Modern Mythology stories
BUTTERFLIES: A NOVEL
Continued...
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Night crawls into the house with long, shadowed fingers; silver steals gold as the moon comes in through the windows passing through all the rooms in thin silver paths; outside moon-drenched grass waves silver-blueish-black in a passing breeze. I get up to look out one bedroom window at the stars, spotting Orion’s Belt and Ursa Major right away. Dad taught all of us girls how to find constellations while we were in high school, and looking at the stars makes me think sentimentally of home.
Stars have always made me feel small, and here in this house I feel smaller than ever. Quickly running back under the covers like a small child retreating from a gust of wind, I smooth out the front of the midnight blue nightgown Echo brought me earlier, relating that “the master said to change into it.” I continue to look at the stars from my bed, but I can’t quite see them, so I stare aimlessly around me.
My bedroom is painted in muted pastel colors: ivory, pale pale rose, lavender, peach and gold. It is very airy, but cozy too, especially now when I’m alone after having had a long, luxurious bath and two pieces of cake, with the covers pulled tight around me, wrapped in sheets like maps with creased rivers and slightly raised mountains and smooth lakes. I absently smooth out the covers beside me, making the roses in full bloom look more like roses and less like a jumble of colors all creased and bunched and blurring together like an abstract painting.
My fingers brush the pages of the book lying open on the bed. When she brought me the nightgown, Echo also said I might read a bit, to pass the time. I pick up Aurora Leigh, turn the page, and keep reading, murmuring to myself some of the words I read as if repeating lyrics to a newly-learned song: scudi, rose-bush, bishop’s wafer, Santissima, ghost, fiend, and angel, fairy, witch and sprite, dauntless Muse, moonlighted pallor...Mouthing the words like prayers I imagine muted pastels and bright colors, rich like wine, shifting like kaleidoscope stones, all entwined with violins and flutes and pianos playing Beethoven, Vivaldi, Pachabel. I fall asleep.
I’m awakened by a presence beside me, and murmuring in my ear. At first I think it is just part of a dream, but as I gradually swim back to consciousness the warmth is real and I can still hear the voice, soft and golden like butter. I think I hear my name (“Paige...”) in that sonorous voice, and I think I mumble something back in the half-audible murmurings of the waking sleeper, and then I feel his lips on mine.
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The next few weeks are a blur. Sometimes I read, often with some piece of music or other playing softly in the background, sometimes I go out and admire all the flowers around the house that always have a congregation of butterflies around them like my own garden at home. I thought I’d seen all the house on my first day but I either was mistaken or the house grows with time, for there always seems to be some new thing, room or object that I could swear wasn’t there before. Other days I chat with the maids, sometimes over a cup of excellent coffee. And my nights are all spent with my husband. That is the one thing that remains unchanged even if I don’t do the same thing from one day to the next; when night falls, that is when my husband comes to me. And the one thing I expect when he comes is the same strange rule against actually seeing him. It is always dark when we are together. I don’t know what he looks like.
I’d asked him about it once, why he was so afraid to let me see him, assuring him that even if he was ugly I wouldn’t scream and run away like Christine did when she saw the Phantom’s face. Besides, I told him, he’d never shown me anything but the most loving attentions, always being very tender and gentle, so I didn’t care even if he did turn out to look like Quasimodo or something. He’d refused, and I kept asking; once I think I actually admitted something about being a little afraid of him and didn’t understand what was happening, finally snapping something about him being untrustworthy, “it’s bad enough that I can’t see you, but you won’t even tell me your name!”
He’d sighed then and I’d immediately felt ashamed and told him so, saying I’d never try to see him, for once glad of the dark so he couldn’t see me blush, and he’d said, “Paige, if I could, I’d turn on the lights and let you see me. I’d flood this room with light, open all the windows, and you could look at me to your heart’s content. I’d tell you my name and you could say it till you grew hoarse. But the thing is...” - he’d reached his hand out, traced my cheek and jaw line with his fingers - “...if you saw me, if you knew my name, you might fear me, or you might adore me, and I’d rather be loved like an equal than adored like a god.” Then he’d leaned over and gently kissed me, dispelling any thoughts of other questions.
