by Rob Heinze
The elevator stopped, and the doors opened. They stepped out. The Mesha led them down an empty hall.
“How can there be so many people here?” Eve said, as they walked.
“We have scouts,” The Mesha said. “They look for stragglers, the lost, and they show them this place. They’re free to leave or stay, if they want.”
They had reached a closed door, on which hung a placard that said office. The Mesha looked back and smiled at them. She opened the door and stepped in. They followed.
13
Flashback:
It was freshman year in high school, and there wasn’t a person in the school who didn’t know her name. All of the guys wanted her: all of the girls hated her. She was shy still, but not too shy to tell 99% of the guys that she wasn’t interested in them. A lot of them started to resent her. She cared, but tried not to show it.
Biology was her hardest class, and she was barely slipping by with a D. She went for extra help a lot with Mr. Tartano. He was in his thirties, had blond hair, was married, was nice, was funny, and liked her a lot.
She ended up passing the class with an A.
She wasn’t sure if she really got that because of her command of biology.
But she did earn it, despite what people might think, despite if it sounded cliché or not.
It was a late Thursday afternoon when it happened. She was up in the third floor biology lab, and Mr. Tartano was showing her the difference between microscopic cells.
“Here,” he said, coming away from the eye-piece of a microscope. “Take a look at this one.”
She leaned into the lenses. Lately, Mr. Tartano had started touching her. Only on the shoulder, or the arm, or the hand, but he had never done that before. She didn’t think anything of it, but it did make her slightly uncomfortable.
She leaned into the microscope and looked. She could not see; everything was one massive blur. In the later years, she would think that maybe Mr. Tartano had done that purposely…left the lenses unfocused. She was never certain, and it was one of those things that haunted her.
“I-I can’t see anything.”
“Adjust the magnification,” he said. “Here, let me help.”
He leaned into her, his body going flush with hers. She stiffened. He laid his over hers and then started to turn the knobs. In that brief moment, when his hand first touched hers, she had a massively detailed memory flood her thoughts—
The neighbor, it was her neighbor—Jane’s neighbor; he had come out one day while they had been sunbathing. They were older and her body had developed more and Jane had gone inside—for what? Drink? Food? Bathroom?—and out comes her neighbor, and isn’t it funny that he’s ass-naked? Not really, no, and why was he sporting an erection, and why, oh why, was he moving slowly, pretending to check something but really not checking anything…hoping, hoping that Belinda, that young girl on whom he had been spying while she swam in hope that perhaps her bikini top might suddenly abandon its post—hoping that she was looking but knowing that he could not look, could not make eye contact, and God she watched in silent terror as the man, fighting back the urge to let out a premy, vanishes back into the house.
Jane had come back out. She told Jane. Jane didn’t believe her. It took a lot of convincing. Jane finally agreed, shocked, but Belinda suspected that Jane never truly believed her. They had never told anyone else.
Now this:
Mr. Tartano’s hand was sweaty and his musk—some cologne—was radiating off of him in waves. He wasn’t an ugly guy; he wasn’t your average run-off-the-mill sicko with a rolling belly and glasses, a man who had been shunned by every woman who had ever laid eyes on him. No, Mr. Tartano was not that kind of guy, and maybe that was why—after everything had happened—Belinda had started to fall in love with him.
But that moment: that moment is important now—
The moment when Mr. Tartano leaned in and kissed her neck. She startled, and he apologized and suddenly there was guilt again, sharp and in her belly, and she said, no, it’s okay. It’s not your fault, Mr. Tartano, remembering Jane’s neighbor.
Mr. Tartano, of frosh biology, was the man to whom she gave her virginity, he parting her eagerly in his living room while his wife was away with the kids (at her mother’s, he had said) and she in pain and he loosing his come—that was what people called it, right? but it was spelled different—that feeling, Jesus, how could she explain how it felt to have all that stuff dumped (and dumped was the correct word) inside of her? She couldn’t. It was that simple.
