by Tonya Hurley
The ball was known for its outlandish ways, and this year they outdid themselves, literally mixing things up. The red carpet followed the cocktail hour and dinner, an effort, the organizers explained via press release, to encourage attendees to mingle and, most of all, stick around to bid at the charity auction rather than cut out after they’d taken a few pictures. The celebrities on the other hand, suspected that this was actually a great way for the gala committee to assure the press pictures of some tipsy boldface names tripping, falling, or nip-slipping their way down the carpet and into their limos.
Lucy couldn’t have cared less. Whatever the motive, she figured it was much more interesting to spectators and newsworthy to the media to see celebrities on a drunken food baby alert, after they’d gorged themselves on hors d’oeuvres and alcohol. She noted the size of the peanut gallery of professional fans, held at bay by rent-a-cops and velvet ropes, as she arrived, all waiting patiently to roar their indiscriminate approval at the party’s conclusion, and knew it was going to be a successful night for her ego and her brand.
“You’re late,” a snippy, tuxedoed minder with a clipboard and walkie-talkie headset chastised.
She was. Her sense of time was definitely not the same since the storm and without Jesse to wrangle her, she was lucky to have gotten there at all. Lucy went for the default excuse.
“My car was late.”
From the exasperated look on his face, it wasn’t the first time he’d heard that one tonight.
“Rich-people problems,” he sniffed, and pressed the talk button on his headset mic. “I’ve got her.”
Lucy felt like one of those animals that occasionally escaped from the zoo and wreaked havoc. Rounded up.
Captured.
“What, no tranquilizer gun?”
“Dinner is almost over,” he said dismissively, taking her forcefully by the forearm. “You’re first up for the auction.”
As she was led around like an amateur dancer on a ballroom TV show toward the curtained back of the stage, Lucy noticed a line of heads dangling upside down under the lights above the hors d’oeuvre stations inside the dining area. They were all molded in the likeness of the city’s most rich and famous. As the heat lamps above were switched on, the heads, made of actual cheese, started to melt slowly, drizzling onto the crackers of the patrons positioned expectantly below. The heated heads gave the appearance of a fire at Madame Tussauds.
Lucy noticed one of the heads was in her likeness.
She had been beheaded.
And set on fire.
Her features slowly disappearing under the lamps and dripping down in long strings into the hungry mouths.
She couldn’t have been more honored.
Lucy came to an abrupt stop and the minder released her at the foot of a small staircase. “When they say your name, step up and out onto the stage.”
“Then what do I need to do?”
“Just stand there,” he said, resuming a crackly conversation on his radio with a colleague at some unknown location in the museum. “You’re good at that.”
A pack of obviously supercompetitive, well-married thirtysomethings, all members of the donor class, sneaked peeks at her over the rims of their half-empty champagne flutes, whispering. The knives were clearly out. Lucy became increasingly uncomfortable as she waited to be introduced. She felt their eyes on her, glaring savagely, picking her apart, appraising her outfit and calculating her worth. Covetous of her youth, her look, her ambition, her success. Lucy tried to hold her chin up high, but her head still hurt. She could count the beats of her heart by the throbbing in her scalp.
“ . . . Brooklyn’s own Lucky Lucy Ambrossssse.”
She’d become so fixated on the pain, which instantly brought back thoughts of Sebastian, that she barely heard her name mentioned by the MC and the polite applause and catcalls that followed.
The minder came up behind her and gave her a shove. “Go!”
Lucy burst through the curtain and practically galloped to the lip of the stage, hands on hips, ready to void the warranty. It was a confrontational pose, seductive, but if she knew anything, she knew how to sell herself. And on this night, she had literally offered herself up to the highest bidder. The crowd ate it up.
“All right, ladies and gentlemen, how much for a private dinner date at the River Café with this lovely young lady?”