It’s funny...for all the grief my sisters give me you’d think I’d be glad to be rid of them but as days pass I find myself actually missing them. Maybe it’s a familiarity thing; I’m so used to them joking about my fairy tale life and hogging the bathrooms and keeping me up till two A.M. while they jabber to each other like a pair of finches about boys and clothes and school and boys that it’s difficult even after a month or so to imagine life without them. So that night I ask my husband if I can see them.
“I can tell Zach where to go, and they can leave before nightfall; I just want to see how they’re doing.”
“I’d rather you didn’t see them,” he says. “Unless you don’t love me or you’re not happy here anymore.”
“I’m ecstatic, and of course I still love you,” I say, my voice tinged with disbelief. “I’m...it’s just strange not seeing them. Besides,” - I’m struck with sudden inspiration -“maybe they can tell my dad that I’m all right.”
“If anything they’ll tell him you’re dead and start arguing over who gets your room,” he says. “Paige, please...just let them go. If you’re happy here, if you love me, let them go.”
“I am happy here and I do love you,” I repeat, “but I only want to see them for a little while. I’m...I’m just a little lonely for them.”
“No good can come of it,” he says reluctantly after a while, “but if it’ll make you happy, give me directions to your house and I’ll tell Zach where to go. Give them gifts, jewelry, banquets...whatever they want. But Paige...” - his voice is hoarse, and so soft I can barely hear it - “don’t believe them when they speak badly of me.”
I promise, and he sighs as though I’ve just placed a great weight on his shoulders, but then he kisses me, not showing how sad he is; he keeps all the pain for himself.
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I’m discussing the garden with Flory, trying to decide if we should plant anything new that might attract more butterflies, when I hear Zach’s limo pull up in the driveway. At the doorbell we both jump up and run; the others join us and they line up like they had with me. Zach comes in with my two sisters behind him, smiling at the maids, caressing Flory's cheek, making her crimson with blushes, half-bowing to me, and walking out again. I turn to Echo and the others: “These are my sisters, Pamela and Patsy,” I say excitedly. “You both must be starved; Echo, could you get them something to eat?”
“I’m sorry, Miss,” Mira says, “but -”
“Mira!” Echo says sharply, but not after a slight pause that only I notice. “These are Miss Paige’s sisters, and the master said they should be well treated.”
“O - Of course,” Mira falters, flushing a deep red. She hurries away, the other four in tow, and my sisters and I have lunch together. As Izzy clears away the plates, Flory and Anna bring two pairs of necklaces and earrings and two beautiful dresses and present them. “Master says you’re welcome to these,” Anna tells them, a hint of disgust in her voice. But Pamela and Patsy hear only the words and not the tone, and grab for the gifts eagerly.
“My G-D, these earrings must cost more than my husband makes in a year!” Pamela exclaims.
“And my husband sure couldn’t buy this dress on his salary,” Patsy chimes in.
Flory coughs slightly, as if expecting them to thank her like I always do, but they ignore her and instead turn to me: “You can not imagine how glad we are to see you again, Paige,” says Patsy. “We’re just thrilled, we all thought you were dead.”
“Um...thanks,” I say slowly, arching my eyebrows at them.
Pamela jumps in: “You know what we mean.” She fingers her necklace. “This is gorgeous,” she says in a tone indicating she’d like more. I jump to my feet perhaps too eagerly. “So! Let me show you around.”
They exclaim over everything like at the Joslyn where all the snobs wear white gloves and ooh and aah over all the paintings, and Pamela spends over an hour in the bathroom primping and fussing with her hair until Patsy exclaims over some brooch or other and she comes rushing out to fight with her about it. They’re like big game hunters, each trying to bag more trophies than the other; as I complete the tour Pamela has two more dresses and about three more necklaces, and Patsy has about four pairs of shoes and five pairs of earrings. Each time they’d exclaimed over something and I’d offered it to them, they’d protest, saying, “Oh no, we couldn’t possibly,” but after about two minutes they’d changed into the new shoes or hung the new necklace around their neck.
When they’ve finally seen all of the house I allow them to see and we’re sitting at the kitchen table with cups of coffee, Patsy works my husband into the conversation. “How’s he able to afford all these things?”
“Yeah, what does he do?” says Pamela.
I pretend to clean up some spilled sugar as I fumble for an answer. “Oh, you know, he’s in business, he’s made some good deals.”
“Really?” says Pamela, and it seems to me she looks very significantly at Patsy for just a minute.
