Death in a Funhouse Mirror (7 page)

Helene and Cliff had been among my heroes. Not good at childrearing, maybe, but otherwise admirable grownups. Real and accomplished and competent, yet genuinely interested in Eve and her friends and what we were doing. There had been a time in my impressionable youth when I thought I wanted to be a woman like Helene married to a man like Cliff. So of course I tried to step into the dream and help her, but it was a dream, and I was only the voiceless audience.

Then the dream changed. I was standing in my Uncle Henry's garage, wearing a bright red woolen jacket with a peaked little hood, an elfin figure, my breath coming out in clouds of steam, staring up at the six-point buck he'd shot. The deer hung from the rafters, innocent eyes vacant in death, proud antlers sprouting from its head, slender legs standing stiffly out, the belly a gaping red slash where he'd dressed it, and the graceful throat slit to let it bleed. He and my father were swapping hunting stories, while my brother Michael danced about, infected by their excitement, trying to get them to agree that he could have the antlers. And I, included at my own insistence in this sublimely male moment, disgraced myself by vomiting down the front of my new red jacket. Dad and Uncle Henry were solicitous and kind, but I felt them, and Michael, draw together in scorn for my female weakness.

The smell of vomit and the faintly metallic odor of blood were so vivid I awoke, afraid that I'd been sick. But except that I was drenched with sweat, I was fine. I got up and padded through the sleepy darkness to the kitchen, poured myself a stiff measure of bourbon, and took it out onto the deck, closing the slider quietly behind me. The cool wind off the water felt good. I lay back in the lounge chair and filled my lungs with salty air, letting the bourbon's sharp, sweet heat soothe me. Below me, the waves lapped the rocks like a cat giving itself a bath.

I've always been troubled by dreams. When I was small, I used to wake up screaming and scare my parents. It got better as I got older, though it never completely went away until I met David. Sleeping beside him with his arm pulling me tightly to his side, I felt a security I'd never felt before. In the two years we were together, I only had one dream bad enough to wake me up, and when I awoke, I couldn't remember what it had been about. It was the night before he was killed, and it may have been a premonition. I don't really believe in that stuff—signs and premonitions and omens—but a few times in my life, I've had these flashes where I knew what was going to happen before it happened, some sort of ESP, so while I would never expect it or depend on it, I'm not completely skeptical, either.

I heard the slider and then Andre came out. "You okay?"

"I had a dream that woke me up."

He didn't say anything, just sat down beside me and put an arm around me. He knows about my dreams. He took the glass from my hand and sniffed it curiously. I couldn't see his face in the dark, but I knew it would be troubled. He understands about my affinity for bourbon, but it worries him. He thinks drinking alone is dangerous. Too many of his colleagues have trouble with alcohol, and too much of the crime he sees results from it. He slid a warm hand down my bare arm. "You're all goose bumps," he said. "How long have you been out here?"

"Not long. The cool air felt good."

He stood up. "Come here. Let me warm you up."

"You never have any trouble doing that."

"I just meant..."

"I know what you meant," I said, getting up and going over to him. I buried my face in his chest, rubbing my cheek over the coarse, wiry hair, feeling the hardness of his muscles. "I miss your smell, when you're not here."

"I smell?"

"Don't be an idiot. I meant that combination of soap, shaving cream, and you that lingers on my pillow after you're gone. That kept me from changing the bed for two weeks, until there was so much grit between the sheets it was like sleeping in a sandbox and I gave up and washed you away."

"You have such a poetic way of talking."

"Well, you know how it is with wordsmiths; we toil all day long, beating the phrases into shape."

"Only it was uncomfortably close to 'I'm gonna wash that man right out of my hair...' Speaking of hair..." He reached over and pulled out the elastic that was holding it back. It fell onto my bare shoulders, tickling them with little wind-driven wisps. "There, that's better. Go stand over there by the railing." I stood by the railing, my hair floating on the wind, white nightgown billowing. "Wait there," he said. "I'll be right back." He disappeared inside, returning a minute later with the bedspread, which he spread out on the deck. He held out a hand. "Care to join me?"

He untied the ribbons that formed the shoulder straps of my nightgown, and watched, his eyes shining in the dark, as it drifted to the ground. I stepped out of it and into his arms. Later, over his shoulder, I saw a shooting star, and then, for an hour, we both slept heavily, until the chill of a rising fog drove us back inside. That hour was the only restful sleep I got. Back in bed, even with his comfortable warmth beside me, the dreams returned.

First it was the deer again, but this time as I watched, it grew Helene's head, and then her body, and it was her gaping bloody wound. Then the picture faded and became Eve again, but this time a corpulent, bloated Eve, bulging horribly in the bike shorts and tunic she'd worn today, perched on the stool like a dreadful toad, floating around the room like a witch from the
Wizard of Oz,
singing "Ding, dong, the witch is dead." And beside her, on a stool of his own, Padraig, his flaming hair long and dirty, his face dissipated and gaunt, floated with a cadaverous grin. Below them, Helene writhed and crawled, leaving a trail of blood on her impeccable kitchen floor.

