the girl reproachfully. You should try to stay. At least fight a little!

  The ghost of the girl sat down in front of the rabbit cage and licked her white hand. She either didn’t hear Amanda or was not interested.

  •

  “Tintin says once he tried to magick himself from one end of the ring to the other.”

  “The ring is circular, it has no ends.”

  “Stop nit-picking.” Vera gazed down at the half-peeled potato in her hand. She didn’t look angry. “So he attempted it and part of him teleported but the rest stayed where it was. He said he doesn’t mind it, because it was his faults that went forward.” She giggled.

  Amanda stared at her.

  “Is this a joke?”

  “Yes. Just imagine, he can make jokes!” Vera raised her voice and looked at Amanda for the first time. “Would you bring the carrots from the car?”

  Amanda shrugged and left the house. As she was walking through the garden towards the car, she was followed by the hopping girl on one side and by Jusztin’s ghost on the other. She looked at neither of them, just opened the trunk, grabbed the bag and hurried back. They followed in silence. When she stopped, they stopped, too. They touched her a little as if they needed to feel her.

  She took the bag inside, grabbed a knife and started to clean the garlic.

  “Do you remember last year, when we were here and your bra snapped on the beach?” asked Vera. She seemed to carry a conversation that didn’t include Amanda; perhaps she started it when her friend went out for the grocery.

  “Of course. You covered my tits until I refastened it,” said Amanda gruffly. Her throat was dry. When was the last time Vera touched her breasts?

  “Sorry,” said Vera. “It’s just….”

  “I cannot do magic.”

  “I’m not saying….”

  “And I won’t. I don’t think it’s fair.”

  A small pause.

  “If you ask me, he cannot do magic either. Magicians are just quick, you know? Very quick,” said Vera.

  “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  They were silent. Strange, Amanda thought, we seem to do the most talk when we are not speaking.

  “Why so much garlic?”

  “To eat it.”

  Vera stared as Amanda popped the first three cloves into her mouth and forced herself to chew them. Vera grimaced.

  “You want to sleep in the same bed as me smelling like that?”

  “Why would we sleep in the same bed?” asked Amanda. “You won’t eat me out anyway.” She flung the knife on the table and ran out. The garlic stung her tongue but she forced it down.

  The ghosts were standing beside a shrub. Jusztin looked almost like himself, although transparent. The girl sat at his feet, white and shapeless. Only her eyes sparkled red and familiar. Amanda walked to them and breathed at them.

  Their shapes blurred and hollowed, their pose faltered.

  Amanda opened her mouth, breathing in and out. In and out. The smell of garlic enveloped her and the ghosts retreated a step.

  Good.

  She was not sure it was the garlic that made them fade or her will, and she didn’t know whether they would be back or not, but she didn’t really care.

  She stood and breathed garlic until the girl and Jusztin disappeared, then went back into the kitchen and flushed Vera with thick garlic stench.

  “Silly,” said Vera.

  “I am blowing Jusztin out of you.”

  “You wish.”

  “I love you,” said Amanda.

  Vera made no answer. After a while she said: “Brush your teeth.” She turned away indifferently, but Amanda heard from her voice that she wouldn’t kiss her even if she did brush her teeth.

  •

  They were not the only adults in the circus tent without children—this was Lake Balaton, nothing was considered embarrassing here—but they were the only lesbian couple.

  The only ex-lesbian couple, thought Amanda.

  “We are ex-bians,” she told Vera.

  Her girlfriend laughed politely.

  “Tintin says there are no real lesbians. Only women who haven’t met him yet.”

  Amanda didn’t laugh.

  “Tintin has to have an opinion of everything.”

  Vera shrugged.

  The auditorium darkened and the purple-coated ringmaster walked forward in a circle of light to announce the program. The children shouted, their parents whispered in their ears to shut up and listen, soon the bears would come.