Confused and a little afraid at what they might be planning, I say hurriedly, “Well, yes, of course...don’t your husbands buy you things too? I mean, you can’t condemn a man for buying his wife nice things now and then.”
“Oh, Paige, sweetie,” says Patsy, trying to make her voice concerned and sweet and innocent, like she’s talking to a very young child, “we didn’t mean to offend you, it’s just that Edward would have to work for, like, two years to buy me half of what you have. Tell us, how does your husband do it?”
“I told you,” I say, hoping they don’t hear my voice trembling, “he’s very successful. He’s a wonderful businessman. He’s so clever.”
In that reluctant, hesitating voice you’re supposed to use when telling someone some bad news you didn’t want that person to know before, Pamela says, “OK, look, the truth is, we’re really worried about you, Paige.”
When they say that I have to practically sit on my hands to keep from picking at my fingers like I always do when I’m nervous and hope they don’t notice. Forcing myself to speak calmly, I say, “What do you mean?”
Pamela looks down at her hands, then at Patsy, as if she’s not sure she should continue. “Well...don’t you remember what Mr. Archer said?”
“I thought you didn’t believe in dragons,” I say quickly, afraid of what’s next.
“Don’t you remember what Mr. Archer said?” she repeats, slowly, emphasizing every word. “You were gonna be married to this big business mogul whose followers follow him because they fear him?”
I stare at her. “You’re wrong,” I insist, shaking my head. “My husband is the sweetest, most caring man-”
“Why would he buy you all these things? He must want something, men always do.” Suddenly she seems to fly off on a tangent, speaking as if the thought had just struck her: “What does he look like?”
“Look,” I say, “just because it’s always dark when we’re together and I never really see him cause he doesn’t want me to-” I stop, putting my hand to my mouth as if I can erase what I just said and stop more words from escaping. No...Please don’t let me have said what I thought I just did, please oh please oh please...ohpleaseohpleaseohplease...Did I just say what I thought I did? I start to say something else, but Patsy has already taken my thread and is unraveling it: “Aha! See?”
I’m cold. “But-”
“If he doesn’t let you see him-”
“He does! You know what I mean, it’s dark and I can’t see him all that well, but-”
“If he doesn’t let you see him that means he wants something!”
“He doesn’t!”
“He’s probably-”
“No he’s not! He’s the most-”
“Oh my gosh,” Pamela cries, cutting us both off. “Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh. He must have AIDS. And leprosy. That’s it!”
“Leprosy?” Patsy says, giving her a Look. “Please, that went out with-”
“Please, there could still be a few cases...Oh all right, AIDS, then,” Pamela repeats. I start to protest again but she doesn’t even give me the chance to get a single syllable in, rushing ahead and overriding my stammering: “That’s why he doesn’t want you see him, he doesn’t want to see how awful he looks and know that you could get it. My gosh, he’s trying to, like, I dunno, buy your love or something with all this…with the house and the jewelry and the, what, five servants? I mean, my G-D, Paige, how stupid can you get, he’s obviously infected with something, I mean, yeah, Doug buys me stuff too and we live in a great house but at least I know who I’m getting into bed with every night.”
I’ve stopped listening, hearing the voices but not the words, it’s all just noise, sound, a big blur... Dragondarkleprosywantsmogul...Words like raindrops, running together, melting into noise like ice cream melts in the sun. Drip. Dribbling out of their mouths collecting on the floor in a puddle. Drip... AIDSlookshousejewelryservantbed...Drip.
I’m empty inside. They’re speaking again. Pricking me. Like bee stings. Words swarm around me, buzzing. “OK, here’s what you should do.” Pamela. Pamela talking. “Tonight when you go to bed, take a flashlight and find a gun.”
No. I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to hear what comes next. Be quiet. Be quiet.
“Light the flashlight...”
Go away. Be quiet.
“...and look at him, and if he looks...”
Please stop!
“...all diseased, with lesions and sores and things, then take the gun...”
No. I’m not hearing this.
“...and shoot him in the head.”
No. No. “No,” I whimper.
“You have to, Paige! You could already have it.”
“No. No. Go away,” I whisper. “Go away.”
“Paige...” Patsy. Patsy calling my name. Like a dog.
“No! He’s kind...”
“Too kind.”
No. I can’t. He’s...he’s good to me...“I love him.” His voice is kind...
“Do it, Paige.”
