by Ellen Klages
“No idea. But now the feds are involved.”
“What? Why?”
“Len’s—estate. The skinny detective, Compton, said they requested a background check on him Friday night. Routine procedure. Weekend, though, so no response. Now it’s Monday, and a federal beef came in over the wire. Income tax. Len hadn’t paid a dime since ’34. With penalties and fines, he was in the hole almost two grand.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah, and here’s the kicker. You were legally married when he died, so you’re on the hook for every cent of it.”
“Hold on. I paid my taxes. I have the records.”
“Last time he filed, he checked married, jointly. The form has his signature—and yours.”
“Son of a bitch!” Haskel sputtered. “It’s a forgery.”
“I’m sure it is. And you might be able to prove it in court. The fact that you’d already filed for divorce could work in your favor. It might also look like you were trying to weasel out of paying. Depends on the judge.” She set her briefcase down. “You’ve got a few weeks before they’ll close probate. I’ll try and find you a good tax lawyer.”
“Who’ll be expensive.”
“Yep.” Helen looked around. “I don’t suppose you have enough to—?”
“Not even close. I’ve got maybe three hundred cash in a coffee can at the top of the closet. And the magazines owe me for two covers, that’s another one-eighty.”
“Which Uncle Sam can garnish as soon as the checks clear.”
“Shit.” Haskel lit another cigarette off the end of the first. “So assuming you find me a halfway decent lawyer—?”
“I could get you Clarence Darrow—if he wasn’t dead—and your chances in court would still be slim to none, under the circumstances.” Helen pointed at the pack of smokes. “Give me one of those.” She lit up. “Okay, worst-case scenario. The cops uncover your—unsavory—lifestyle. Then they find out who your dance partner really was, and things get very ugly, very fast.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Lying in a homicide investigation, obstruction of justice, lewd public behavior. The papers would have a field day. You’d both be looking at jail—maybe prison—and your story would be on the cover of Spicy Detective in time for Christmas.”
Haskel swore. “Sugarcoat it, why don’t you?”
“Sorry. Rock and a hard place. You have anywhere else to go?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the beat cops aren’t watching the bus station for you. Leave town, change your name, wait for things here to settle down.”
“And leave Em to the wolves? No.”
“I figured. For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t either. So now we work on Plan B.”
“Which is?”
“I haven’t got a goddamn clue.”
* * *
After Helen left, Haskel and Emily sat on the couch. Haskel smoked. Neither of them spoke. Finally Emily said, “Damn it, I really liked this story. But it doesn’t seem to be ending well.” She laid her head on Haskel’s chest, feeling the muscles rigid with tension. “Maybe you should go away, just for a little while.”
“Looking over my shoulder every second?” Haskel shivered. “No. I won’t hide. Never again.”
“Okay then. Plan B. Could Franny—?” She groped for the words. “—escape us somewhere?”
“I don’t think so. I asked her once. She said she’s never managed a—short cut—farther than a mile or so. She and Babs are trying to figure out a way for her to maybe, someday, work long-distance, but it’s—complicated.” She held up her hands. “Maps and scale and ratios. They were excited; I understood one word in three. Besides, she said a big—jump—could take months to calculate. Apparently it’s a very precise kind of—”
“Magic?”
Haskel smiled, just a little. “You’ve become a believer?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know. That little bird was rather convincing.”
“Keep an open mind then,” Haskel said. “I have another Plan B. Plan C, if you like.” She stood, facing the couch, as if she were about to give a lecture. “Remember I said my grandmother gave me her old family recipe for tundérpör?”
Emily nodded. “And a bus ticket and your necklace. But even if I am always hungry, I don’t think cooking is going to help.”
“Tundérpör isn’t food.”
For the first time since they’d met, Haskel undid the clasp of her pendant and took it off. She pushed on the blue stone with both thumbs, hard; after a moment, it popped out of its setting into her palm. “This is tundérpör. Or will be very soon.”
“What does tundérpör mean? ‘Magic rock’?”