  What am I doing here, Amanda asked herself, but couldn’t find an answer. Even Vera upset her. She looked around to see the little girl among the babbling, beaming children, but couldn’t tell them apart in the semidarkness. She is not here. Amanda hadn’t seen her since afternoon when she breathed garlic on her. Did she banish her together with Jusztin? Did that really work?

  She felt slightly sorry.

  In the ring, bears circled on unicycles. Their acrid stench mixed with the smell of popcorn and floss candy. The tent was stuffy and noisy; the racket and the lack of air made Amanda’s head throb.

  Vera almost slipped from the seat as she leaned forward. Thanks to Jusztin’s tickets they were sitting at the edge of the ring, and every time the bears passed in front of them, driven by the whip of their handler, the stink overwhelmed them. The wheels stirred up dust and one of the bears sneezed. It sounded almost human.

  After the bears came the strongman. The children chattered during his performance and demanded more animals. Amanda stared at the slowly flexing, oiled muscles and watched herself intently to see if the sight of the man made her skin tingle. She was not surprised by the lack of reaction and glanced enviously at Vera. If they both had their men, she a strongman, her girlfriend a magician, perhaps they wouldn’t need to part. At night, when the men were sleeping, they could sneak into a shared bed.

  The strongman was followed by a pair of nicely trimmed poodles that rolled around on red balls and jumped through hoops. Their handler—a fat, blonde woman—shrieked her commands and bowed after each trick, her breasts straining against her dress. The men whistled.

  Then came Jusztin. He wore a black tailcoat and a tophat. Wrinkles lined his long horse-face as he raised his wand and waved it. White doves flew out of his sleeves, then circled and disappeared under the tent, as if the canvas had been as high as the sky. Amanda had a feeling the tentpole was higher than the moon. She didn’t see the far wall.

  She watched Jusztin and he watched her. First Amanda thought he was looking at Vera, but the small, deep eyes locked at her. It was a familiar gaze, the ghost had watched her like this before she blew him into oblivion.

  The doves were followed by paper flowers and scarves; objects were raining from Jusztin’s ears and mouth. Vera clapped her hands enthusiastically, her palms were already red. Amanda hugged herself and watched Jusztin sternly.

  You won’t enchant me. Using magic is not fair.

  The magician played just for them. The children cried in awe when suddenly fish appeared in an aquarium and then jumped into the air and disappeared again.

  Jusztin bowed and took off his hat. His red hair was ruffled and his ears were sticking out on either side. He glanced up, nodded, then hit his hat with the wand and stepped to the edge of the ring.

  The children behind Amanda and Vera stretched toward Jusztin and cried: “Me! Me! I want to!”

  Jusztin paid them no heed and presented the hat to Vera. Amanda glanced at her girlfriend: her face was red and her smile was cruel to see. Vera gingerly reached into the hat and pulled out a white rabbit.

  The audience roared with delight. Jusztin stepped back with a satisfied
smile.

  Amanda was staring at the rabbit. She knew it. The red eyes of the bunny locked at her and her ears twitched when Vera lifted it up for others to see. Its downy fur was almost like a real rabbit’s, but Amanda saw that here and there curly, blonde hairs were sticking to it, and that it was smeared with chocolate.

  She looked back at Jusztin who received the applause with arms opened wide, then gestured and two assistants pulled a long, wheeled crate to the center. Red stars sparkled on its blue velvet cover and the swords, laid down on top in a star, shone brightly.

  Jusztin raised his hand.

  “And now, for the next trick, I would like to have a volunteer!’

  Vera jumped up, with the rabbit in her hands.

  “Me!”

  “Me! Me!” cried the children.

  Jusztin turned around, looking for someone who fit the decorated crate most perfectly. Amanda knew he had already chosen, he just turned around to key up the expectation.

  I see through you like an X-ray.

  She thought Jusztin would choose Vera, but the long finger pointed at her. From the magician’s eyes, the ghost was looking back at her.

  She felt strangely relieved. She calmly rose and stepped onto the ring with ease. Amid the applause she walked to Jusztin.