Bids came in fast and furiously, one higher than the next, table by table, along with whoops and hollers, all decorum tossed to the wind. Well-to-do men, mainly, put down their utensils, wiped away the runny au jus from their chins, loosened their ties and shirt collars at the sight of her, and reached for their checkbooks. Husbands and boyfriends were watched closely by disapproving wives and green-eyed girlfriends. It was a primal scene as even the smell in the room changed subtly from a floral-laced scent thrown off by the table centerpieces to the raw musk of a hot, sweaty gym.
“The food pantries need filling, folks. We can’t do it without you!”
She wondered what it must look like from the outside. All these people making offers for her time, her attention. It was all so transactional. Did they even know what charity they were supporting? She barely did, but like the bidders, she wanted to win, she wanted to be the most valuable, the most prized of the night. And besides, it wasn’t up to her who paid the price.
“Make it rain, gentlemen!” she shouted brazenly. “Give until it hurts.”
Lucy was caught up and she worked it. The higher the bid, the farther she retreated from the front of the stage, teasing them, coaxing them along with the MC to go bigger. It was demeaning and oddly empowering all at the same time. To have such control, such influence. To command such attention.
“Let’s not have any short arms, deep-pockets people,” the MC barked. “It’s all for a good cause!”
With that challenge, a huge bid, double any other, came from the floor. The crowd was silenced as the MC called for a higher bid.
“Once.”
“Twice.”
“Done!”
“Miss Ambrose, please make your way to table six and meet the winning contributor.”
Lucy stepped down into the darkened dining room carefully, worried that the headache that was suddenly returning was affecting her vision. She stumbled past a few tables and arrived at her table, which was empty, except for a man seated at its head.
“Hello, Miss Ambrose.”
“Hello.”
“Wonderful event. And very magnanimous of you to put up with that. Even for charity.”
“Anything for a good cause,” she said and smiled. “Congratulations, by the way.”
Lucy squinted for a name tag he didn’t seem to be wearing.
“Dr. Frey,” he said, standing and extending his hand formally for hers. “Please sit down.”
Her hand went suddenly limp as she placed his name and withdrew her hand from his. She appeared ill to the doctor. Unsteady, she positioned her hand on the table to keep herself upright.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“So many were caught in the storm and got sick,” he said, looking at her closely. “Headache. Red, puffy eyes. Bad flu. We’re seeing a lot of that at the hospital.”
He was clearly probing her.
“I was inside.”
“Of course,” he said. “That explains why we haven’t seen much of you in the news lately.”
“I wouldn’t think a man with your responsibilities would even know who I am.”
“Quite the contrary. I know exactly who you are.”
She swallowed hard.
“Doesn’t everyone?” he concluded with a smile.
Lucy’s knees were starting to weaken, to buckle.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling well after all. Perhaps I can have a rain check?”
“No worries,” Frey assured her, reaching into his pocket. “Here is my card. Feel free to call and set up that dinner when you are feelin
g better.”
“Thank you.” Lucy turned to walk away, looking to see if he was following her, but he wasn’t. He let her go. She bit her lip to keep from screaming.
“Oh, Miss Ambrose?”
Lucy froze. She had to acknowledge him. Others were watching. Listening.
“I’m surprised that you’re not wearing your bracelet,” Frey said. “For such a unique event, it would have been the perfect accessory.”
“Bracelet?” Lucy asked, knowing damn well what he meant.
“Oh, forgive me. I was referring to the white beaded one you had on in one of your photos online. Where did you get such a thing?”
“It was a gift.”
“Well, whoever gave it to you must know you well,” he said. “It suits you.”
Lucy turned and flashed Frey a tense half smile, keeping it together for just a few seconds longer. “On behalf of the sponsors of the Brooklyn Museum, thank you for your generous contribution, Doctor.”
“You are worth every penny, Lucy,” Frey responded.
