by K. J. Young
Mark considers this to be good news. Monica would be furious if she was sent away after having given up her apartment and job.
Neela calls out, “Roy! Tell these young people about your early years traveling with your magic act.”
“You had a magic act?” Monica asks and glances over to Mark, her eyebrows raised like, What a surprise! Her tone of incredulity is convincing; Mark gives her that much. She says, “We’d love to hear about it.”
“They were world-famous,” Baird says. “Traveled everywhere.”
Roy beams with pride. “You young folks should have seen Alma and me back in the day. We performed in theaters all over the world.” He takes a sip of his champagne. “We did illusions that had never been done before and haven’t been done since. No one could figure it out. Over the years we were offered big money to reveal how our tricks were done, but a magician never reveals his secrets.” He smiles.
Mark suddenly remembers something. “Lisa was under the impression that you were a salesman and Alma worked as a seamstress.”
Roy tilts his head to one side, thinking. “Lisa did have a tendency to get confused, bless her soul. I will tell you that Alma made our costumes. Her skill with a needle was considerable.”
There’s barely a pause before Monica asks, “What countries did you tour?”
“Too many to name.” Roy chuckles. “If I had to list them, we’d be sitting here all day.”
Monica leans forward. “England? France? Czechoslovakia?”
“All of them and more.”
Her eyes shine. “I would love to travel like that. I wish I could have been there.”
Mark thinks she’s laying it on kind of thick. Probably hoping Roy will put her in the will, but that’s not going to happen. Not if Mark has anything to say about it.
Roy says, “It seems like so long ago now. The years went by so fast.” Bracing his elbows on his knees, he intertwines his fingers. “If we were performing today, we’d be in Las Vegas. I hear that they’re opening up to magic acts now. Alma and Roy could give Siegfried and Roy a run for their money.” He smiles, as if picturing it in his mind.
Neela says, “You were the magician and Alma was the assistant, isn’t that right?”
He nods. “She was so much more than my assistant, though. We developed the tricks together. We practiced until our movements went as smoothly as a finely tuned watch. We traveled thousands of miles and always got along. She was a true partner. My better half. I’m going to miss her so much.” His voice cracks as he looks toward the ceiling.
Sam gets up and hands him a white handkerchief. “We’re all going to miss her,” he says gently. “I find comfort in the fact that someday we’ll all be together again.”
“Amen to that,” Lara says from her perch on Baird’s lap.
Roy dabs his eyes. “It’s just not fair that she went first. It should have been me.” He looks up and gives Mark a grim smile.
“Oh, don’t say that,” Monica says. “Alma wouldn’t have wanted you to be sad.”
Mark thinks she’s being a little presumptuous for someone who just met Alma and Roy, but the others agree with her, so apparently he’s the only one who notices.
Sam tells another joke, and everyone laughs. Baird says, “That’s the third time you’ve told that joke, Sam, but I still love hearing it.” He takes a sip of champagne and shares a smile with his wife. The love these people have for each other is palpable.
Maybe it’s the champagne, but Mark feels an odd affection for this group of friends. An admiration for how they care for each other. He’s never bothered to cultivate friendships, but he can see the value in it. This is something he’ll need to aim for in the future. People who will take care of him when he’s ill and mourn him when he’s gone. There’s a pause in the conversation. Mark asks, “What was your most famous trick?”
Roy’s face lights up. “There were so many, my boy. But if I had to pick one”—he raises his index finger—“it would be the headless woman. I would pop Alma’s head off her neck, and she would walk about the stage with her head tucked under her arm.” He chuckles at the memory. “You should have heard the screams. At every performance at least one person fainted, usually a woman. And a few times, an audience member vomited at the sight.”
“How did you do it?” Mark asks. “I mean, how did you make it look like Alma was headless? Off the record, can you tell us?” He glances around the room. “You know all of us can keep a secret.” Mark is not asking just to make conversation. He remembers the poster showing a headless Alma. The sight of her head tucked under her arm was grotesque and yet compelling at the same time. He’s dying to know how it was done. Mirrors? A mannequin? Some kind of projection? There has to be a simple explanation. Everyone in the room looks to Roy, who opens his mouth as if about to speak. For a second, Mark thinks he’s going to spill. After all, the old man is so close to the end of his life that not telling means the secret will go with him to his grave, and what would be the point of that?