I am drowning in words. Smothering. Trapped. Help. I try to break through. Get out. Get out. Scream. “NO!”
Someone comes in. Heels clicking like pebbles on the sidewalk. A woman. Echo.
“Right this way, please, miss. Both of you.” Gentle but firm. Leading them to the door. Making them leave. Good. Get out.
“Get out of here.” My voice. Growling. Like a bear.
More clicking. Echo is coming back. I feel a warmth on my shoulder. Her hand is on it. No. Not Echo. Izzy. Little Izzy. “Are you all right, miss?” High trembling voice. Like a flute. “Is there anything I can get you?”
I sink into a chair. Do I need anything? My lips are dry. I struggle to get my mouth into the right shape: “Water. Need a drink...I need a drink of water.”
She clicks away and comes back with a tall glassful. Ice cubes float in it like tiny icebergs, and there is a slice of orange like a tiny half-moon. I drink; the cold shocks me, brings me back to myself.
I must have drunk too eagerly; there is water on my cheeks. I go to wipe it off and realize it’s running down my cheeks as tears. I’ve got tears in my eyes, I’m crying. Izzy moves beside me, shuffling her feet, nervous like a sparrow.
“It’s them girls as has made you cry, Miss Paige,” she says angrily, drawing a tissue from her pocket and handing it to me.
I dab my eyes. “Thanks.” I drink some more and cross my arms on the table, laying my head on them, thinking of what I should do. Oh please let me take back what I said, ohpleaseohpleaseohplease...Why did they trick me like that? Getting me to admit I’d never seen my husband? He was right. They’re destroying me. But just because they’re jealous? But should I take their advice? No, of course not, Paige, don’t be ridiculous, you can’t do that! But still...The doubts that have always lurked in the back of my mind, hovering invisible but menacing like clouds before a storm, creep out of hiding. I’d quickly accepted his explanation of wanting to be loved as an equal, but did I accept it too quickly? I mean, what kind of man won’t even tell his wife his name?
I eat the orange slice slowly, chewing right down to the rind. Then I put both my hands to either side of my head and press down with my fingers, like I’m trying to dig into my skull, get rid of the doubts, but they keep coming, relentless. A flashlight and a gun...How can I betray my husband like that? I can’t do that to him, he’s been nothing but good to me, never taking advantage of me, always speaking tenderly and gently, he’s always gentle with me, he’s never given me any reason to hate him or be angry or suspicious about him except for this one little thing...He loves me! And I love him! I can’t do this. I won’t do this. He’s not a monster, he’s not diseased, he’s perfect. I like things the way they are. I won’t, I can’t, I mustn’t do this.
But still...what if...The thought gnaws at the back of my mind, always there. But still... No! He’s not a monster. But...I won’t do it! But what if... I can’t! But...It’s like that old Twilight Zone episode where the terrorists trap the guy in his hotel room with a bomb. They tell him the bomb could go off anytime if he detonates it by touching a certain object in the room, but they don’t tell him what it is, so he tiptoes around carefully touching everything. I feel like that; I know the bomb will go off, I just don’t know when.
Pamela’s voice comes back to me. “A flashlight and a gun...”
Stop. I press harder on my head, digging in with my nails.
“A flashlight and a gun...”
Stop. Stop. Harder. Tiny pinpricks of pains from my fingers. Will it help stop the voice?
“A flashlight and a gun...”
I close my eyes against it, pressing even harder until I feel the ache from my head shoot down to my jaw.
“A flashlight and a gun...”
Please...!
It comes faster, running the words together as if on a string with no spaces in between. Aflashlightandagunaflashlightandagunaflashlightandagun...
No. Please! Go away! Make it stop! “Aflashlightandagun...” Go away. Make it stop. Goawaygoawaygoaway...Makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop...
Louder. Screaming. I press till I can hardly stand the pain. “A FLASHLIGHT AND A GUN! A FLASHLIGHT AND A GUN! A FLASHLIGHT AND A GUN!”
No...I can’t!
“A FLASLIGHT AND A GUN! A FLASHLIGHT AND A GUN!”
I...can’t...
“A FLASHLIGHT AND A GUN! A FLASHLIGHT AND A GUN!”
A...flashlight...
The voice lessens to a whisper. “A flashlight and a gun. A flashlight and a gun.”
...and a gun...
“Yes.”
Yes…?
“A flashlight…”
And a gun...Yes...
“Yes.”