Lucy felt her head about to explode. She dropped his card to the floor and stepped on it, wiping her hand as she bolted for an exit, any exit, but found her path blocked by a table, a waiter, an admirer, a hater, at every turn in the busy room. Half-seated tables with papier-mâché Warhol head centerpieces vomiting roses sat surreally among litter and leftovers, lipsticked glasses and dirty plates holding the remains of roasted suckling pig and rabbit savagely devoured by savage beauties and their overfed dinner dates. It was like the storm fund-raiser had turned into a fun house. She was overwhelmed.
“Please,” she begged, pushing her way through the crowd. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
As Lucy made her move toward an open door, she was grabbed and pulled sideways, nearly out of her six-inch heels.
“The red carpet is this way.”
The minder assigned to her was not taking no for an answer. She was pushed out an exit and directly onto the walkway just as she’d been pushed up the stairs earlier.
Delivered.
Cameras flashed. Dozens of them.
“Lucy!”
The photographers screamed for her and so did the fans. All begging for acknowledgment like ardent lovers. It was loud and chaotic. Disorienting. Maddening. What was once such a pleasure seemed now a punishment. The flashbulbs kicked her migraine into overdrive and she began to claw at her brow in pain, dizzy and panicked.
“Help me!” she screamed.
In the black spaces between the strobing flashes, Lucy swore she could see Sebastian, breaking through the media throng, trying to get to her. Lucy called out to him to no avail.
“Sebastian!”
She ambled awkwardly down the never-ending carpet, all alone, on display, still scratching and still self-aware enough to realize that the photo editors just might get that humiliating picture they were looking for at her expense, when a frightning cry rang out.
“Oh, my God,” a blogger girl cried, pointing at Lucy’s knees.
Sanguineous drops stained her legs as they formed a puddle of plasma on the carpet beneath her. At first, there was a collective gasp of embarrassment. It appeared to them that she had gotten her period, but when she removed her hands from her face and looked up, the true source was revealed to them.
Her tears were of blood.
The flashes went into a frenzy once again.
The whites of her eyes shone bright red in the bloodstream. She gazed up at the white tent above her and felt it fall further and further out of focus, until she could barely distinguish the massive canopy.
“My eyes,” she said, over and over.
She could see nothing until she closed them. And then all she could see was him.
An older woman, a waitress at the gala, had seen enough and ran toward the girl she’d watched bear the brunt of this full-frontal media assault. She helped Lucy behind the backdrop, out of view of the photographers, where the girl collapsed in her sympathetic arms. The event personnel began to crowd around, more concerned with their potential liability than with Lucy. A single look from the waitress was enough to disperse them.
“Should we call an ambulance?” the minder asked as he backed away.
“No,” the woman said authoritatively.
She pulled out a white linen and lace hankie and placed it over Lucy’s face, absorbing the blood and tears into the fabric. As she removed it, she noticed that a replica of the girl’s face, outlined in her blood, had been transferred. The woman tucked the cloth in the front pocket of her smock carefully, respectfully, and proceeded to comfort her, wiping the matted hair away from her face.
“Oh, my head,” Lucy moaned. “It’s splitting.”
The woman gently took Lucy’s hand and ran her fingers along her wrist in the exact place where the chaplet had been, and began making tiny crosses as she whispered prayers in Lucy’s ear.
Lucy yawned.
Again and again.
“Good, let it out,” the woman said.
The pain seemed to escape through Lucy’s open mouth.
She relaxed as the woman cradled her head in her arms.
“What was that?” Lucy asked, after her headache vanished.
“A fatura,” the woman said in Italian-accented English. “The malocchio.”
“I don’t understand.” Lucy said, wiping at her eyes and face.
“It’s like a curse. The evil eye.”
“Oh, I don’t believe in that stuff.”
“It doesn’t matter whether you believe. The truth is what matters.”
“I don’t know what’s true anymore,” Lucy said, rising to her feet. “Thank you for helping me.”
“No,” she said. “I thank you.”
