“I had just finished putting on my lipstick, a most lovely shade of burgundy, when my father walked into my room. You should have seen the look on his face! Oh, the horror! Here was his only son dressed in his wife’s plain Sunday dress and a mask of bright make-up slathered on his face!”
By now, Matthew-Matilda was laughing hysterically. His delicate hands were gesturing wildly to animate the tale. Brigit only smiled in response to his self-amusement. Suddenly, the laughter ceased and an expression of ambiguity replaced the smile that had been present only a second before.
“He beat me from one end of the house to the other. I had two broken ribs and a busted nose by the end of it. When I passed out from the pain, he went to town on my mother. I didn’t hear any of it, but I’m sure he condemned her to the furthest regions of hell for not raising me to be a manly-man. When I finally woke up, he was gone and my mother was as much of a mess as I was. She refused to call the police or go to the hospital, or even to take me to the hospital. I could barely see her, my eyes were so swollen…
“When she finally did speak to me, it only was to tell me to leave and never come back. She gave me a hundred dollars and told me to get out. So, with two broken ribs, two black eyes and a busted nose, I made my way to the bus station. I got a ticket all the way to New York City. The things I had to do to survive… well, I’m not going to relive those memories out loud, honey. Believe me; it wasn’t pretty most of the time.
“I finally got my chance to sing when I was nineteen. My pimp of a boyfriend shoved me on stage one night because he didn’t believe that I could sing. Bastard – I showed him. After that night, after I had a taste of the spot light and doing what made me happiest – I was determined to be a name everyone would remember. After some of the things I had done just to survive, sucking a few cocks for a chance to sing a few numbers on stage was the least of my worries. I was born to sing, all-be-it dressed in a gown and wearing enough make-up to put any Jezebel to shame. I was born to sing. I do it all….Bessie, Billie, Sandra, Judy, Lena…even a little bit of Miss Eartha if I’ve smoked enough cigarettes before the show. They love me,” Matthew-Matilda mused as he stared at his reflection. “Tonight is the night. Tonight, I am Miss Matilda Swenson, Chanteuse Extraordinaire. You watch. It’ll be a permanent deal by the time I’ve finished the first show. Betsey LaRue makes five hundred a week in this place. I’ll have her beat by the end of the night. Where is Mickey?” Matthew-Matilda glanced at the clock nervously.
“Mickey isn’t coming, Matilda,” Brigit reminded softly.
A deep silence grew between them as Matthew-Matilda let her words echo through his mind.
“What happened tonight?” Brigit asked.
‘Tonight’ had happened twenty years ago, but, it was obvious that her assignment was stuck in the moment that time. He was on a loop that replayed itself over and over in the minutes before he had died. She had widened that loop slightly by letting him talk about his memories. If he continued telling her the story, she hoped he would realize his fate and break himself loose of the loop. Finally, he would be free and they could move forward.
“I don’t know.”
The answer was just above a whisper. Brigit stared hard at the partially dressed drag queen. She knew that he knew what had happened. He knew that she knew the truth. The defeated and sad look in his blue eyes told her as much.
“My ex, Joey, stopped in to see me,” Matthew-Matilda finally admitted. “He came to wish me luck. He knew how important tonight was to me and that I was a little nervous. He gave me a shot from the kit he always carries. He said it would settle my nerves... that I’d be as calm as the sea on a beautiful day…Joey always knows what to say to calm me down. He’s such a poet.”
“But, he gave you too much, didn’t he?” Brigit said softly. Sadly, Matthew-Matilda nodded.
“I’m not singing tonight, am I?”
“No, dear, you’re not.”
Recognition of his fate was slowly wrapping itself around his thin shoulders. He was finally becoming aware of the prison ten minutes to eight had become for him. Brigit saw a faint glimmer of tears welling in his blue eyes. They would never spill over, but she knew he was finally being released from the loop and there were some emotions left to expire.
“What do I do now?” he asked quietly.
“When you’re ready, you may leave this place. Are you ready?”
“Are you sure Mickey isn’t coming? I thought I heard him in the hall…”
“I’m sure,” Brigit assured him.
“Then, I guess I’m ready. I need my lipstick, though,” he pointed out as his eyes began to scan the clutter on the make-up table once again.
When his gaze fell on the platinum beehive wig to his right, he snatched it from the stand and planted it on his head. As he continued to straighten it, Brigit stood and walked to the dressing table to his left. A tube of lipstick rested there. Silent, she picked it up and read the name: Lucky Red. Silently she passed it to Matthew-Matilda Swenson and watched as he took his time in applying it. When he was done, he tucked the tube under one of the rubber false breasts glued securely to his hairless chest. He smacked his lips a couple of times for good measure before swiveling on the short stool and facing Brigit full on.
“How do I look?”
“Beautiful,” Brigit replied with a soft smile.
“Let’s get this show on the road, then,” Matthew-Matilda decided. Brigit offered her free hand to the drag queen as he slowly rose from the stool. As they touched, Brigit saw the door appear to her left. Her smile remained as she escorted the towering drag queen toward it slowly.