Yes.
To be continued...
Continued...
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Night crawls into the house with long, shadowed fingers; silver steals gold as the moon comes in through the windows passing through all the rooms in thin silver paths; outside moon-drenched grass waves silver-blueish-black in a passing breeze. I get up to look out one bedroom window at the stars, spotting Orion’s Belt and Ursa Major right away. Dad taught all of us girls how to find constellations while we were in high school, and looking at the stars makes me think sentimentally of home.
Stars have always made me feel small, and here in this house I feel smaller than ever. Quickly running back under the covers like a small child retreating from a gust of wind, I smooth out the front of the midnight blue nightgown Echo brought me earlier, relating that “the master said to change into it.” I continue to look at the stars from my bed, but I can’t quite see them, so I stare aimlessly around me.
My bedroom is painted in muted pastel colors: ivory, pale pale rose, lavender, peach and gold. It is very airy, but cozy too, especially now when I’m alone after having had a long, luxurious bath and two pieces of cake, with the covers pulled tight around me, wrapped in sheets like maps with creased rivers and slightly raised mountains and smooth lakes. I absently smooth out the covers beside me, making the roses in full bloom look more like roses and less like a jumble of colors all creased and bunched and blurring together like an abstract painting.
My fingers brush the pages of the book lying open on the bed. When she brought me the nightgown, Echo also said I might read a bit, to pass the time. I pick up Aurora Leigh, turn the page, and keep reading, murmuring to myself some of the words I read as if repeating lyrics to a newly-learned song: scudi, rose-bush, bishop’s wafer, Santissima, ghost, fiend, and angel, fairy, witch and sprite, dauntless Muse, moonlighted pallor...Mouthing the words like prayers I imagine muted pastels and bright colors, rich like wine, shifting like kaleidoscope stones, all entwined with violins and flutes and pianos playing Beethoven, Vivaldi, Pachabel. I fall asleep.
I’m awakened by a presence beside me, and murmuring in my ear. At first I think it is just part of a dream, but as I gradually swim back to consciousness the warmth is real and I can still hear the voice, soft and golden like butter. I think I hear my name (“Paige...”) in that sonorous voice, and I think I mumble something back in the half-audible murmurings of the waking sleeper, and then I feel his lips on mine.
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The next few weeks are a blur. Sometimes I read, often with some piece of music or other playing softly in the background, sometimes I go out and admire all the flowers around the house that always have a congregation of butterflies around them like my own garden at home. I thought I’d seen all the house on my first day but I either was mistaken or the house grows with time, for there always seems to be some new thing, room or object that I could swear wasn’t there before. Other days I chat with the maids, sometimes over a cup of excellent coffee. And my nights are all spent with my husband. That is the one thing that remains unchanged even if I don’t do the same thing from one day to the next; when night falls, that is when my husband comes to me. And the one thing I expect when he comes is the same strange rule against actually seeing him. It is always dark when we are together. I don’t know what he looks like.
I’d asked him about it once, why he was so afraid to let me see him, assuring him that even if he was ugly I wouldn’t scream and run away like Christine did when she saw the Phantom’s face. Besides, I told him, he’d never shown me anything but the most loving attentions, always being very tender and gentle, so I didn’t care even if he did turn out to look like Quasimodo or something. He’d refused, and I kept asking; once I think I actually admitted something about being a little afraid of him and didn’t understand what was happening, finally snapping something about him being untrustworthy, “it’s bad enough that I can’t see you, but you won’t even tell me your name!”
He’d sighed then and I’d immediately felt ashamed and told him so, saying I’d never try to see him, for once glad of the dark so he couldn’t see me blush, and he’d said, “Paige, if I could, I’d turn on the lights and let you see me. I’d flood this room with light, open all the windows, and you could look at me to your heart’s content. I’d tell you my name and you could say it till you grew hoarse. But the thing is...” - he’d reached his hand out, traced my cheek and jaw line with his fingers - “...if you saw me, if you knew my name, you might fear me, or you might adore me, and I’d rather be loved like an equal than adored like a god.” Then he’d leaned over and gently kissed me, dispelling any thoughts of other questions.
It’s funny...for all the grief my sisters give me you’d think I’d be glad to be rid of them but as days pass I find myself actually missing them. Maybe it’s a familiarity thing; I’m so used to them joking about my fairy tale life and hogging the bathrooms and keeping me up till two A.M. while they jabber to each other like a pair of finches about boys and clothes and school and boys that it’s difficult even after a month or so to imagine life without them. So that night I ask my husband if I can see them.