But Roy seems to think better of it; he closes his mouth and shakes his head. “I prefer to keep it to myself,” he says. “So much in life is known. When all is said and done, there needs to be some mystery.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The evening wears on. At some point boxes of pizza are delivered, and Mark eats his fill of pepperoni and cheese. Even Roy manages to eat a slice—a small miracle, given his false teeth. The drinking evolves from champagne to cocktails, and the room fairly rocks with laughter. When Mark privately asks Dr. Cross about a funeral, he gestures to the room and says, “This is it. A group of friends celebrating her life. Just the way Alma wanted it.”
Mark sees the group acting silly and drunk. He wonders if this is really what she would have wanted. They haven’t mentioned Alma in hours, instead telling jokes and reminiscing about travels and fine-dining restaurants. They try to include Mark in the conversation, but it’s fairly pointless. What would he be able to contribute to a conversation about taking a train trip across Europe? These people are like something out of the Agatha Christie novel he had to read in high school.
At the end of the evening, Roy tells them to leave the glasses and bottles for the next day, but Neela and Lara insist on cleaning up. Monica gathers up the pizza boxes and pizza-stained paper napkins and leaves the room to dispose of them while the men stay behind to talk. Mark knows he should be doing something, but he can’t think of what, exactly. His mind is muddled by the tidal wave of alcohol he’s consumed. The room spins before his eyes, and he can’t keep his thoughts straight.
Once everyone reconvenes, there is a flurry of goodbyes as the two couples decide to leave for the night. Lara and Neela gather up their purses and give Roy a kiss on the cheek. Sam and Baird shake Roy’s hand. Only Neela acknowledges Alma’s death as she says goodbye, saying, “My condolences on the loss of your lovely sister.”
After they’ve gone, Dr. Cross says, “Why don’t I help you with your bedtime routine, Roy, before I head out? We’ll let these young folks turn in for the night.”
Mark is relieved at this turn of events. He’ll be lucky to get himself into bed, much less anyone else.
And yet, he does. He makes it to his room and shuts the door behind him. After taking a leak and brushing his teeth, he strips down to his underwear and climbs under the sheets. His last thought before he drifts off to sleep is that he’s lucky to have avoided the bed spins. Those are the worst.
In the middle of the night, a knock on the door wakes him. His eyes flick open, and for a second he thinks the sound is a figment of his imagination. No. There it is again, three firm raps coming from the other side of his bedroom door. It could only be Monica or Roy, and Monica wouldn’t knock—she’d just come in. He suddenly remembers that he didn’t leave his door ajar in case Roy needed him during the night. But Monica would certainly hear him, wouldn’t she?
He fumbles out from under his covers and pads to the door. Opening it, he’s stunned to see Lis
a, dressed exactly as she was the day they met: a white peasant top, red-checked flare-legged pants, and a gold cross necklace around her neck. The light in the hallway allows him to see every detail. She is real, so real he can see the freckles on her nose. His mouth is frozen from shock; no words come out. She crooks one finger, beckoning for him to follow her. Numbly, he does.
Down the hall she glides. While he trails her, his mind reels. Lisa, it seems, is not dead after all. She faked her own death and is now back to prove a point. She takes him across the hall and into Roy’s bedroom. They stand alongside the old man’s bed, looking down on his sleeping body. He’s on his back, mouth sunken from lack of teeth, the wispy hair around his ears sticking out in an unattractive way. His snoring is erratic, as if he can’t find his rhythm.
Lisa holds a pillow in two hands and mimes holding it over the old man’s face. A demonstration of suffocation. She goes through the motions again and looks to see if he understands. Mark nods. She hands him the pillow and points at Roy as if to say, Now you do it. And make it count.
