by Lynn Sholes
Cotten felt the thundering bass like a fist on her chest. Strobes flashed in a continuous storm of color. She was immersed in a sea of swirling motion, pounding Latin music, and tightly packed bodies. For the last two hours, she and Vanessa had moved from club to club along Calle Ocho in the Little Havana section of Miami. Every street, ally, room, and corner overflowed with Miami Phantasm Jubilee partygoers. Now her head spun from too many exotic drinks, and her legs wobbled. Sweat soaked her dress, its filmy fabric clinging like cellophane. She felt queasy and needed to get some fresh air and use the bathroom.
She grabbed Vanessa’s arm, pulling her close. “I’ve got to use the ladies room,” she shouted.
Nodding that she understood, Vanessa kept on dancing.
In the back of the room, Cotten found a hallway with women waiting in a long line.
“Shit,” Cotten said. She looked at a girl next to her, hoping she spoke English. “Is this the only bathroom?”
The girl stared at her questioningly.
Relying on her high school Spanish, Cotten asked again, “Otros baños?”
“Afuera,” the woman said.
Cotten shrugged.
The woman’s wide mouth slackened, and she put a knuckle to her lips as if thinking. Finally, she pointed over the heads of those in line and said, “Outside.”
Cotten worked her way around the dance floor to the entrance. Once she had pushed through to the sidewalk, she was immediately caught up in the crowd. Blaring music from a live band on a stage in the middle of the street made it impossible to ask for directions.
She moved through the crowd for about a block, then turned down a side street. A teenage couple, wound together in a mad embrace, leaned against a wall. She hated to disturb them, but she really needed to find a bathroom.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Can you tell me where I can find a restroom?”
The boy looked around, clearly annoyed at the interruption.
“Bathrooms?” Cotten asked. Her voice softer with an apology riding on it.
“Sí,” the girl said. “There is a little restaurant down there,” she said, looking further down the street.
“Thanks.” Cotten passed several closed stores before she got to the sandwich shop, its front window filled with pictures of Cuban sandwiches and hoagie-style ham and cheese called media noches. The inside was filled with people either eating at small Formica tables or waiting in line to place an order.
“Baño?” she asked a black woman wearing an apron bearing the shop’s name, Badia’s Café.
But the woman either ignored her or didn’t understand.
Where was the frigging bathroom for God’s sake?
Bathrooms had to be in the rear of the place, she thought. Making her way to the back of the shop, Cotten saw two unmarked doors. She pushed open the first and entered a storeroom filled with boxes of cooking supplies. There was an additional door beyond the shelves. She found it already open a few inches, and she pushed on it.
What she saw stunned her—a small room shimmering with candles through a thick smoky haze. A handful of people knelt on the bare concrete floor, chanting. At the other end of the room stood a table covered with wooden, African-art-style statuettes along with many of Jesus and the Virgin Mary. Circles, arrows, and strange symbols that Cotten didn’t recognize covered the wall.
She found herself mesmerized by the scene. Stepping into the room, she quietly watched as an old woman, some kind of priestess, Cotten assumed, stood before the group. The old woman had rutted ebony skin stretched tightly over her face and wore a long white dress with her head wrapped in a white scarf—the end falling down over her shoulder. A large yellow flower rested over her left ear. Her eyes were closed, her head bowed in what appeared to be deep prayer or meditation.
No one seemed to notice Cotten, nor acknowledge her presence as the incantations continued. From a corner of the room came the jingle of a tambourine—its player tapping in rhythm to the prayers.
Was it Voodoo? Cotten wondered. Santeria? Black Magic? There was such a mix of cultures in Miami—this could be any number of Caribbean religions. Although she found it fascinating, she suddenly remembered how much she needed to locate a bathroom.
As she started to leave, the chanting stopped abruptly and the old woman looked up at her.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Cotten said, taking a step backward.
The worshipers stood and moved aside, clearing a path to the front.