“I can tell Zach where to go, and they can leave before nightfall; I just want to see how they’re doing.”
“I’d rather you didn’t see them,” he says. “Unless you don’t love me or you’re not happy here anymore.”
“I’m ecstatic, and of course I still love you,” I say, my voice tinged with disbelief. “I’m...it’s just strange not seeing them. Besides,” - I’m struck with sudden inspiration -“maybe they can tell my dad that I’m all right.”
“If anything they’ll tell him you’re dead and start arguing over who gets your room,” he says. “Paige, please...just let them go. If you’re happy here, if you love me, let them go.”
“I am happy here and I do love you,” I repeat, “but I only want to see them for a little while. I’m...I’m just a little lonely for them.”
“No good can come of it,” he says reluctantly after a while, “but if it’ll make you happy, give me directions to your house and I’ll tell Zach where to go. Give them gifts, jewelry, banquets...whatever they want. But Paige...” - his voice is hoarse, and so soft I can barely hear it - “don’t believe them when they speak badly of me.”
I promise, and he sighs as though I’ve just placed a great weight on his shoulders, but then he kisses me, not showing how sad he is; he keeps all the pain for himself.
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I’m discussing the garden with Flory, trying to decide if we should plant anything new that might attract more butterflies, when I hear Zach’s limo pull up in the driveway. At the doorbell we both jump up and run; the others join us and they line up like they had with me. Zach comes in with my two sisters behind him, smiling at the maids, caressing Flory's cheek, making her crimson with blushes, half-bowing to me, and walking out again. I turn to Echo and the others: “These are my sisters, Pamela and Patsy,” I say excitedly. “You both must be starved; Echo, could you get them something to eat?”
“I’m sorry, Miss,” Mira says, “but -”
“Mira!” Echo says sharply, but not after a slight pause that only I notice. “These are Miss Paige’s sisters, and the master said they should be well treated.”
“O - Of course,” Mira falters, flushing a deep red. She hurries away, the other four in tow, and my sisters and I have lunch together. As Izzy clears away the plates, Flory and Anna bring two pairs of necklaces and earrings and two beautiful dresses and present them. “Master says you’re welcome to these,” Anna tells them, a hint of disgust in her voice. But Pamela and Patsy hear only the words and not the tone, and grab for the gifts eagerly.
“My G-D, these earrings must cost more than my husband makes in a year!” Pamela exclaims.
“And my husband sure couldn’t buy this dress on his salary,” Patsy chimes in.
Flory coughs slightly, as if expecting them to thank her like I always do, but they ignore her and instead turn to me: “You can not imagine how glad we are to see you again, Paige,” says Patsy. “We’re just thrilled, we all thought you were dead.”
“Um...thanks,” I say slowly, arching my eyebrows at them.
Pamela jumps in: “You know what we mean.” She fingers her necklace. “This is gorgeous,” she says in a tone indicating she’d like more. I jump to my feet perhaps too eagerly. “So! Let me show you around.”
They exclaim over everything like at the Joslyn where all the snobs wear white gloves and ooh and aah over all the paintings, and Pamela spends over an hour in the bathroom primping and fussing with her hair until Patsy exclaims over some brooch or other and she comes rushing out to fight with her about it. They’re like big game hunters, each trying to bag more trophies than the other; as I complete the tour Pamela has two more dresses and about three more necklaces, and Patsy has about four pairs of shoes and five pairs of earrings. Each time they’d exclaimed over something and I’d offered it to them, they’d protest, saying, “Oh no, we couldn’t possibly,” but after about two minutes they’d changed into the new shoes or hung the new necklace around their neck.
When they’ve finally seen all of the house I allow them to see and we’re sitting at the kitchen table with cups of coffee, Patsy works my husband into the conversation. “How’s he able to afford all these things?”
“Yeah, what does he do?” says Pamela.
I pretend to clean up some spilled sugar as I fumble for an answer. “Oh, you know, he’s in business, he’s made some good deals.”
“Really?” says Pamela, and it seems to me she looks very significantly at Patsy for just a minute.
Confused and a little afraid at what they might be planning, I say hurriedly, “Well, yes, of course...don’t your husbands buy you things too? I mean, you can’t condemn a man for buying his wife nice things now and then.”
