Devil Entendre Page 5

  “I ruined it,” she told herself. “I ruined everything.”

  Weeks came and went in the shade of the attic, where it was easy to remain forgotten. The servants stopped by periodically, bringing food and water but little else. They were distressed, she could tell, and refused to answer even the simplest questions about what was going on elsewhere. No news about her friends or family, nothing.

  One day she woke up to find the door ajar, with light pouring through to offend her sensitive eyes. She could make out a dark shape sitting nearby. Who was it? Mommy? No. As her eyes grew used to the light she came to recognize the outline of the doll. It was just sitting there looking at her, creepy as all get-out.

  “What are you doing here?!” Aubrey demanded. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

  There was no response. Not from the doll, not from anybody downstairs. All was silent.

  She sat up and ventured toward the doll. Was this somebody’s idea of a joke? Maybe somebody’s attempt to give her some portion of her life back? Avoiding the doll’s gaze she went to the door. There wasn’t any sign of who had done this, no clues at all. The doll itself couldn’t have done it. She would figure it all out later. In the meantime, though, she was overcome by anger. Threats and hatred poured from her in yells and screams-she even slapped the doll several times. It was larger than she remembered, about equal in size to her.

  Just in case it was somehow capable of moving Aubrey decided to tie the thing up. Old cloth set aside for past sewing projects bound the doll’s wrists to a defective home theater system, while a ball of twine was used to bind the ankles to a collapsed bed frame. It wouldn’t be going anywhere any time soon, especially not with its clothes removed.

  All was quiet below; Aubrey’s outburst hadn’t brought the servants running. They were probably busy preparing breakfast. The choice was to either go downstairs and be free of the attic-and possibly discovered-or stay put and have a little fun. There had to be a secret to the doll, a reason why her parents became obsessed with it, an explanation for how it grew. The butcher knife she’d found with the old cutlery would be her key to unlock the answers.

  “Okay,” she told the doll, stroking its hair. “Let’s see what makes you tick.”

  She ran the tip of the knife up and down the doll’s chest-no, Lara’s chest, she’d rather think of this as doing something against Lara instead of some inanimate toy. Where to start? She’d seen a scary movie one time where the police cut open a body, so she mimicked her memories. The blade punctured silicon flesh just below Lara’s ribcage, and continued to saw down along the middle of the abdomen. A perfect line! She’d never been able to cut real meat so well when she tried to help the servants.

  Her fingertips felt around inside…wait a minute. Something was in there. She peeled back the inch or so of soft plastic encountering less resistance the further she pulled, until she exposed the interior all the way from head to foot. Underneath it all was a second doll that resembled a little girl maybe two years younger. Aubrey’s surprise was short-lived-she knew there was something wrong with Lara. She put the knife to work again, uncovering yet another Lara, again about two years smaller in size. This process repeated again and again until she finally reached a frigid cavity in the deepest part of the chest.

  Inside was a horrid, misshapen baby. It wasn’t full-sized; instead it was a sickly replica of a baby, scrawny and translucent, its discolored flesh wrinkly from the syrupy red sludge was suspended in. The gelatinous stuff reminded her of cherry pie filling, her absolute favorite desert-but now that, too, would be ruined for her. She forced herself to reach into the cold slop and remove that wretched baby doll. Holding it in front of her face she was overcome by a sweet smell. Despite herself she tasted the stuff on her hands. It was cherry pie filling!

  Only, it wasn’t a doll she held. The wet thing began to squirm in her grasp, and its eyes opened. Huge, glowing red eyes.

  Aubrey screamed and threw it into a corner. Then she ran for all she was worth.

  The dresses, the shoes and boots, they all fit perfectly. After a long shower Aubrey had decided it was safe to move around the house. As horrible as things had been for her, she deserved some liberties at last. Lara’s possessions were the first victims on the list. Her wardrobe was raided, her jewelry box plundered. Aubrey even did her hair up in the same style.

  When Mommy and Daddy came home they found her propped up on the bed, exactly as she had found Lara weeks ago. This was her protest, her way to shame them. Only they didn’t notice. Daddy turned to Mommy and said, “She’s looking more like our daughter all the time, isn’t she?”

  “She is like our daughter…only better. So much better,” Mommy replied.

  Aubrey would have cried if she hadn’t already been exposed to so many horrors. Instead, she forced herself to remain as still as possible. While playing with her, they noticed her piercings had grown over, so they pierced her ears again themselves. It hurt like nothing she’d ever experienced, but that was okay. Her parents were finally giving her the attention she deserved.

  And so a new phase in the family relationship began, the inanimate phase where she played dead and they played caring parents. She lived as a doll named Lara and they loved her for it. When a plate of snacks was left and they returned to find it empty they looked like the couple she’d seen in those old photographs. She even played along with Mommy’s bizarre feeding thing at night, despite the fact it was dis-gust-ing. It would be easy to stay angry at them forever, but at the same time she felt something she’d never expected to feel for her parents: she felt pity for them. They had sad, pathetic lives and the whole “Lara” thing was the only reason they woke up in the morning.