Mark sucks in a quick breath. He shakes his head and drops the pillow to the floor.
Yes. He can hear her voice in his head. This is the only way to stop it.
He responds out loud, “No.” He’s crossed lines before, but he’s never killed anyone. It’s not that he’s incapable of ending a life. It’s just not necessary. Soon enough the old man will be gone.
Do it. She puts the pillow back in his hands.
“No.”
Roy shifts in his sleep and murmurs one word. “Alma.” His voice is hoarse, and it’s a pitiful sound. Clearly, the old guy misses his sister. This is what happens when you become too reliant on someone else.
The walls of the room become shadowy and begin to close in on them. At the same time, the smell of rotting meat and urine fills the air. Mark feels something slick on his hands. Taking a closer look, he sees that it’s blood. Before he can wipe it off, Lisa grabs his arm and shoves him closer to the bed. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as she morphs into Dr. Cross. The pillow vanishes at the same time.
“Go ahead,” the doctor says. “You can touch her.” The body in the bed becomes Alma, her flesh mottled purple-and-blue like a bruise. “Don’t be afraid. Death is a part of life. It’s going to happen to all of us.” His fingers tighten their grip, digging into Mark’s skin. “Just do it. Touch her. It will help you to understand how death works.”
The smell of rotting meat gets stronger, filling his nostrils and making him gag.
Repulsed, Mark pushes away from Dr. Cross, who throws his head back and laughs. Alma’s corpse sits up and giggles, then reaches out both arms to embrace him. “Come to me,” she croaks. Wheeling, Mark flees the room. In the hallway he bumps into Doug, who is wearing his cardboard mask and leaning back against the wall, one leg bent flamingo style. “Told ya!” he says. “Remember, it’s better to take action than to be a victim.” He reaches out and pats Mark on the cheek.
“Get the fuck away from me,” Mark tells him and continues on. Behind his back, Doug chortles.
Once he’s in his bedroom, Mark closes the door and locks it, then pulls the covers up to his chin for protection. He is fairly certain this is a dream, but knowing that doesn’t help if he can’t make it stop. Ruefully, he remembers how Lisa warned him about the bad dreams. As it turns out, she was right.
No, wait, she wasn’t right. She was a sad, crazy girl, and now she’s gone. Or is she gone? Everything is all mixed up, and he doesn’t know how to untangle it.
He closes his eyes and wishes for this nightmare to end.
Sleep eventually comes, and he only wakes up when Monica comes into the room and climbs into bed with him. He’s too tired to even open his eyes, but her voice croons into his ear. “I’ve been waiting for this all day.” Her hands and tongue do all the things she knows he likes, and when she’s on top and the two of them are finally in a rhythm, she says in an insistent, sultry voice, “Mark, look at me.”
He struggles to get his eyes open, and when he does, he’s struck dumb by the sight of Alma’s face right above his, her leathery skin and wide grin showing yellow teeth. Her skeletal hands clamp on either side of his face, and her skinny, naked body is pumping up and down on his. He’s repulsed but frozen in place. Her tongue flicks out between cracked lips, and she purrs in Monica’s voice, “You really do rise to the occasion, don’t you?”
Only minutes before her tongue was in his mouth and had worked its way down his body. Thinking about it grosses him out. He stifles the urge to throw up, knowing the vomit would stick in his throat and suffocate him.
“You love it, don’t you?” the specter asks mockingly.
“Get your fucking hands off of me!” His shout rattles in his brain.
Alma slaps his face and laughs. “Mark Norman, you’re such a little bitch. Grow some balls, will you?”
Mark closes his eyes. God. The word rises, a prayer. Please make it end.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
When Mark’s alarm clock goes off, his room is bright from the morning light, and he’s fairly certain he’s not dreaming anymore. He shudders thinking about the nightmare. It was the worst one yet. Between Lisa’s outlandish claims and too much drinking right before bedtime, his mind has conjured up some true horrors. He needs to put Lisa’s ideas out of his head and dispense with the alcohol before bedtime. Mark’s no killjoy. He can put away beer with the best of them. But hard liquor? He’s learning that it doesn’t sit well with him. That nightmare with Alma is a powerful incentive to lay off the sauce. He can still feel her bony pelvic bones slamming against him, and he can perfectly recall the sight of her breasts swinging like pendulums, while her face leered inches from his own.