Mr. Tartano had cried afterwards, a man/child, and she had felt bad for him.
He had sat in the corner of the couch with his limp penis leaking onto his hairy thigh. That sharp, now deep, stab of guilt in her belly assaulted her. She winced. She remembered way back to the first time she had truly felt someone’s envy, someone’s attention, and that someone had been Jane, her friend, secretly stealing glances at her while they dressed.
Jane.
It was she who envied Jane. At that moment, she envied Jane.
It’s not his fault, she thought, looking at his pathetic form.
She scooted over to him. She took Mr. Tartano into her arms. She, the child, giving the adult comfort, and the world moves on unperturbed. She was shaking badly herself from the whole experience, but Mr. Tartano was shaking much worse.
“It’s okay,” she said.
“My wife, Jesus, my wife,” he sobbed. “You’re so beautiful, Belinda.” He sobbed. “You’re so beautiful, I couldn’t help it.” He sobbed more. “So beautiful.”
He repeated it over and over, over and over, and she gave him comfort and for some reason, the next time they had intercourse, he didn’t cry. He smiled, he was happy, he said he loved her, and she felt good, felt nice, felt right as the fucking rain for the first time in her life.
There was a steady flood of morning-after pills, Mr. Tartano giving them to her, making her take them and she unaware of what a steady intake of these might do to her body, her health. She trusted him: he was the adult, wasn’t he? He was the biology guy.
If Mrs. Tartano suspected something, Belinda had no idea. She only knew that it went on for a long time—their affair—and then one day, Mr. Tartano told her it had to stop. Simple as that. It must stop. Oh, but oh it wasn’t quite so simply, Mr. Tartano. You don’t take my virginity and then tell me, when it’s inconvenient for you, to stop. You don’t do that! But he had. How many times had he made love to her? God! God! What a mess! She loved him! He couldn’t!
She had balled and balled.
He won’t, she thought. I’ll go to his house. I’ll go!
It had been over the summer, and she had gone, but the Tartano family had not been there. They had moved. He had planned it conveniently.
She slipped into a deep, dark depression. She cut her arms—not with the intention of killing herself, just with the intention of…of what? She didn’t know. Sometimes the physical pain was better than the mental pain. It became something with which she could placate the mental pain, drawing the razor slow and hard down her forearm so that it left red, raw, and bleeding tracks that stung deep and hot and nice.
A lot of the people at school shunned her. The boys no longer wanted that much to do with her, and maybe that was a blessing? She just didn’t know how to deal with this lack of attention, though, after being breed on an overdose of it and it only made the depression worse.
She envied Jane; God did she envy Jane! Jane had a steady boyfriend for two years named Mark. They seemed so happy too.
14
The office was a small, windowless bunker with a desk and two chairs. There was an attached room, from which The Mesha appeared with two bottles of water. She handed one to Eve and one to Charley, who were sitting in the two chairs. Then the woman went to the chair behind the desk and plopped down, her breasts jiggling upon impact. Charley tried hard not to look (Eve did too) but it was unavoidable.
“Ask any question you’d like.” Her sm
ile was inviting, her teeth immaculate.
Charley could suddenly think of nothing. He blanked, turned to Eve, who turned to him and saw his muddled expression. She turned back to The Mesha and spoke:
“What do you know about…about this place?” Eve asked. She thought it was the most important question right now.
The Mesha started to speak, and they listened raptly:
“I know this: we’re in some state of sleep. Whether it is a coma or not, I can’t be sure. What I gather from people here is that something traumatic happened to them. It’s usually their last memory before awaking in this place. Take, for instance, my own case: I was at a friend’s apartment in New York City. They were having a party; they had just sold a novel and were celebrating. That’s no easy feat, from what I can gather, and most of the people used it as an excuse to get lit.