  “I know you are cheating,” she told him, then hopped on the wheeled platform of the crate and handed the swords to Jusztin. The assistants opened the crate. The walls of the circus tent flew away. Amanda didn’t recognize Vera’s face among the white dots. Maybe she wouldn’t have found her even if she had gone back now.

  With a calculated movement, she lay down into the crate. She couldn’t do anything else anyway. Jusztin showed the audience the swords.

  When the lid closed, Amanda thought that with a little bit of luck she could turn into a rabbit as well. A humanoid bunny, like Vera. Then perhaps she could also forget everything except grass and carrots.

  The drums boomed louder, then stopped altogether. This is already the trick, she thought and laced her fingers. She held back her breath and waited in the dark of the crate for something to happen.

  Anything at all.

  •

  The Egyptian Cat

  Catherine Lundoff

  Erica turned over the last page of the manuscript with a sigh. Somehow, a collection like Hairballs Over Innsmouth should have been more fun to edit. She wondered why writers were having such a hard time writing humorous cat-related horror stories that included an homage to H. P. Lovecraft. It should have been a snap. But perhaps the rewrites would look much better.

  The thought cheered her enough to go and get the mail, even though it might contain yet more manuscripts. And it did. But along with the envelopes with addresses written in crayon and the one that seemed to contain nothing but melted chocolate, there was a box. She looked at it carefully, noting that although her name and address were printed on a mailing label, the return address was completely illegible.

  She wondered if she should contact the bomb squad or something before she opened it. You couldn’t be too careful these days. Some of the writers who she’d turned down for her last anthology, Catnip and Hashish, had been pretty irate.

  Finally, she decided she was overreacting. Her writers were cat people, after all; their limited attention span would have moved on to some new source of fascination or irritation by now. She swept up all the mail and dumped it on the dining room table.

  She opened the bills first, of course, then the manuscripts, but her gaze was drawn repeatedly back to the mysterious box. Something about it spoke of unfathomable mysteries beyond human ken.

  So after she had opened everything else, separated the mail into piles and fed the cats when their cries became too inconvenient to ignore, she reached for it. First she held it up to her ear to listen for telltale ticking sounds. The brown paper crackled reassuringly but apart from that, the package made no other sound. She cut open a flap in the paper on one side. Nothing leaped out or blew up.

  She slowly removed the paper to reveal a completely nondescript cardboard box. Maybe it was shoes. Would a fan have sent her something as useful as a new pair of shoes? She doubted it. One of the cats uttered a piercing whine and she jumped. The cat, a large tabby named Sarnath, rubbed himself ingratiatingly against her leg while she pondered the box. Open it, the cat seemed to be saying. It might be treats.

  “It might be a bad thing too, Sarny. You just never know.” She reflected that living alone had left her with the unfortunate habit of talking to her cats. And listening to them. Sarnath’s inscrutable slitted gaze met hers and she reached for the box as if under a spell. She opened it, though not without a remaining qualm or two.

  But if she had hoped to see its contents immediately, she was doomed to disappointment. Whatever it was, it was buried under styrofoam peanuts that crinkled and rolled beneath her questing fingers.

  But at last, they encountered something hard. She shivered, then forced herself to grasp whatever it was and pull it from its nest. For a brief instant, she looked away only to find herself looking deep into Sarnath’s eyes. The cat had begun to purr, a deep, rumbling noise that should have been reassuring but somehow only served to fill her with a vague apprehension.

  With an effort, she turned her head to look at the contents of the package, now cradled gingerly in her right hand. Slitted emerald eyes stared back at her and she very nearly dropped whatever it was. Regaining control, she found her jaw falling open in astonishment. Her unknown admirer had sent her a statue of a cat. And what a statue it was!

  Clearly of Egyptian origin, it was made of some sort of black stone and covered with carvings that appeared to be hieroglyphs. A single gold earring hung from one ear and the eyes were greenest glass. Or were they tiny emeralds? She couldn’t be sure. She set it down so that it met her gaze with an impassive expression, filling her with both a nameless dread and an unexpected excitement, as if her life could be completely transformed at any moment.