The priestess approached, raising her bony hand until her finger pointed at Cotten.
Cotten froze, transfixed. With the smoke of hundreds of candles encircling them, the priestess stepped so close that their bodies almost touched.
The rattle of the tambourine started its tinny music. Like the sound of buzzing insects, the congregation resumed chanting, their gaze fixed on Cotten and the priestess.
Cotten’s eyes burned from the smoke as the priestess leaned forward, her lips touching Cotten’s ear. She strained to hear the old woman over the noise. “What?” she said, working at understanding the frail voice buried in the thick island accent.
The woman whispered again, but his time not in English. “Geh el crip ds adgt quasb—”
Cotten’s eyes grew wide and her head jerked up, her hand covering her mouth. She stared in disbelief as the woman returned to stand beside the altar. “What did you say?”
south beach
The old priestess didn’t answer Cotten. Instead, she closed her eyes and seemed to return to her meditation.
“Oh, my God, this can’t be,” Cotten whispered, backing through the door.
Cotten pushed her way past the sandwich shop customers until she was again in the side street. Holding back a scream, she ran toward Calle Ocho and the sound of the blaring street band.
Like swimming against the current, she forced her way through the mass of dancing bodies and partygoers along the sidewalk until she was in front of the club. The whole scene seemed to swallow her up as she tried to remember where they had parked her rental car. Then she heard a familiar voice.
“Cotten?” Vanessa emerged from under the club’s awning and ran to her friend’s side. “What is it, baby? Are you all right?”
Cotten stared at Vanessa as if she were a stranger. Her world spun.
“What’s wrong?” Vanessa asked.
“Get me out of here, Nessi, please. Get me out of here.”
* * *
Cotten squinted into the bright sunrise as she stood with her feet in the surf behind Vanessa’s South Beach apartment. Sunbeams glistened off the water like iridescent jewel filaments. The nip in the morning air felt good. She aimlessly chewed on a thumbnail cuticle while staring through dark sunglasses at a container ship on the horizon. From a quick glance in the mirror earlier, she knew that her eyes were puffy and red from crying.
“See this shell,” Vanessa said, picking up a half an angel wing seashell and casually examining it. “You’ll only find single ones washed up on the beach. Know why?”
“No. But you’re going to tell me, aren’t you?”
Vanessa grinned. “Angel wings don’t have any ligaments that hold them together. They burrow down tightly in the sand and count on the sand and these little adductor muscles to keep them closed.”
“How do you know stuff like that?” Cotten asked.
“I dated a marine biologist.”
“I remember her. Didn’t she go to work for Sea World in Orlando?”
Vanessa nodded.
“Nessi, about last night. I told you what the old woman said—it was the same thing Archer said when he gave me the box—about me being the only one who could stop the something or other.” Cotten pressed her hand to her trembling lips and fought back tears. “It wasn’t what they both said, Nessi, it was how.”
“Like a threat?”
“No,�
� Cotten said. “Remember me telling you that I had a twin sister who died at birth?”
Vanessa thought for a second. “Yes, you called her Motnees.”
“Right. And remember how I said when I was little I could see her and talk to her in our secret made-up language.”
“But you said she wasn’t real—just an imaginary playmate.”
“I said I made her up because I didn’t want you to laugh at me. But I did believe she was real, very real.”
“Cotten, she died. So you had to have made up all that stuff.” Vanessa gathered her hair to the side. “And what’s that got to do with the old woman last night? Or the guy in Iraq?”
Cotten removed her dark glasses and looked deep into her friend’s eyes. “The old woman and Archer spoke in the same language Motnees and I used. Nobody knows that language. Nobody! I’m surprised after all this time it even came back to me.”
Vanessa’s mouth opened slightly as if she was going to say something, but before she could, Cotten said, “Let’s say Motnees really was a figment of my imagination. Let’s also say I made up our twin talk and pretended to talk to her—just kids’ stuff, okay? How would anyone else know that?”