He’s not letting that happen again.
Mark is still tired and his head pounds, but as hangovers go, he’s had worse. After quickly getting ready, he pops a few aspirin and heads to the kitchen, where he finds Monica and Roy at the table eating breakfast. “Good morning,” he says.
“Morning,” they reply in unison. Both of them are reading the paper and drinking coffee. Roy has the business section, Monica the local news. Both are properly attired for the day. In fact, Monica is wearing a dress, as if she’s going to a social function.
“What’s for breakfast?” Mark asks.
Monica lowers the paper. “We had crepes with lingonberry jam. You can have whatever you want.” Her tone is even, and yet he gets the feeling she’s annoyed with him. She’s never made crepes for him, so apparently Operation Win Roy Over has begun.
“You didn’t make an extra crepe for me?”
“No, sorry.”
Mark shrugs and makes some toast, grabs a cup of coffee, then sits down to eat. While he’s chewing, Monica remarks on a funny local story. “An area man was spotted walking on the sidewalk in his neighborhood wearing only his pajama bottoms. When police stopped to question him, they discovered he was sleepwalking.” She turns to Mark. “Can you imagine?”
Roy says, “Some say you should never wake up someone who is sleepwalking. That it will be too big of a shock for them. Might give them a heart attack.” Roy and Monica begin to talk about the pros and cons of waking up a sleepwalker. What if they might fall down some stairs or walk in traffic? On the other hand, if they could be guided safely back to bed, wouldn’t that be better? Roy says, “What do you think, Mark?”
He sets down his coffee mug. “I don’t honestly know too much about it.”
After that, Mark is excluded from the conversation. Roy and Monica talk on and on. They cover the weather, the migration of birds in the fall, and how much women’s fashions have changed over the years. Mark gets the distinct feeling he’s a third wheel by design. The idea aggravates him, but it’s typical of Monica. She’s always been one to look out for herself. Glumly, he thinks that next the two of them will get married and Monica will send Mark packing.
Roy interrupts his thoughts. “I thought we could go to the bank
today, Mark, if that works for you?”
“Of course. Whatever you want.”
“Bring your driver’s license for identification purposes. We’ll be taking Alma’s name off all the accounts and adding you on instead. I’ll also give you permission to access our safe-deposit box.”
Excitement rises in Mark’s chest. This seems almost more official than the signing of the documents the other night. Having his name on the accounts means, he assumes, that he can access the money anytime he wants. It’s a level of trust that he hasn’t earned, but he’ll sure as hell take it. Mark gives Monica a sideways glance to see if this new development upsets her, but she’s looking at the newspaper again and not paying any attention at all. He adopts a light tone. “Are the secrets to your magic act in your safe-deposit box?”
Roy chuckles. “No, my boy, I keep all that up here.” He taps his forehead. “The bank box is for documents and photos. Some collectible coins. Nothing too exciting.”
“Collectible coins? The usual gold doubloons?” Mark jokes.
“Of course. All my pirate treasure.”
And just like that, Mark is back in the fold. Monica is going to have a difficult time gaining traction on him. He got here first, after all, and Roy loves him like a grandson.
When Roy leaves to get his car keys, Mark pulls Monica aside and asks the question that’s been on his mind ever since he woke up this morning. “Did you come into my room last night?”
Her brow furrows. “No, why would I?”
“You know.” He shoots her a smile. “For the usual.”
She straightens up and frowns. “Mark, this is not the time for that. Show some respect, please. A woman has died.”
He’s puzzled but says, “Sorry. You’re right.” Another thought comes to mind, and he digs his wallet out of his back pocket, then flips it open and pulls out Lisa’s gold cross necklace. “Look at this.” He holds up the chain so the cross dangles. “Do you think it’s real gold?”