“It was a nice apartment, one that she’d bought with her inheritance. The book deal was just extra income. There was no elevator in the place—or maybe it wasn’t working that night; oddly, I can’t remember. I think there was an elevator. Anyway, it was on Central Park South, and the apartment was just level with the trees. The view would have been worth millions more had it been a floor higher.
“I remember the night well until I got drunk. She had hired a bar-tender, and he made strong martinis. Any flavor. I drank a lot, probably because they were so good, and I got very drunk. I remember stumbling around. I remember making love with some man—”
The way she said it, the way she slid it carelessly into the conversation as if they had known each other all their lives, barely made them notice she had said it.
“—in one of the bedrooms, and someone coming in, apologizing, then I think they stayed and watched. I don’t really remember that part. But I remember going back out to the bar-tender and asking for an Appletini. ‘Are you sure?’ He had said. He knew I was obviously drunk out of my mind. ‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘I’m very sure.’ He shrugged and mixed it, but I think he put barely any vodka in it because all I tasted was that Pucker stuff.
“I staggered to the window, gazing out at the tree-tops. There were two layers of trees, my stoned eyes told me, and I did not know which one was real. The buildings bounding the square of the park were all glowing like a million electric stars. Each one of those dots of light had fuzzy coronas around them, and I was probably seeing about two-million electric stars. I stayed at the window for a long time.
“People told me it was time to go home. We were staying at The Helmsley Park Lane, which was a couple doors down from her apartment, so we were going to walk back. We had gotten that room because we suspected we’d be lit and didn’t want to worry about driving. I had my own room, but I wasn’t going home alone. His name was Julio. He was Spanish. I think he was a writer too but not successful. Probably terrible. I don’t know. That much I forget. What I do remember, though, is standing at the top of the stairs and Julio saying, ‘I forgot my wallet. Hold on.’ He disappeared back into my friend’s apartment, and I was alone for what felt like a long time.
“The apartment door opened, and a man came out. I knew him. His name was Donald Kingsley. He was from England. His face was bright red. He was fuming drunk, and I supposed that didn’t help the situation. He wove his way towards me and stopped in front of me, swaying like a snake, and slurred, ‘I sthaw you. I sa-sa-sthaw you with him.’ I stared at him defiantly. ‘And?’ His face melted into a blue rage. ‘And? And? You fucking whore!’ His arm reached out and encircled mine, squeezing. I tried to squirm away, but he held me tightly. ‘Were you born a whore, you bitch? Were you born one?’”
She paused, and Charley and Eve sat in complete silence, held attentively by this woman’s blunt story. They didn’t know what to think of her.
Those sneakers, Charley thought.
She continued, looking up at the office’s ceiling: “I told him to let go of me. He didn’t. I thought: when Julio comes out, Donald Kingsley will wake up in the hospital. But it never got to that, at least that I know of. I fought with Donald myself. He bared his teeth and violently jerked me forward. Then he slammed me against the wall. It hurt, I remember that, and I tried to call out to Julio. I think that was when he decided to push me down the stairs. I don’t remember the fall. The last thing I remember is seeing Donald Kingsley’s face.”
That was true, but she also remembered feeling a violent pain in her belly that she had long ago accepted as part of her.
“When I awoke, I was on the stair’s landing. I wasn’t alone. Standing above me was a glowing white figure.”
“Those of the Light,” Eve whispered.
The Mesha nodded. “I followed it out of the apartment. I followed it all the way out here. They gave this place to me, as a gift.”
Charley noticed that The Mesha had told the story while looking at the ceiling. When she said that last sentence, she glanced at them, her eyes never wavering.
A practiced liar, Charley thought suddenly.
“So they showed you this place?” Eve asked.
“Yeah,” she nodded. “Others came shortly after.”
Her sneakers, why would she wear them in a cocktail dress? Charley’s mind persisted.
“How long have you been here?” Charley asked, finding his voice.
The Mesha smiled at him; so he did know how to talk!
“That’s a tough question. Years, at least, though the exact amount of time…I don’t know that.”
