by Nic Saint
He opened his oven and peered inside. Nope. Nothing cooking. Huh.
Next, he checked his microwave. Nothing cooking there either. Huh?
He scratched his ratty mane and frowned. What else could it be? Then his face cleared—somewhat. Must be his phone. Those things always beeped. He shuffled back to the couch where he’d been napping, and rooted around the decrepit old couch for his phone—an iPhone he’d picked up from a Pakistani street vendor who’d sworn up and down it was the real thing. At forty bucks it’d been a bargain, too. He dug the thing out from beneath a pizza box and a Burger King wrapper and glanced at the cracked display. As far as he could tell, nobody was trying to get in touch with him.
There. There it was again. A loud jangling sound. Almost as if a gang of kid carolers was about to burst into song and were swinging their bell in warning. This time, since the jangling sound was accompanied by a pounding on his front door, he finally got it.
“Oh, crap,” he groaned, then, louder, “Who is it? What the hell do you want?”
In spite of his current inebriated state, he was vaguely aware that it wasn’t Christmastime, so it couldn’t be those annoying carolers. He also knew that he wasn’t expecting anyone. Not that he ever did. Ever since he’d fallen from grace and had moved out here to this dilapidated piece of crap bungalow in Brooklyn, he never got any visitors, and most definitely not any of his old chums, who had no idea he was still alive—which was a surprise to him, too. No, the only person he could think would bother him at this hour was his landlord, ranting about why the rent was late again.
“Don’t get your panties in a wad. I’m coming!” he shouted as he wobbled over to the door.
Even though he could hold his liquor well, he’d outdone himself this time. He’d intended to drink himself into a stupor and he’d done well, pretty much attaining his goal and then some.
“I’m coming,” he repeated when the pounding intensified.
When he finally reached the door and opened it, he was surprised to find a familiar face staring back at him. He displayed a pleased grin, revealing his formerly pristine implants, now blemished with tobacco and liquor stains.
“Well, come on in,” he said, teetering back. “Now if this ain’t a pleasant surprise.”
And that’s when he saw the gun. It was huge, and it was pointed at his chest.
“I have a story to tell you, Rico,” said his visitor, “and I want you to listen very carefully.”
Chapter One
I dreamt I went to Manderley again. Scratch that. It wasn’t Manderley. It was my own home, and someone had decided to cut my sleep short again.
I opened my eyes with an annoyed grunt and shielded them from the light streaming in through the windows. Like a vampire, I abhor daylight. If I could, I would live at night and never leave the house. Unfortunately, as I’m not a vampire but a flower girl, and people generally don’t appreciate a flower shop that’s only open at night, that is not an option.
“Rise and shine, sleepyhead!” my grandmother caroled cheerfully as she approached the bed. She’s a hearty, proud woman with long platinum hair and an annoyingly energetic outlook on life.
“Why did you open the curtains?” I lamented. “You know I prefer them closed.”
“Edelie, honey, this may come as a shock to you, but you’re human and humans need sunlight. It provides you with vitamin D and you need vitamin D.”
“I don’t need vitamin D. I’m one of those medical anomalies.”
She laughed. “Sure you are. Chop-chop, young lady. The early bird catches the worm.”
“I’m not a bird!” I said. It’s true. I’ve never eaten a worm in my life, and probably never will.
And that’s when I heard it. A loud wailing sound, as if someone was being skinned alive. My sister Estrella was singing again. Ever since she managed to secure a job at The Luinness, the Irish pub around the corner, she’s been taking singing lessons. Without much success. Strel is not much of a singer. Worse, the sound she produces is like the sound scratchy nails make on a blackboard.
With a tired groan, I swung my feet to the hardwood floor and pushed myself up from my warm, comfy bed. I pulled my favorite black sweater over my head, shoved my feet into my favorite black slippers, and shuffled to the door. The third floor of the house where my family has lived for generations, Safflower House, is now an Airbnb, and in the remodeling the two rooms got en-suite bathrooms, a luxury not yet granted to my sisters and me. We still have to share a bathroom. And since we currently had a great-aunt staying in the guest room, it’s first-come, first-served these days.