Lucy was flattered that she’d had such an impact on the woman. She never imagined her celebrity had trickled down so far, especially in her own neighborhood, where she tended to be the least popular and most resented.
She hugged the woman tight, as she imagined she would hug her mom if she ever saw her again. The waitress reached into another pocket of her smock and pulled out a gold charm in the shape of a horn of plenty and placed it in Lucy’s hand.
“Who are you?” Lucy asked.
“Perpetua.” The old woman smiled. “I live in the area. Near Precious Blood. I took him in after his escape, so they wouldn’t find him when they looked in the church.”
“Sebastian?” Lucy asked, stunned.
They lived in different worlds. Until now.
“One has overlooked you. Three can save you. You understand me?”
“Yes,” Lucy replied. “I think I do.”
“Then go back to him.”
3 “You must think I’m some kind of a psychotic, don’t you?” Agnes blurted out as she gathered her things and headed for the door, her paranoia reaching new heights, feeling as if she were being watched, even inside the house.
“I only know what I see,” her mother responded casually, showing neither disgust nor sympathy as Agnes prepared to leave her again.
“Do I look crazy to you?” she asked, trying to prompt some kind of reaction.
“You look like,” Martha said frankly, looking her only daughter up and down, “a girl with nothing to lose.
“I’m praying for you,” Martha called out to her as she walked out the door.
“No, Mother,” Agnes began, putting on her lambswool poncho. “I am the one praying for you.”
Agnes ran down her block and was stopped in her tracks at the sound of children playing and the sight of a little boy in the St. John’s schoolyard. It was Jude.
She hurried to the towering silver cyclone fence surrounding the playground and grabbed hold of it for dear life, hoping to get some acknowledgment from him—a smile, a glance, anything—without much luck. He was standing with a middle-aged woman, a nun, before a handmade hanging figure. Agnes wanted to scream out to him, but checked herself and listened in on his lesson instead.
“The seven points on t
he piñata symbolize the seven deadly sins,” the sister explained, pointing a thin wooden rod at each. “Greed. Lust. Pride. Despair. Wrath. Sloth. Envy.”
The nun raised a strip of cloth in front of the boy’s face, folded it over, and began to tie it around his head. Once it was secure, she gently turned him in a circle a few times, explaining to him the deeper meaning to be found in this traditional game.
Agnes swallowed hard. The image of the blinded child disturbed her.
“The blindfolded person represents faith. Turning symbolizes the disorientation of temptation.”
She placed the stick in Jude’s hand and instructed him to begin. Agnes was nervous for him. She’d played this game countless times at birthday parties. It was hard and he was not “typical,” from what she’d seen.
“Striking the piñata recalls the battle against evil. Defeat it and the reward is revealed.”
Heavy shit for a kid, was all Agnes could think as she listened.
Jude held the rod in front of him and grabbed it with his other hand, steadying it. He tapped the piñata once, taking a measure of the distance between him and the suspended object. He drew the stick back up and over his head like a knight with a broadsword. Agnes could almost see how badly he wanted the candy inside from the grimace on his face as he swung at the piñata. He smacked it top and bottom, side to side. Agnes was surprised at how on target he was, but there was no sign of damage.
Jude was obviously frustrated and getting upset the longer the game went on. The nun removed the stick from his hand and struck the piñata herself, also without result. She handed it back to him.
“Again,” she said, counseling both patience and perseverance.
The boy swung and turned the stick over to the teacher, who did likewise. Over and over.
Agnes marveled that this was possibly the first combination of religious instruction and occupational therapy she’d ever seen. Other children began to turn their heads toward Jude, counting the strokes and licking their lips impatiently in anticipation of the sweets they hoped would eventually escape. For her part, Agnes was beginning to feel bad for the piñata.
The nun’s next swing was a productive one. She made a dent. But then Jude took his turn and cracked it wide open with a mighty whack. The candy spilled and children came running.