“Sort of,” Haskel said. “Not exactly.” She lit a third cigarette. “One night, after lots of wine, I asked Franny to look it up. By the end of the evening there were dozens of her old books on the table, and the closest she could come was ‘pixie dust.’ Franny made a face and tossed that book into the rubbish. Seems tundérpör doesn’t really have a—parallel—outside the old country. It’s a kind of magic even she’d never heard of.”
“Wait. Your grandmother’s a bigger—you know—than Franny?”
“Maybe not bigger. But different.”
“Still frightening. What does the rock do?”
“Opens a doorway.”
She took the mortar and pestle she used to crush the fish glue, wiped both clean with a damp dish towel, and lay the stone in the bottom of the ceramic bowl. She set it on the table and picked up a razor blade. “Give me your finger.”
Emily tucked both hands into her pockets. “Not until you explain.”
“I’m going to grind a very special pigment. I’ll use it in a painting, and it will—” She faltered. “—It will put us into the picture. Then we’ll be—” She thought for a minute. “—in another story.”
“Wait, what? We’re going to be trapped inside a painting?”
“No. Think of it as an intersection. A place to change directions.” Haskel tapped the razor on the edge of the sink. “My bubbe used her tundérpör to escape a pogrom. She was only sixteen, pregnant with my father. She made a little painting, put it in a locket, and—presto—she was in America, somehow. Everyone else in her village was slaughtered.”
“Are you part of your—bubbe’s—story?”
“Of course. She’s my grandmother.”
“No, I mean—are you inside her magic—?”
Haskel shrugged. “I don’t know, Em. Like Franny said, these things have their own rules. That doesn’t mean I understand them.” She sighed. “Bubbe gave me a recipe, not a textbook.”
Emily stood in silence, gazing out the window. “I’m not convinced yet,” she said finally. “But what’s the first step?”
“I need a drop of your blood, and a drop of mine.” She saw the look on Emily’s face. “Sorry. Bubbe said that’s how it works.”
“Our grandmothers would not have gotten along,” Emily said. “You first.”
“Sissy.” Haskel pricked the pad of her left index finger, grimacing a little, and squeezed a single drop into the mortar. “There. Your turn.”
“I almost pledged a sorority, but they went in for this sort of thing. Secret rituals of Pi Gamma Nu.” She reached for the blade. “Are you sure about this?”
“Not entirely. Maybe my bubbe is a crazy old woman who tells tall tales. But what do we have to lose?”
“Point taken.” Emily touched the razor to her finger. “Do you have Band-Aids?”
“Yes. Poke.”
Emily shut her eyes and poked. “Ow!” The blood welled up as Haskel moved the mortar underneath and caught a fat drop. She handed Emily a tissue.
“Anything more? Eye of newt?”
“Just some spit,” Haskel said, still holding the mortar.
“Your grandmother—” Emily spit and Haskel did the same.
She put the mortar down and selected a stick of pale blue pastel chalk, breaking it in half on the edge of the table with a sharp snap
!, dropping the pieces into the mortar. She began to grind the “ingredients” together. The pendant’s stone was unyielding; the tendons in her forearms stood out with the effort, the pestle making a sound like bones dragged across gravel.
Sucking on her punctured finger, Emily leaned against the windowsill. “Are there magic words?”
“They come later,” Haskel said through clenched teeth. She felt the stone crack, and then crack again, and finally begin to pulverize. “This is also a rather complicated process.” She ground the powder for another five minutes. “There. That ought to be about right.” She set the bowl down and rubbed her arm. “It needs to sit overnight.”
“Then what?”
Haskel smiled. “For seven years, I’ve painted other people’s fantasies. Tomorrow, I’m going to paint ours.”
Emily stared at the blank paper on the drafting table, at the bowl of bluish powder beside it. “How long will we be, um—in this new story?”
“Until the painting is destroyed.”
“Then what?”
“We wink out, I suppose,” Haskel said. “Everyone does. One day you just stop being. Maybe you know it’s coming, maybe you don’t.”