“What’s your name, honey?” he asked. His voice had gone from a pert pitch to a seductive low tone. It was a part of the personae, Brigit knew. She would entertain it for the next few minutes of knowing him.
“Brigit,”
“Lovely. I like you, honey. What do you do?” Brigit’s smile broadened.
“I’m a Grim Reaper,”
“Oh my,” Matthew-Matilda froze, suddenly remembering his joke about his father. Brigit smiled and shrugged in a sign of dismissal to his silent apology.
“Matthew Swenson,” she began as she opened the waiting portal to his fate.
“Matilda,” he groaned with a dramatic roll of his blue eyes.
“Matthew Matilda Swenson,” Brigit corrected. “May you find eternal peace.”
“You’re a sweetheart,” the drag queen said before stooping to plant a light kiss on her cheek.
Matthew-Matilda turned dramatically and walked through the door, holding his breath as if he knew the stage and a big spot light was waiting on the other side. Brigit closed the door softly behind him and withdrew his portfolio from her pocket. When she opened it, she found the pages blank – only his name and passing date remained. Assignment complete.
Silently, she slipped the black folder into the opposite coat pocket and left the dressing room. She had to complete the next assignment before the day was over. John expected her back at the office to discuss her interactions and actions. Allowing Matthew-Matilda to tell his story to break him from the loop of time he was stuck in had taken quite a bit of time; but it was an action she had felt necessary to avoid a struggle.
As she stepped from the dressing room into the dark and narrow hall that had led her there to begin with, she felt the other spirit looming at the end of the hall. Her grip on the handle of the umbrella tightened again before she began the walk toward it. As she approached, she could feel it taking the same number of steps away from her.
“Show your self,” she instructed when she reached the end of the hall and could see the main room of the theater with the aid of the faint light from the windows close to the ceiling. A slight vibration to her left caught her eye and she turned to face it. It was a young man with a frightened look on his face. He was wringing his hands nervously as he watched her, ready to run if she made a move toward him.
“What did you do with Matilda?” he asked.
His voice was shaking.
“I have passed him to his fate. Who are you?” Brigit asked softly.
“I’m Mickey. I was supposed to fetch Matilda to the stage. She’s been waiting for me,” he explained.
“Matilda has gone, Mickey.”
“I want to see her show, please,” he pleaded.
Brigit eyed the young man for a moment. He had barely left being a boy, yet, he was barely a man as well. She wondered how long he had been waiting to pass himself.
“That’s not possible at this moment,” Brigit finally said. “You’ll have to catch the next one,” she suggested when she saw his shoulders drop in dismay.
“Can you get me in? Please? I’m crazy about her,” he pleaded.
“I’ll do what I can,” Brigit promised.
“When will I know?” Mickey asked excitedly.
“Soon, I promise. Just hang out here and I’ll come for you when I have the green light,” she assured him gently.
“Thank you, ma’am. Thank you,” Mickey gushed. His fear of her presence had disappeared. The vibration of his energy was becoming stronger. He would do as she instructed. He would wait here for his chance to see Matilda Swenson again.
Brigit nodded and turned away from him. She had to get on with her next assignment. She had made a promise to him, to Mickey. She would come back for him as soon as she could find his portfolio and he would finally have his chance to see Matilda Swenson sing.
11: Bobby Hooper
As Brigit exited 72 St. Mark’s Place, she closed her eyes to the bright light of the portal that would take her to the next assignment. When she opened them again, she was standing on a tree lined street with cookie-cutter houses on either side. White picket fences surrounded a few of them, marking the boundaries of one lot from the other. Standing in the middle of the street, Brigit withdrew the second portfolio from her coat pocket.
Bobby Hooper, aged five, had passed in the mid-fifties and his parents had left the area shortly after his passing. His father had been in the Air Force and, as such, had been reassigned to another base within months of his oldest son’s death. Mrs. Hooper, Bobby’s mother, had reluctantly followed her husband despite the heartbreak of losing her child. Brigit read his short story carefully, hoping to find a sign that would make this task easy.
The fact that it was a child bothered her. She had never been particularly good with children despite her every effort to charm them. That had been Maggie’s department. Maggie had a way with children that made The Pied Piper look like a charlatan. It was part of her success as an elementary teacher. The children naturally loved her. Brigit had often imagined that Maggie would one day be the Mama Dee of the neighborhood.
Brigit turned and eyed the small square house that had been indicated in Bobby Hooper’s portfolio. It was a small place with faux shutters outlining the windows that faced the street. The white picket fence that had been put up around the yard was now a faded brown, the white wash having peeled and eroded away with time. The yard was void of any flowers and the hedge planted on either side of the tiny front porch was overgrown from years of neglect. It was obvious to Brigit as she opened the gate and began walking up the cracked-cement walk that there had been many short term residents in the small house and none of them had cared enough to keep up appearances.
As she entered the house, she listened carefully for the sound of a child playing. Silence was all she heard as she stood in the front room. Her ears strained for the slightest sound to indicate the boy’s presence. She was about to double check the address indicated in his portfolio when she heard the deep sigh carry across the silence from the back of the house. Slowly, Brigit began to walk toward it’s origin in the kitchen.