Great-aunt Leigh Shamrock is a funny old bird, and the moment I pulled the door to my room closed behind me, I knew she was up to her usual shenanigans. Mona Oats, one of our two paying guests, was wailing up a storm, her whiny voice mingling nicely with the sound of Estrella massacring a Norah Jones song.
“She did it again!” Mona cried. She was standing at the top of the stairs, waving her bony arms. Mona Oats is a nice old lady from Philadelphia, whose son-in-law booked her a fortnight at Safflower House after reading rave reviews on Airbnb. A visit to New York is expensive enough as it is, and since Gran is just starting out, she doesn’t charge much.
The sound of Mona’s loud laments had caused more doors to open, and I was joined in the hallway by Gran and my two sisters, who were equally curious to see what all the fuss was about.
“She did it again!” Mona repeated, for those who hadn’t heard her the first time.
“Who did what again, Mrs. Oats?” asked Gran, genuinely concerned.
“That crazy old bat!” Mona said, still swinging those bony arms like a chicken, her face wreathed in frowns, her pale blue eyes shining with fury. She pointed a crooked finger at Gran. “Your aunt! She did this!”
“Oh, dear,” Gran murmured, bringing a distraught hand to her lips.
“She put stones all around my bed! When I got out, I tripped and fell on my face!”
I studied the old lady’s face. It didn’t look different from before. No bloody gashes. No bruises or other signs she’d recently bumped her visage against an unyielding stony object.
“Good thing I was wearing my gel mask, or else I might have been dead now!”
Mrs. Oats was a big fan of gel masks. She credited the elasticity of her skin to those masks. Though I could have told her they were a waste of money. Her skin had the texture of parchment.
The noise had drawn two more people from their respective rooms: Leigh Shamrock, the great-aunt in question, and Glenn Kerb, who was occupying the room adjacent to Mrs. Oats. Glenn is an actor, and a pretty famous one at that. For some reason he favors our humble abode over the posher five-star establishments downtown, and we commend him for it. It’s always fun to have a celebrity staying under your roof.
“What seems to be the problem?” asked Glenn now, in his customary honeyed tones. The man simply oozes charm and charisma. Some people call him the new Cary Grant, since he’s so ostensibly attractive and suave, his classic features extremely alluring.
Mona swiveled around to face the young actor, then noticed our great-aunt and raised an accusing finger in her direction. “She tried to kill me! Again!”
“Now, now, Mrs. Oats,” said Gran. “I’m sure Leigh had no such intention.”
“Of course not,” said Leigh, a kindly smile lighting up her pleasant features. She might be older than Mona Oats, but she looked easily decades younger. The fact that she was wearing a pair of coke-bottle glasses with thick black rims probably helped: they obscured easily half of her face.
“So what were those stones doing all around my bed this morning?” Mona demanded.
“Oh, you mean my healing stones? So you found them? I’m so glad!”
“I’m not! I tripped over them and fell on my face!”
“Oh, that definitely wasn’t my intention,” said Leigh consolingly.
Mona planted her hands on her hips. “Then please explain to me what your inte
ntion was, exactly, apart from trying to murder me!”
“Well, I just happened to notice your decidedly unhealthy pallor, and felt something needed to be done at once. And since I never leave home without my healing stones, I decided to do you a favor by putting them to good use and lending them to you for the duration of your stay here.”
The woman’s jaw dropped. “You mean to say you left them on the floor on purpose? I thought you accidentally dropped them there!”
“Oh, no,” said Leigh with a kindly smile, “I put them there for your benefit, Mrs. Oats. And just look at you this morning. You are the picture of health! It’s the stones. They had their work cut out for them and they came through magnificently! They brought the roses back to your cheeks!”