  It was at that same moment, the doorbell rang, causing Erica to start from her reverie. Surely it couldn’t be Mr. McGillicuddy from next door again. He’d already dropped by three times this week and one could only borrow so many cups of sugar. Perhaps Phyllis and Felicia from her bridge club were right and he was interested in more than the contents of her kitchen. She groaned. If only…but there was no point in dwelling on what might have been.

  The doorbell rang again, impatience clear in the length of the chime that echoed through the hall. Erica resigned herself to answering it. “Coming! Give me a minute.” She remembered to look through the gauzy curtain that hung over the door before she opened it. Even in Foggy Harbor, Massachusetts, there were criminals inclined to prey on a woman living alone.

  But all she could see was that the person on her doorstep was broad of shoulder and wearing an elegant suit and a hat that covered her/his hair. He or she also had their back to the door and was looking out over the garden. She did catch a glimpse of dark golden brown skin as the person, whoever they were, raised one hand to brush away some speck on the beautiful dark gray suit. Erica’s pulse raced and she tried in vain to catch her breath. It couldn’t be….

  She admonished herself to stop acting like a schoolgirl. Rashida Simmons was gone for good, along with any hopes she’d had in that quarter. Still she trembled as she reached for the knob and opened the door.

  Her visitor turned, almost reluctantly, as if they too feared what they might see. An involuntary cry escaped Erica’s lips. The woman on her doorstep pulled off her hat and ran her fingers through her short curls. She didn’t look up from the threshold as she spoke, “Hello, Erica. I’m sorry for dropping by like this. I’d have called if…I had the number.”

  At that moment, Erica forgot the ten years that stretched between them, forgot the professional editor that she’d become and spoke her mind without hesitation or forethought. “Rashida Simmons, you get your ass in here right now! You’ve got some explaining to do!” She reached out wi
th the strength born of desperation and yanked the other woman’s arm, pulling her inside. With shaking hands she locked the door behind her, sealing off any chance of easy escape.

  Only then did she turn, chest heaving with pent-up indignation. Her quarry met her eyes this time as she took a deep breath and murmured, “It wasn’t like that, Erica. I had to leave Foggy Harbor. Let me try and explain but before I go any further, I have to ask: did you receive a package in the mail today?”

  “You just drop by after no word for ten years to inquire about the local postal service? Things a little slow wherever you’ve been keeping yourself?” Erica shook in every limb, part of her longing to hurl herself into Rashida’s arms, part of her wanting to throw her out, never to be seen again.

  Rashida winced but persisted. “Did it?”

  “Yes. Why? Was it from you? Not that a token of affection wouldn’t have been too much to ask.” Erica uttered a most unladylike snort.

  “Where is it?” Rashida ignored the snort, spinning around on her heels as if the statue would be lying around the foyer. She strode around purposefully, looking into each room as if she were welcome to do so. Erica sputtered indignantly after her as she discovered the study. “At last!” she cried out as she dropped into the chair in front of the statue.

  The words were a spear through Erica’s heart. She forced that organ to harden around a rapidly widening hole. “Well, now that you’ve found what you came for, I suggest you take it and get out.”

  Rashida studied her with large golden eyes, almost amber in the afternoon light. Erica strangled stillborn the memory of what they looked like at dawn when her former lover first awakened. She tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for Rashida to take her statue and go.

  Instead, the other woman leaned her arms on the table and gave her a serious look. “I know you better than that, Erica. You could never have changed this much. Besides, you’re editing cat horror anthologies. You have to know why I’m here; you’ll never be able to sleep until you find out.”

  So Rashida had been following her career? The idea was somehow soothing, warming the coldness of the hard-edged hole in the center of Erica’s being. Perhaps…but no. She forced the hope away. Still, it would be nice to know what all this was about. Rashida was right about that much.