He was sitting on a chair in the corner of the kitchen. His roly-poly frame was slumped against the back of the chair as if he had been punished and he was waiting for the word that he had served his time. His brown hair had been nicely combed to one side as befitting a little boy of the time. His shorts and striped t-shirt were clean and pressed. Bright white socks set off the navy blue of his canvas sneakers as his pudgy legs dangled over the edge of the chair. Brigit noticed the look of fear that came into his eyes as she emerged from the hall into the near empty kitchen. How long he had been sitting in this room, she didn’t know. All she could see was his sudden fear that a stranger was present. She wondered if it was an emotion that he had expressed each time a new family had come into his home.
“Hi Bobby,” she said gently. She stopped a few feet in front of him, not wanting to excite his fear any more than she already had. The chubby little boy gave no reply. “How long have you been sitting here?” she asked. Silence followed her question and she began to believe that getting him to talk to her was going to be an act of God.
“You’re mom sent me to bring you to her,” she said.
Brigit felt the sudden ridiculousness of the statement as soon as she had finished it. Parents had been preaching about strangers using that line to snatch children for decades. Bobby Hooper had obviously been a recipient of that preaching. Only his eyes showed the wariness he was feeling as her words sank in on him.
Wondering how she was going to get any kind of response from the child, Brigit withdrew her field guide. Hopefully, the last page would have a suggestion on how to deal with silent children. Quickly, she flipped to the last page.
My baby loved to sing…
Brigit’s eyes snapped from the words that had appeared there to Bobby Hooper’s round face. He was sullen, sitting in the chair and staring back at her with untrusting eyes. She could only imagine his chubby little cheeks uplifted in a smile of delight as he sang. As she looked into his dark brown eyes, her mind quickly began the search for any childhood song that had long been hidden in her memory. She pushed herself to remember the songs her mother had taught her when she was a small girl…
“Hey, Bobby,” she said gently. She slipped the Field Guide back to her pocket and knelt before the child. “I heard you like to sing. Do you know the song about the Ten Little Indians?”
The roly-poly boy’s eyes snapped to meet Brigit’s in sudden curiosity. His fear was beginning to ebb.
“Do you know the song?” Brigit pressed, glad to finally have some sign of ‘life’ from the child. “Will you sing it with me? One little, two little, three little Indians…” Brigit sang softly. She waited to see if he would join. He merely stared at her as if she had suddenly lost her mind. Brigit realized he wasn’t going to join in and quickly searched for another song. “How about The Mulberry Bush? Do you know that one?”
A movement caught her eye and she paused. The boy had wiggled his fingers where they lay on his thigh even though his pudgy hand had barely made any other noticeable movement. Brigit smiled and returned her attention to his face. Slowly, she sang the first verse about going around the mulberry bush as a small light began to dance in his brown eyes. She waited, hoping his small mouth would open and he’d sing with her. His silence persisted, though.
“Bobby, let’s do London Bridge. You know that one, right?” she praised. “Do you want to sing with me?”
Brigit stood up and offered the child her hands to indicate her willingness to go through the motions of London Bridge with the child. She hoped it would do the trick in getting him close to her so the door he needed to pass through would appear. Once it did, she would open it and urge him through. She was sure there were plenty of sing-along sessions on the other side. If not, she would remind herself to speak to John about it when she returned to the office. Surely, he could put in a request to have them so Bobby Hooper would be entertained through out eternity.
“C’mon, Bobby, let’s do the dance,” she urged.
Brigit began singing again and found herself trying very hard to remember words in the right order. Finally, the little boy could no longer contain himself and slid from the chair to join her in the dance. Together, they held hands and swung their arms as Brigit watched his face, pleased to see the delight t
hat had finally erased the sullen expression she had first encountered. She felt her heart becoming light for the first time in weeks as she fell to the floor with the little boy when London Bridge came tumbling down. She felt her spirits rising as she began to belt out the words of a song she had never thought she would sing again. Brigit suddenly understood the difference between growing up and growing old.
By the sixth time through the song, Brigit noticed the child had begun to sing. His voice still betrayed his sense of wariness, but the joy of the song put a small on his face. When the song ended, she found herself lying on the floor beside Bobby Hooper. His eyes were dancing with delight as he turned his head and looked at her. She felt his silent gaze urging her to get back up and sing it again. Instead, she sat up and took his chubby hand in her own.
“Bobby, it’s time to go away from here. Are you ready?” She looked deep into his eyes. A slight panic flashed in his brown eyes as he processed what she had just said. Hoping to reassure him, she continued: “Where you’re going, sweetheart, they sing all kinds of songs all the time. Wouldn’t that be fun? You’d have so many friends to play with. Do you want to go there?”
“Is my mom there?”
It was his first spoken words to her. Brigit felt the depth of his question on her heart. He had been waiting a long time for his parents to come back. Of course he would want to see his mom again.
“If she isn’t, she will be soon,” Brigit replied. “Do you see that door there?” she pointed at the plain white door to her left.
“That’s the pantry,” Bobby pointed out.
“That’s the way to where you need to go. They have so much fun on the other side. Are you ready to go make some new friends?” she asked.
Reapers, Inc. - Brigit's Cross Page 9