“Like Len.”
Haskel nodded. “Len’s story just ended. No warning.” She gave Emily a hug. “Ours will too, someday. Bubbe was almost sixty when I left home. I’d take that.”
“So—what if the painting isn’t destroyed?”
They looked at each other. Haskel lit a cigarette, stared out the window, then turned back and said, her voice low, “I’ll be happy if I can spend the rest of my life with you. But nothing should be forever. We’re human. We’re mortal. It’s part of the package.”
“Good. That’s what I was thinking. I’ve read a lot of stories in those magazines the last two weeks,” Emily gestured to the bookcase. “Wanting to be immortal is like playing god—it never ends well.”
“Nope. It’s unnatural.”
“Unnatural love still okay?” Emily chuckled.
“More than okay.” Haskel kissed her. “I want to grow old with you—twenty, thirty years—rocking chairs and wrinkles and all.”
“Twenty years—that’s more than a thousand Wednesdays.” Emily thought for a minute. “We’ll need to figure out a way to protect it—and a safe place to store it.”
“A frame, or a box with a glass lid would keep it from getting wet.”
“Or nibbled.” Emily shivered.
“Ugh. I’ll need to know what size so I can trim the paper.”
“Maybe Franny can spare one of her old map cases?”
“Perfect.”
“But where do we put it? How do we know someone won’t find it and keep it. What if—?”
“Don’t overthink it. We’re talking about magically transporting the two of us into a painting that illustrates another story. That doesn’t really lend itself to logic.”
“Thanks, that was reassuring.”
“Franny’s bird, Em. Remember Franny’s bird.” Haskel put on her shoes. “I’ll go down to the corner and call her now.”
* * *
At noon the next day, Babs, Franny, and Polly came by with Chinese dumplings and spareribs, and a shallow, felt-lined box about the size of a LIFE magazine. It had a hinged lid, dark wood framing a sheet of thick glass.
“That’s just what we need,” Haskel said. She picked up a ruler and began to measure the interior, jotting the dimensions on a piece of scrap paper.
“What happens once it’s done?” Emily asked. “If this works, we won’t be here anymore, but the open box will be.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Franny said. “I’ve talked to Babs and Helen. How would you feel if we—the rest of us—came in and closed it up, then put it where it won’t be disturbed?”
“Please don’t bury it.” Emily shuddered.
“No, no, dear. I know a place where it will remain hidden. I own a building in Chinatown. Lots of storage space. We’ll make sure it stays safe, and we’ll be its guardians for the rest of our lives. We’ve agreed to take an oath. Last woman standing will make sure it’s destroyed.”
“Which will release us,” Haskel said, nodding. “Are you certain? That’s a long commitment.”
“I hope so. I’m the eldest, and I’d very much like to see eighty.” She winked. “That should give the two of you a lovely extended honeymoon.”
Haskel kissed Franny on the cheek. “Thank you. It’s—above and beyond.”
“The Circle is a fierce tribe. We look out for each other. On the other hand, things do change, and we live in very uncertain times, as Polly well knows. So it seemed prudent to discuss other contingencies.”
“Plan B’s Plan B,” Emily said.
“Indeed. Circumstances might wrest the painting from our control—”
“So I shall booby-trap it,” Polly announced. “If a stranger finds it, they’ll be in for a surprise.”
They all turned to look at her. Haskel said, “How? What?”
“Well—” Polly tapped a finger on the box. “I started thinking last night, and looked through some of Franny’s books. Really, quite an exceptional library. I considered explosives—black powder, or perhaps a combination of sulfur and potassium chlorate. They make a lovely bang when combined.” She frowned. “But that does require a strong compressive force, which we can’t rely on, and could accidentally be detonated during transport.”
Babs patted her shoulder. “So nice to have another scientist around.” Emily and Haskel just stared.