Replacing the dark glasses over her eyes, Cotten turned back toward the ocean. They didn’t speak for a while as they stood in the sand gazing out over the water.
Finally, Vanessa said, “I’ve got to tell you that’s the creepiest thing I’ve ever heard.” She tossed the angel wing into the water.
“What can it possibly mean?” Cotten watched a few minnows in their endless search for food circle the spot where the shell splashed.
“Are you absolutely sure they were the same words the guy said in the tomb?”
“There’s no mistake. Geh el crip. It means, you are the only one. That’s what Archer said. First he said I had to stop the sun or the dawn, or something like that. Then he said, ‘Geh el crip.’ You are the only one. Last night, the priestess said ‘Geh el crip ds adgt quasb.’ You are the only one who can stop it. No, stronger than stop. More like destroy.”
“Destroy?”
“First she whispered in English. It was hard to hear her, but it was what Archer said. I’m the only one to stop the sun and something else. I didn’t hear the end clearly. Her voice trailed off. But then she spoke in twin talk. She said, ‘You are the only one who can destroy it.’”
“Cotten, you’ve got to admit, that whole talking to your dead sister thing is pretty creepy.”
Cotten glared at her.
“Sorry.” Vanessa put her arm around Cotten’s shoulder as they turned and started walking. “Okay, let’s think this through. Two different people on separate occasions tell you that you’re the only one who can stop something—stop the sun from coming up or stop the dawn. And they also both happen to speak some made-up language you used to communicate with your deceased twin sister when you were just a little girl. Let’s forget the weirdness of it all for a moment.” Vanessa nodded toward the horizon. “There’s the sun, and it’s dawn. How could you possibly stop that from happening? It makes no sense in any language.”
“I need to talk to someone.”
“Your priest friend?”
“I tried to call him again, but all I got was his machine. He may not even be back from Rome. I don’t know what else to do.”
Vanessa dropped her arm. “Cotten, don’t bite my head off, but what if you just think that’s what you heard? You said her voice was really frail and you had to strain to understand her.”
Cotten’s expression softened, and she sighed. “I guess I did have a lot to drink.” Still, she hadn’t told Vanessa or anyone the whole story about her twin—why Motnees didn’t come to her anymore—why they no longer spoke.
Cotten walked along the surf line, Vanessa beside her. A few sandpipers darted across their path picking at the beach for hidden morsels.
“I’m flying to Nassau in the morning for a series of shoots,” Vanessa said. “So the place is yours for a couple of days. Just kick back, relax, and forget about what happened. Chill. Read a trashy novel, soak up some sun, flirt with the guys on the beach—some are actually straight. Hell, get laid.”
Cotten chuckled. Thornton was the only one she’d had sex with in the last year. She had never been able to get into the casual sex scene. She looked back at the sunrise. “The whole thing is nonsensical. The sun . . . the frigging dawn.” Cotten scuffed the shallow water. “Screw it.”
“That-a-girl.” Vanessa took Cotten by the hand. “Let’s get some breakfast.”
* * *
Cotten stood on the balcony watching Vanessa cross the parking lot to her car. The model turned and waved before getting into her M3 convertible and pulling out onto A1A. Cotten glanced toward the beach that was quickly filling with sun worshipers before she went back into the apartment. She remembered the first day of college when she’d met her roommate, the strikingly beautiful Latin girl from Miami—Cotten a journalism major, Vanessa, drama.
Three things Cotten discovered about Vanessa that first year were her sense of loyalty to friends, her generous heart, and her wonderful ability to laugh when things were the bleakest. After all the years, those were still what she loved most about her. When Vanessa confessed her sexual preference, it hadn’t mattered to Cotten. They vowed that it never would get in the way of their friendship. They were closer than sisters throughout college—trusting, confiding, and counseling each other through broken loves, paralyzing finals, and countless bouts of self-doubt.