“Can you go back?” Eve asked, her voice suddenly not quite stable. “Do you age?” Some fear had apparently gripped her. “Has everyone been here that long?”
The Mesha looked at Eve and smiled. “One question at a time.” There was no reproach in her voice, just light humor. “We can go back, if we choose. Do we age? Yes and no. Our minds do, but it doesn’t seem like our bodies do. Some people have been here as long as I have; I’m sure you’ll meet a few.”
“Why?” Eve asked. “Why would anyone want to stay here that long?”
“There are a lot of reasons,” The Mesha said. “For one, we don’t really age here. For another, there aren’t diseases.”
“No one’s gotten sick?” Charley asked.
The Mesha shook her head. “Not since I’ve been here.”
“What about Those of the Dark?” Eve asked.
“What about them?”
“Do they come here?”
“Not really. Sometimes you can see them off in the distance, but they have never been inside the complex. Those of the Light have set it up that way.”
“I have a question,” Charley interjected.
The Mesha turned to look at him, smiling. “This isn’t class, Charley; you can ask whenever you’d like.”
He felt his face flush. She smiled lightly. He asked: “If electricity doesn’t work, how do your elevators work?”
“Those of the Light have certain powers,” The Mesha said. “They made it that way. They gave us a low amount of energy. If that energy is electricity, I don’t know. I don’t ask.”
“Ask?” Eve asked. “You’ve been that close to them?”
The Mesha shook her head. “No. Not that close. But they’ve left me messages.”
Charley believed that, for they had left him messages too, and it felt as if they wanted to help them. But there was something—
“So,” The Mesha said, breaking his thoughts. “Now I have a question.”
They waited.
“Do you think you’ll stay for a while? You’re free to leave, if you want, and Sam could even show you to the Special Place. I think he might remember the way. I just wonder if you’ll give it a chance for a night.”
Sam said he didn’t know the way to that place, Charley thought. Maybe I misheard him?
He turned to Eve. She shrugged. He suspected that she didn’t really want to stay but was on the spot in front of their host. One night couldn’t hurt, Charley supposed. One night, and one night only, though. Then Sam could lead them to that place, if he did know the way
.
“We’ll stay,” Charley said.
The Mesha smiled. “That’s smart. You don’t want to travel at night. Not with Those of the Dark around.”
Charley, who had seen Those of the Dark only in daylight, thought that she was saying that for a reason other than because she wanted to tell the truth.
“I’ll show you some rooms we have.”
They stood up, and The Mesha came from around the desk. She walked to the door, turned, and saw that Eve didn’t look like she wanted to follow. She looked like someone trying to come to a decision.
“Is there a way back,” Eve said. “At that place?”
“There is,” The Mesha said.
“How?” Eve asked. “How do we get back?”
“It’s through the place at the end of the bridge,” The Mesha said. “That’s all I know; I’ve never been into it.”
“You know that for certain?” Charley asked.
The Mesha nodded. “We’ve seen people off before.”
“You’ve been there? To that place? And you’ve sent people home?” Eve practically screamed in excitement.
The Mesha nodded again. She smiled.
Her sneakers, Charley thought, glancing down to them. They had once been white, but they were broken in and mostly gray. He thought he saw the Nike insignia on them.
“Can we go tomorrow?” Eve asked. It was almost too good to be true, and for this reason Eve needed reassurance.
“Of course,” The Mesha said. “I’d be sorry to see you go after such a short time, though.”
Eve glanced to Charley, beaming, her joy not concealed. Charley couldn’t help but feel excited too: he was going to see Sarah…
Possibly.
Like Eve, he couldn’t get rid of that gnawing sensation that something was terribly wrong here and that they weren’t going anywhere tomorrow. His eyes fell to The Mesha’s sneakers as they walked the hall. His eyes rose to her bare calf that stuck secretly out the side of the dress, kept on rising to study the God-given curves that rocked as the woman moved.