Leigh was right: Mona’s face was suffused with a reddish glow, though I had the distinct impression it wasn’t health that was behind this floridness but pure indignation and rage.
Mona huffed out, “Well, I never!”
Leigh’s smile continued unabated. “Oh, no, there’s no charge whatsoever, Mrs. Oats. I’m only glad I could help.” With these words, she abruptly turned to her niece. “Oh, Cassie, dear, I’m afraid I won’t be down for breakfast this morning. I’m doing a fast.”
“A fast?” asked Gran.
“Yes. I seem to be experiencing trouble with my energy levels this morning.” She gave her relative a beaming smile. “Nothing to be worried about, dear. A nice fast will sort me out.”
“Right,” said Gran dubiously. She doesn’t believe in the healing power of fasting. Gran believes in the healing power of eating, and the fact that her ancestor, who’s already rail-thin, chooses to torture her body by doing weekly fasts, doesn’t sit well with her.
“Mrs. Shamrock,” Mona said, as Leigh made to return to her room. “Will you remove those rocks of yours from my room at once?”
“That’s all right, Mrs. Oats. Like I said, they’re a gift.” She gave her a beaming smile. “Enjoy!”
Chapter Two
Mona stood staring after the other woman as she moved into her room and quietly closed the door. She stirred when Glenn gently touched her shoulder. “If you want I’ll help you remove those stones, Mrs. Oats,” he said, the image of solicitude.
“That—that would be wonderful,” said Mona, recovering from her momentary stupor.
“I can always use some healing myself,” he quipped, and it was a testament to his charm that he managed to elicit a smile from the other woman.
As the actor followed Mona into her room to help her get rid of Leigh’s healing stones, I was already sidling in the direction of the bathroom. Unfortunately, Estrella had the same idea I had, for when I placed my hand on the doorknob, it collided with hers.
“I was here first,” she said, shaking her short blond bob defiantly.
“You always take forever,” I said. “If you let me go first, I promise I’ll be in and out in a flash, and then you can spend as much time in there as you like. The rest of the day, if necessary.”
“I don’t spend the whole day in the bathroom!” she protested.
“Yes, you do. You practically live in that bathroom.”
She raised her pointy chin. She might be my sister—and one third of the Flummox triplets—but she looks very different from me. Strel is blond and petite, while I’m a chubby redhead. Our third sister, Ernestine, is gangly, dark-haired and near-sighted. She’s also the brainiac in the family.
Strel gave me a hard look. “That’s because I like to look nice before leaving the house.”
“I like to look nice before leaving the house, but I only need about ten minutes to do it.”
“That’s impossible. How can you be ready in ten minutes? I’m pretty sure you skip a step.”
“Skip a step? I don’t skip a step. I do all the steps.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “Tell me the steps, and I’ll tell you which ones you skip.”
I rolled my eyes. “I take a shower, I towel off, and that’s it. There are no more steps.”
“Oh, there are plenty,” she said. “Lemme see. First, you have to check the temperature. Not too hot and not too cold. Too hot or too cold can damage your skin. Then, use a cleanser with great moisturizing properties, and—very important—apply the product before you step into the shower.”
“Before? Why before?”
“Because your hands need to be dry.”
Why that was, she didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. This whole conversation was nuts. It was just a stupid shower! “Okay. Dry hands. What else?”
“You have to let the product soak in for two minutes.”
“Two minutes!”
“Which you do while you wash your pits. You do wash your pits, right?”
“Of course I wash my pits! What kind of a question is that?!”
“Your pits are havens of bacteria. Always soap up those pits.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Next… Oh, this is very important. Never turn your face into the stream of water.”
“What?”
“Just cup your hands—can you cup your hands?”
I cupped my hands.
“Cup your hands, let the water gather, and then… gently splash it across your face.”
I was going to ask her why this was, but she was now so into her recital of the basic rules of washing up I decided not to bother.