Cotten fell back on the bed. Good God, how did the girl keep up the pace? It was Sunday morning after a Saturday night all-nighter. Cotten was exhausted and hung over, and Nessi was off to work looking like a zillion bucks. And Vanessa would be all put together tomorrow, too, when she hopped on a plane to the Bahamas. She was non-stop.
Cotten groaned, hugged a pillow to her chest, and yawned. She lay there another ten minutes, images of Iraq, the children’s eyes, Thornton’s eyes, John’s eyes, the candles and their reflection in the old woman’s eyes, circling in her head. “Get over it,” she said, turning on her side. She tried to sleep, but couldn’t. Finally she got up.
Pulling her planner from her carryall, she flipped to the address tabs before picking up the phone and dialing. Three rings later, there was an answer.
“Ruby Investigations.”
“Hi, Uncle Gus.”
“Well, well,” Gus Ruby said. “I’m surprised my favorite niece still speaks to us lowly peons after hobnobbing with the pope and all.”
“First of all, Uncle Gus, I didn’t hobnob with the pope—he was busy doing pope stuff. And second, I would never consider you a lowly peon. You’re one of the highest ranking peons I know.”
“Now, I feel better.”
“Hey, why are you answering your home phone with Ruby Investigations?”
“I gave up on the shitty answering service so I switched my call forwarding on the weekends to this line. I get a lot of business on Saturdays and Sundays, thanks to Friday and Saturday nights. Tell me, so how is it being renowned throughout the land?”
“When I see my picture on The National Enquirer cover next to the “Blind Baby Raised By Worms” story, I’ll know I’ve really made it.”
Gus Ruby’s deep barrel laugh rocked the phone line. “You’ve got a great sense of humor, little girl.”
There was a lengthy pause before Cotten said, “I know you’re real busy these days, but I need a favor if you can swing it.”
“What’s up?”
“Robert Wingate. Ever heard of him?”
“A blurb on 60 Minutes and some other news magazine. New candidate, right?”
“You’ll hear more about him soon, I’m sure. No one knows much about Wingate other than he’s a wealthy businessman who’s decided to give politics a whirl. He sort of sprang up one day. Like everybody else, we’r
e going to do a feature on him. But I need that little extra twist you always seem to uncover. Can you do an in-depth background check—finance, business, social, the works? Maybe even follow him around for a while and see what gets him off? You got anyone to spare? The network will cover fees and expenses like always.”
“Where’s he going to be?”
“Right now he’s in Miami—his hometown. I’m down here, too.”
“Miami? It’s snowing like a mother here. Shit, I’ll come down and do it myself—anything to get out of this meat locker. How long you gonna be there?”
“The rest of the week.”
“Are you staying at your roommate’s place again?”
“Yeah, Vanessa’s.”
“My God, that woman’s as hot as a Saturday Night Special that’s been fired six times.”
“Uncle Gus, did I ever tell you Vanessa is gay?”
“When I was your age, little girl, I was a sexual Tyrannosaurus. I could turn her around in one night.”
“Should I remind you of what happened to the dinosaurs?”
The phone line quaked again with Gus Ruby’s roaring laughter. “Well, you tell her I’m on my way, and she better be ready.”
“I’ll warn her.”
When the laughter finally stopped, Gus said, “Okay, I’ll start digging on this Wingate thing. Let’s plan on meeting later in the week. I should have some preliminary material by then. I’ll call.”
“That sounds perfect. I love you, and I’ll see you—oh, wait, there’s one more thing.” Cotten reached for her small sequined handbag and pulled out the business card.
* * *
The chirping sound came from her beach bag. Cotten lay on a large towel, the South Florida sun warming her bikini-clad body. She put down her paperback then retrieved her cell phone.
“Hello.”
“Hey. I’m in Washington.” Thornton’s voice was low as if he weren’t alone and didn’t want anyone to hear. “When are you coming back?”
“Never.”
“Cotten, we need to talk.”
“We are talking.”