“Oh, Paige, sweetie,” says Patsy, trying to make her voice concerned and sweet and innocent, like she’s talking to a very young child, “we didn’t mean to offend you, it’s just that Edward would have to work for, like, two years to buy me half of what you have. Tell us, how does your husband do it?”
“I told you,” I say, hoping they don’t hear my voice trembling, “he’s very successful. He’s a wonderful businessman. He’s so clever.”
In that reluctant, hesitating voice you’re supposed to use when telling someone some bad news you didn’t want that person to know before, Pamela says, “OK, look, the truth is, we’re really worried about you, Paige.”
When they say that I have to practically sit on my hands to keep from picking at my fingers like I always do when I’m nervous and hope they don’t notice. Forcing myself to speak calmly, I say, “What do you mean?”
Pamela looks down at her hands, then at Patsy, as if she’s not sure she should continue. “Well...don’t you remember what Mr. Archer said?”
“I thought you didn’t believe in dragons,” I say quickly, afraid of what’s next.
“Don’t you remember what Mr. Archer said?” she repeats, slowly, emphasizing every word. “You were gonna be married to this big business mogul whose followers follow him because they fear him?”
I stare at her. “You’re wrong,” I insist, shaking my head. “My husband is the sweetest, most caring man-”
“Why would he buy you all these things? He must want something, men always do.” Suddenly she seems to fly off on a tangent, speaking as if the thought had just struck her: “What does he look like?”
“Look,” I say, “just because it’s always dark when we’re together and I never really see him cause he doesn’t want me to-” I stop, putting my hand to my mouth as if I can erase what I just said and stop more words from escaping. No...Please don’t let me have said what I thought I just did, please oh please oh please...ohpleaseohpleaseohplease...Did I just say what I thought I did? I start to say something else, but Patsy has already taken my thread and is unraveling it: “Aha! See?”
I’m cold. “But-”
“If he doesn’t let you see him-”
“He does! You know what I mean, it’s dark and I can’t see him all that well, but-”
“If he doesn’t let you see him that means he wants something!”
“He doesn’t!”
“He’s probably-”
“No he’s not! He’s the most-”
“Oh my gosh,” Pamela cries, cutting us both off. “Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh. He must have AIDS. And leprosy. That’s it!”
“Leprosy?” Patsy says, giving her a Look. “Please, that went out with-”
“Please, there could still be a few cases...Oh all right, AIDS, then,” Pamela repeats. I start to protest again but she doesn’t even give me the chance to get a single syllable in, rushing ahead and overriding my stammering: “That’s why he doesn’t want you see him, he doesn’t want to see how awful he looks and know that you could get it. My gosh, he’s trying to, like, I dunno, buy your love or something with all this…with the house and the jewelry and the, what, five servants? I mean, my G-D, Paige, how stupid can you get, he’s obviously infected with something, I mean, yeah, Doug buys me stuff too and we live in a great house but at least I know who I’m getting into bed with every night.”
I’ve stopped listening, hearing the voices but not the words, it’s all just noise, sound, a big blur... Dragondarkleprosywantsmogul...Words like raindrops, running together, melting into noise like ice cream melts in the sun. Drip. Dribbling out of their mouths collecting on the floor in a puddle. Drip... AIDSlookshousejewelryservantbed...Drip.
I’m empty inside. They’re speaking again. Pricking me. Like bee stings. Words swarm around me, buzzing. “OK, here’s what you should do.” Pamela. Pamela talking. “Tonight when you go to bed, take a flashlight and find a gun.”
No. I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to hear what comes next. Be quiet. Be quiet.
“Light the flashlight...”
Go away. Be quiet.
“...and look at him, and if he looks...”
Please stop!
“...all diseased, with lesions and sores and things, then take the gun...”
No. I’m not hearing this.
“...and shoot him in the head.”
No. No. “No,” I whimper.
“You have to, Paige! You could already have it.”
“No. No. Go away,” I whisper. “Go away.”
“Paige...” Patsy. Patsy calling my name. Like a dog.
“No! He’s kind...”
“Too kind.”
No. I can’t. He’s...he’s good to me...“I love him.” His voice is kind...
“Do it, Paige.”
I am drowning in words. Smothering. Trapped. Help. I try to break through. Get out. Get out. Scream. “NO!”