“Shampoo your hair, using only your fingertips, not your nails. Start at the crown of your head and work your way down to make sure you cover the entire scalp. When you reach your ears, don’t forget to wash the folds of your ears—and behind the ears.”
“I always do. I always wash my ears.”
She tapped me on the nose. “Not in those ten minutes you don’t. Next, apply conditioner and rinse it out before you wash your back, as the runoff might clog up your pores and cause acne.”
“Do you want me to write this down?”
“You might,” she said seriously. “Or, better yet, I’ll type it up and hang it in the bathroom. Ernestine might also benefit, as I’m sure she spends way too little time on personal hygiene.”
Stien, who’d joined us, muttered, “What’s all this about my personal hygiene?”
“Don’t ask,” I said in hushed tones.
“Now for a very important question. Do you use a washcloth?”
“Yes, I do,” I said.
Strel turned to Stien. “What about you?”
Ernestine frowned. “I consider that a very personal question.”
“Well, don’t. Use a washcloth, I mean. They’re breeding grounds for all kinds of bacteria.”
“So what are we supposed to use?” asked Ernestine. “Our hands?”
“A Salux cloth. It’s Japanese,” she added, as if that explained everything. “You put a small amount of product on the Salux, wad it into a ball and then place it across your neck and upper shoulders and swipe back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.” As she spoke, she swayed back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.
I held up my hand. “I think we know how to wash ourselves, Strel.”
“And I think you don’t.”
“Just… tell us what’s next.”
“Well, you do your back first, then your front—avoiding your private parts, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Wait—why aren’t we washing our private parts?” asked Ernestine, looking confused.
“Because those are for the next step,” I guessed.
Strel smiled. “You’re getting the hang of this, Edie.”
“And it’s all thanks to you,” I said, giving her my best fake smile.
“Next, legs.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sakes,” Ernestine muttered. “How long is this going to take?”
“The legs or the complete procedure?”
“The explanation!”
“Look, if you guys don’t want to learn about personal hygiene, it’s no biggie to me. But Glenn might think different.”<
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“Glenn?” asked Ernestine, pushing her glasses up her nose. She had recently developed a not-so-secret crush on the actor. “Glenn talked about my personal hygiene?”
“He didn’t have to. I saw him sniffing the air when he was standing next to you yesterday at breakfast, and he wasn’t smiling.”
Ernestine slapped her brow. “I knew I shouldn’t have used that new shampoo! Suave Coconut Tropical Sensation. What a washout.”
“Anyhoo,” said Strel. “Legs! You want to choose one leg and work down the front to the ankle before moving back up the same leg.”
“Strel!” I cried. “I know how to wash my legs!”
“Of course you do. Next: your lady parts. They need to be cleaned.”
“You don’t say.”
“Do you also use the Japanese thingie for that?” asked Ernestine, suddenly very interested.
“The Salux? No. For our lady parts we use our hands.”
“Our hands?” I asked with a frown. “Whose hands?”
“Whose hands do you think? Glenn Kerb’s? Your own hands, of course, silly.”
“Too bad,” Ernestine said, probably wishing Glenn would volunteer to wash her lady parts.
“Use special soap,” Estrella admonished us. “And don’t let the soap get into the parts where your outsides turn into your insides.”
“Huh?” asked Ernestine.
“The parts where your outsides turn into your insides.”
Ernestine frowned as she tried to visualize this. “Oh,” she finally said. “The pink bits.”
“If you say so,” said Estrella with a disapproving frown. “I would also like to remind you that this is the perfect time to shave, as your skin is soft and clean and your pores are open.”
“Ugh,” I said, thinking about pores. Estrella was genetically gifted in that respect. She had great skin. I didn’t. Mine was pasty and blotchy, and my pores were always holding open house.
“And feel free to tinkle,” Estrella announced cheerfully. “Great for our planet. Save water.”