  That didn’t take away the sting of finding out her parents had declared her dead while she was locked away. More time had passed than she knew. The leaves were red and yellow and orange, but still clinging to the trees with tenacity. Apparently half the school showed up for her funeral. That was some consolation. At the same time, all her old things had been removed from the home, even the photographs of her were gone. As for her old bedroom, the only thing to be found there was a giant doll’s house that took up the whole room. She hated it.

  Everywhere she went it was Lara, Lara, Lara. Pictures of Mommy and Daddy having a picnic with Lara, her oh-so-special brushes and combs, her spot on the sofa where she could watch those crummy shows. Even in the mirror Aubrey found Lara waiting for her. She’d done too good of a job playing the part.

  Well, that was it. No more of those stupid games. Aubrey would go about her business as she normally did back when things were normal. Now that she wasn’t sneaking around the servants caught wind of her movements and began to follow at a safe distance. Each time she turned to try to communicate with them they ducked around a corner. What the heck?

  Soon she came to the kitchen, where they were laying in wait. The entire staff cornered the giggling girl, who was beside herself with happiness that she finally had company. “Oh, I’ve missed you all so much!” she admitted. There was so much to say, but where to begin?

  “Just look at that,” one of the gardeners commented out of the corner of his mouth. “The abomination’s up and walking around now.”

  Several of the women crossed themselves.

  “What?” she protested. “It’s me! What-”

  Callie cut her off. “We’d best get it back upstairs before the Master and Mistress see this.”

  “Callie!” Aubrey exclaimed. Then she realized they must think she was the doll, because of the clothes and hairstyle. “It’s me!”

  “Me who?” they yelled. They weren’t in any mood to deal with a creature like her. Try as she might she couldn’t convince them she wasn’t the doll, that she was in fact Aubrey. They laughed off the notion. “Then why don’t you go ahead and tell us who the girl is we’ve been feeding in the attic
every day!”

  “What girl? I am the girl!” They just stared at her. “Don’t be dumb!” she yelled, running to the stairs. She’d go face that horrible attic again and bring back the grisly evidence, no matter how unbearable. This nonsense had to stop. Reaching the top of the stairs she came to a halt. What if that terrible little thing was still squirming in there, moving around and staring at her with its huge, freaky eyes? Well, she would just have to stomach it. Then she could tell the house staff, her parents, the whole stinking world. They’d all know just how much she had suffered.

  Opening the door was the easy part. Stepping inside was a problem, but she willed her legs to move. She had already forgotten just how dark it was in there, how stifling. While she stood there trying to let her eyes adjust to the darkness the door slammed shut. She spun to see what was going on, but the darkness betrayed her. Something hard and heavy struck her head, sending her tumbling to the floor with a weak cry.

  When she came to her hands were bound to something large and heavy, as were her feet. Her body was stretched out on the floor, completely defenseless, and a gag kept her voice from escaping. Over to the side something moved, drawing closer. Now that her eyes had finally adjusted she could see it was Lara, dressed in Aubrey’s dirty old clothes, completely whole once more.

  She was moving. On her own.

  With a crazed look in her eyes Lara first stood over Aubrey, then straddled her prone form. She picked up something laying nearby…it was the butcher knife. Aubrey wanted to scream, wanted to shake her head in protest, but couldn’t move for some reason. Lara leaned down close, placing the knife against Aubrey’s chest, and said, “Okay…let’s open you up and see what makes you tick.”

  Never Go Back

  “The one there with his swollen belly

  is pregnant with his own death.”

  —St. Jerome

  Addy turns away when tourists stop them, diverting her gaze to a storefront and what lies beyond: liquid dreams perched behind a barkeep, tempting, but their vessels stitch her lungs tight. Bottles seed in her an involuntary twinge of anguish, ever since…

  Prayer makes a lap or two around her mind, after which Addy’s hands are delicate in their exploration of each other, rubbing end over end over end. She focuses on them and draws strength from the fact they don’t tremble uncontrollably, not anymore. Cam’s voice caresses her ears, nerves, summoning long sessions of kneading knuckles and fingers tracing paths of relief along her limbs, scalp. “It’s called Lazy Yoga,” he explained to her, but there was never anything lazy about the thing they did with each other after the yoga. Unaware of the kegel exercises that accompany these memories she smiles, turns to her man.

  Cam listens patiently as the tourists speak some variety of Asian tongue. Korean, Addy surmises from the literature they carry, all printed with jutting geometric characters accompanied by those little circles. The circle protruding from the male’s neck is what had caused her to look away in the first place. It is discolored, pendulous, a fluid-filled cystic neoplasm sagging under its own weight. Her focus is drawn to Cam’s comforting hand on the shoulder of the possibly-Korean man’s black wool jacket, strangely pale in contrast despite Cam’s ethnicity.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he tells the tourists. “You just go across the street, down a block, turn right, and the Spy Museum is up two blocks on your left. Can’t miss it.” The family thanks him profusely in their native language and, not missing a beat, he replies, “Okay. You do the same.”