Someone comes in. Heels clicking like pebbles on the sidewalk. A woman. Echo.
“Right this way, please, miss. Both of you.” Gentle but firm. Leading them to the door. Making them leave. Good. Get out.
“Get out of here.” My voice. Growling. Like a bear.
More clicking. Echo is coming back. I feel a warmth on my shoulder. Her hand is on it. No. Not Echo. Izzy. Little Izzy. “Are you all right, miss?” High trembling voice. Like a flute. “Is there anything I can get you?”
I sink into a chair. Do I need anything? My lips are dry. I struggle to get my mouth into the right shape: “Water. Need a drink...I need a drink of water.”
She clicks away and comes back with a tall glassful. Ice cubes float in it like tiny icebergs, and there is a slice of orange like a tiny half-moon. I drink; the cold shocks me, brings me back to myself.
I must have drunk too eagerly; there is water on my cheeks. I go to wipe it off and realize it’s running down my cheeks as tears. I’ve got tears in my eyes, I’m crying. Izzy moves beside me, shuffling her feet, nervous like a sparrow.
“It’s them girls as has made you cry, Miss Paige,” she says angrily, drawing a tissue from her pocket and handing it to me.
I dab my eyes. “Thanks.” I drink some more and cross my arms on the table, laying my head on them, thinking of what I should do. Oh please let me take back what I said, ohpleaseohpleaseohplease...Why did they trick me like that? Getting me to admit I’d never seen my husband? He was right. They’re destroying me. But just because they’re jealous? But should I take their advice? No, of course not, Paige, don’t be ridiculous, you can’t do that! But still...The doubts that have always lurked in the back of my mind, hovering invisible but menacing like clouds before a storm, creep out of hiding. I’d quickly accepted his explanation of wanting to be loved as an equal, but did I accept it too quickly? I mean, what kind of man won’t even tell his wife his name?
I eat the orange slice slowly, chewing right down to the rind. Then I put both my hands to either side of my head and press down with my fingers, like I’m trying to dig into my skull, get rid of the doubts, but they keep coming, relentless. A flashlight and a gun...How can I betray my husband like that? I can’t do that to him, he’s been nothing but good to me, never taking advantage of me, always speaking tenderly and gently, he’s always gentle with me, he’s never given me any reason to hate him or be angry or suspicious about him except for this one little thing...He loves me! And I love him! I can’t do this. I won’t do this. He’s not a monster, he’s not diseased, he’s perfect. I like things the way they are. I won’t, I can’t, I mustn’t do this.
But still...what if...The thought gnaws at the back of my mind, always there. But still... No! He’s not a monster. But...I won’t do it! But what if... I can’t! But...It’s like that old Twilight Zone episode where the terrorists trap the guy in his hotel room with a bomb. They tell him the bomb could go off anytime if he detonates it by touching a certain object in the room, but they don’t tell him what it is, so he tiptoes around carefully touching everything. I feel like that; I know the bomb will go off, I just don’t know when.
Pamela’s voice comes back to me. “A flashlight and a gun...”
Stop. I press harder on my head, digging in with my nails.
“A flashlight and a gun...”
Stop. Stop. Harder. Tiny pinpricks of pains from my fingers. Will it help stop the voice?
“A flashlight and a gun...”
I close my eyes against it, pressing even harder until I feel the ache from my head shoot down to my jaw.
“A flashlight and a gun...”
Please...!
It comes faster, running the words together as if on a string with no spaces in between. Aflashlightandagunaflashlightandagunaflashlightandagun...
No. Please! Go away! Make it stop! “Aflashlightandagun...” Go away. Make it stop. Goawaygoawaygoaway...Makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop...
Louder. Screaming. I press till I can hardly stand the pain. “A FLASHLIGHT AND A GUN! A FLASHLIGHT AND A GUN! A FLASHLIGHT AND A GUN!”
No...I can’t!
“A FLASLIGHT AND A GUN! A FLASHLIGHT AND A GUN!”
I...can’t...
“A FLASHLIGHT AND A GUN! A FLASHLIGHT AND A GUN!”
A...flashlight...
The voice lessens to a whisper. “A flashlight and a gun. A flashlight and a gun.”
...and a gun...
“Yes.”
Yes…?
“A flashlight…”
And a gun...Yes...
“Yes.”
Yes.
To be continued...