“However,” Polly continued, “since we don’t know how long a period the trap should be viable, I was forced to re-examine my parameters. The substance might need to remain potent for several decades, without causing any damage to the painting. So—inert, non-corrosive, inflammable. That eliminated anything acidic or pyrotechnic. Then I remembered the medium, the pastels. They’re—” she thought for a moment. “Friable, yes? Unless a fixative is applied.”
“Very. I use fish glue—isinglass—to stabilize the finished piece.”
“Eau de pêche,” Emily said.
Polly nodded. “Odd, but effective. However, if you omit that step, I have a corker. Organic, won’t lose efficacy, and its reactivity is nearly foolproof.”
“Can you get your hands on this miracle stuff in the next few days?”
“I have some with me.” She tapped her satchel and laughed when Emily took a step back. “Don’t worry. It’s quite a harmless powder, when used correctly.”
“Then do continue, professor.” Haskel reached for her smokes.
“Franny and I chose this particular box because at first glance, it appears solid. The hinges are on the interior. I can replace them with spring-loaded ones, then incise three shallow troughs around the lower perimeter, to hold the powder. Before we close the box, I’ll apply a thin coat of rubber cement on the underside of the lid to make a tight seal. By camouflaging the latching mechanism, I can render it invisible to all but the very closest of inspections.”
“Someone leaning right over the box.”
“Exactly. If they do manage to trip the latch, the force of the springs will break the seal and release a rather penetrating cloud of—” she pulled out a small red tin and held it up in a dramatic gesture. “Pepper!”
“Ah-choo!” Emily mimicked an enormous sneeze.
“Precisely.”
“Poof!” Haskel clapped her hands. “So long, painting.”
Emily gave Polly a spontaneous hug. “You’re brilliant, you know.”
She ducked her head, visibly pleased by the praise. “I’m a Wardlow. It’s what we do.”
Polly took the box home to tinker with it. Haskel trimmed the paper and pinned it to the drafting table. She lay on the couch, sketchbook across her knees, swept the pencil across one page, muttered, turned to a fresh one, muttered again.
“Can’t get started?” Emily asked. She sat on the other end of the couch with her leather journal, trying to compose one note to he
r brother, another to Mona. “Is there such a thing as artist’s block?”
“There is at the moment.”
“Talk to me.”
“I’ve been painting terror too long.”
“Is the bucket empty?”
“I’m not taking it with me.”
“Good. Fresh start.”
“That’s the thing. Starting a painting about someone else’s story is easy. I just pick the scene that will make the most dramatic cover—freezing time at the perfect moment, catching the characters in mid-danger, mid-scream—”
“Mid-kiss?”
“Haven’t painted many of those.”
“Now’s your chance.” Emily stretched her arms above her head. “You know our story. Paint your favorite part, and we’ll carry on from there.” She thought for a second. “There’s two, for me. One is kissing you at the fair. That alcove in the Court of the Moon. The light was magic.”
“It was. I’d love to paint that.” She tapped the pencil on her pad. “What’s the other?”
“Dancing. You in that sleek blue satin number. Me in Neddy’s suit—” She bit her lip. “Leave out the mustache? I wouldn’t want to be stuck with it for decades.”
“Definitely not.”
“And let’s dance somewhere else? Not Forbidden City. That scene didn’t end well.” She frowned. “Can you do that?”
“I can paint anything you can imagine.”
“Then let me be your Scheherazade. I’ll tell you our story—our story so far. You draw. I’ll bet the painting takes form by the time you fall asleep.”
“Alright.” Haskel lit a cigarette. “How does it begin?”
“Once upon a time, there was a waif and a stray whose song enchanted a golden-haired painter.” She cocked her head. “May I change a few details?”
“Be my guest.”
“Good. They lived gloriously free, in a house with a bathroom and a real kitchen and a library with a big window—like Franny and Babs have—that looked out across the bay.” She paused. “Your courtyard is nice, but if I’m picking my own fantasy, I’d rather have a view. Of moonlight. And the fair. Which does not close next week, please.”
Haskel laughed as she filled a page with sketches. “I’ll do my best.”