  Addy watches as they move along, realizing the tourist’s neck is free of growths or spots of any kind. She swallows hard, commanding herself to stop making the world a mirror for her pain.

  Cam turns to her. “You okay?”

  “Sure. Just the dry air and exhaust. Makes my throat feel like, you know…”

  He nods. “It really hasn’t been that long, has it?”

  “Time flies when a person has help.”

  “So I’m a helpful guy. Sue me.” He gets them moving along the sidewalk again, a few steps closer to their reservations on the other side of Chinatown.

  “Speaking of which, how’d you know what those people were saying?”

  “’Those people?’ I didn’t peg you for a closet racist.” He chuckles, she responds in kind, hitting at him. They move on.

  Cam’s accusation reminds Addy the vast majority of the population possesses less pigment than she does. Being with him makes it easy for her to forget an upbringing in rural Prince George’s County where the KKK still holds rallies, however small, ranting about “her kind.” Which, in this case, is a homely marine biologist on the business end of 40. How she snared somebody surely not her kind—tall with a square jaw, searing amber eyes, golden skin and shoulders that fill a doorway—mystifies everyone but him.

  She leans her head against one of those shoulders, stops resisting the downward trajectory of her eyelids, lets him guide her through the shuffling horde. “Tell me it’s gonna be good.”

  “I’m not so hungry anymore, but yes. It will be.”

  She believes him, as always.

  Deformity has always made a squeeze toy of Addy’s stomach. She now realizes that was the worst part of being a terminal cancer patient. Why she still sees it everywhere she looks. The constant visions of tumors spreading over and through her, filling both mind and body with something darker than toxic mold every time she blinks, tries to sleep. Even during her current, inexplicable remission her sinews are brittle, her spine a creaking, condemned bridge.

  Not too long ago she took shelter in the faith of her peers, the condemned. They gathered for support in a space occupied at other times by junkies, drunkards, sexual predators, victims of sexual predators, people with sustenance issues: the noun-anonymous. The church’s basement never smelled of sweat so much as during the cancer sessions, save for the one exorcism Addy walked in on; the look of strain, desperation worn by the possessed could have been mistaken for that of the pancreatic cancer patient who stopped attending after three meetings. Perhaps it was the minister who wore that look, not the possessed. The pain meds in Addy’s system had scrambled some of her memories.

  One night a new member lurked at the periphery. The stranger wore a tight muscle shirt that barely concealed a peanut at the base of each pectoral muscle. The fact that he exuded more health than all the group members combined baffled them as to whether they should feel rage or gratitude for his presence. He was the single participant who did not applaud when Addy announced her acceptance into clinical trials for metastaticized cervical cancer treatment.

  After the meeting’s conclusion, when small groups of cancer sufferers make small talk and had to—for health reasons—drink water instead of the coffee they desired, the stranger approached her.

  “I don’t know you,” he said, “but that clinical trial stuff is some nonsense. Stay away from it.” Addy made a whatchu-talkin’-bout-Willis face, to which the man replied, “You said you can only enter the trials after having a radical hysterectomy. What if I told you there was a proven treatment that would also let you have kids in the future? I’m living proof.”

  Struggling to keep her gaze above his chest she gasped, “Why would you say these things to me? What is it you want?”

  He leaned in then, eyes narrow. “I wanna get in your pants.”

  She choked on her water, sprayed it across the worn linoleum. A few of the others moved to break from their clusters and rush to her aid, but she waved them off before they could make the effort. Just run-the-mill embarrassment, nothing terminal, folks.

  “I—” she began, raising a palm. Her arm was so unsteady she was unsure she could deliver a proper slap.

  His embrace ended her doubts, setting her on the path toward belief.

  Addy and Cam arrive for her dose every night at seven, the clockwork of survival. Technica
lly the Rainbow New Age Gift Emporium closes at six, but Whisp always lingers, insisting it is no trouble because she has no life beyond operating the shop anyway. The stench of simmering cranberry and birch bark tincture greets them before Whisp does, lost as she always is among the boundless rows of citrine and fluorite crystals, dangling bundles of dried primrose and sassafras, shelves of tarot and statuary.

  Her first visit to Rainbow was tense at best: new people, new religion, new tumors in her peritoneum and liver and lungs on the cusp of having her womanhood hacked out by surgeons. Something about Whisp’s aging with dignity—flowing curls hardwired with silver and hazel, laugh lines composed of more laugh than line—put Addy at ease long enough to allow the treatment’s details past her defenses.

  “The birch bark comes from China since we’re not allowed to use indigenous birch. Don’t even let me go off on the law and traditional healing arts,” Whisp clucked, with a wave of her hand. “Anyway, the point is, we distill bocliysinated-betulonic acid from the birch and resveratol from the cranberries. It’s all going to be approved by the FDA in a decade, but honey you don’t have that long. So here we go.”

  As the shopkeeper disappeared into the back Addy opened her mouth, looked at her newfound escort, said nothing. Instead she tried to remember what magazine cover she had seen Cam on; she was sure there was one, if not many. His veins and muscles rippled under his smooth skin sheathing. “What are you anyway?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Where are your people from?”