I moaned and tried to wake up, but the unrestful sleep held me in its grip. The kitchen gradually faded out, the picture became black and white, and I was looking at a wooded path. Far ahead of me, on the path, someone was lying. I fought harder to wake up, because I knew this picture, knew what was up ahead on the path, but the reel kept running, the dream coming on, relentless, drawing me closer to the silent figure on the ground. "No. No. I won't look. Don't make me look." But you can't close your eyes in a dream. Then it was all right there in front of me. Carrie. My sweet little sister. Lying there battered on the ground, the earth beneath her dark with blood. Dead at twenty-one. And then the vile projectionist finally let up, sent the pictures spinning into oblivion, and I was just driving along in my car, windows down, listening to music.

Beside me, Andre stirred in his sleep, put an arm around me, and pulled me close. I moved my head across the pillow to his shoulder, finding, as I did so, that my pillow was wet with tears. After that I dozed, but never quite gave in to sleep, afraid that the dreams would come again.

Now, in the full glare of the sun, I was still in bed, exhausted and spacey, my head pounding, trying to drink the coffee. "Can I get some aspirin with this?" I asked.

"How about some brisk sea air and cool, refreshing orange juice?"

"What are either of those going to do for pain?"

"Take your mind off it," he suggested. I knew this agenda. It was bad to be someone who drank and woke with a headache and therefore it was necessary to work it out by exercising the flesh, pounding out the evil. A drill sergeant mentality. Only this wasn't a hangover. It was a grinding, lack-of-sleep headache.

"I do not have a hangover, you know." The sheet felt hot and damp and scratchy. I kicked it off, forgetting I was naked. He stared at my body with interest.

"Forget it, mister," I said, "that is the farthest thing from my mind right now."

"Don't mind me, ma'am," he said. "You know how it is with men and hormones. We're just slaves to our lust. If an attractive woman with a delightful body throws off her sheet right in front of me, what am I supposed to do?"

"You might try thinking about the British Empire. How about if we make a deal. I'll let you look if you bring me those aspirin?"

"Oh goody." He executed a joyous little caper that went so absurdly with his muscular body and serious face that it cracked me up, even though laughing hurt my head. "I'll be right back. Don't go away."

"Where would I go? I live here." But he was gone. I lay back against the pillows and massaged my temples. The light hurt my eyes and I hoped it wasn't the beginning of a migraine. I don't get them very often, but when I do, they can wipe me out for a day or two. He came back with two aspirin and a glass of water. "What shall we do today," I asked, "assuming that these work?"

He was standing at the window, looking out at the water, refusing to look at me. "I've got to get back," he said. "These were really stolen moments. I've still got people to talk to, and the paperwork, and court tomorrow. The arrest marks the end of one phase, but now we've got to make sure all the ducks are lined up so the guy doesn't just walk away. And I really don't want this one to walk." I didn't blame him. The guy they'd finally arrested had assaulted and strangled his twelve-year-old stepdaughter, though his wife—the child's mother—swore he hadn't done it. But the mother was spineless as a jellyfish, with a long history of not protecting her children, and the guy had abused the girl before.

"I thought we had the weekend," I said, aware of the sulky note in my voice. I didn't want him to go. I might feel lousy, and be bad company, but I still wanted him there. Besides, there was the stuff he'd hinted at yesterday, things we still hadn't had a chance to talk about.

"We've had much of the weekend. We didn't plan to spend most of yesterday with Eve. You know I'd stay if I could."

I did know that. No sense in arguing about it. He'd stay if he could, and I knew it. And I wanted him to stay, and he knew it. "Do you have to go right now?"

He checked his watch. "Soon. I have time for breakfast, if you feel like cooking again after yesterday."

"It was only six, Andre. I can do that with one hand tied behind my back. And it wasn't much of a meal."

"What else can you do with only one hand?"

"Depends on which hand." I'm not so good at verbal ping-pong when I have a headache. "What do you want for breakfast?"

"A caviar omelet. English muffins with loganberry jelly. Half a pound of bacon. Some melon. And you."

"That last item, at least, I know I have in the house. I'll have to check on the rest." I pulled on some underwear, running shorts, and the shirt he'd worn yesterday, and went into the kitchen, while he went and got the paper. The light wasn't hurting as much, so it didn't look like a migraine was looming. I got out the eggs, the caviar, an onion, and some sour cream. Pulled a pound of bacon out of the freezer and stuck it in the microwave to defrost. Found the English muffins and the butter. "How about cherry jam?" I asked. My cupboards tend to look like Old Mother Hubbard's, but knowing the way to Andre's heart is through his stomach, I'd shopped on Friday.

"Fine, dear." He peeked at me over the top of the paper. We were the very model of domestic bliss.

There's nothing I like better than a big breakfast, especially on Sunday. The first few meals we'd had together he'd cooked, including our first breakfast. He's a good cook because he likes to eat and lives alone. We both like to eat. If we didn't work so hard, and consequently often skip meals, and if we didn't pump iron, or, in my case, try to get to aerobics faithfully, we'd both be fat as hogs. We're both good-sized people—I'm 5' 11" and he's a bit over 6'—and if we were fat as well, we could really take up some space.

I spread the bacon in a shallow pan and stuck it in the oven. Beat the eggs and turned on the heat under the omelet pan. Stuck four muffin halves into the toaster, and chopped some onions. There was a honeydew melon on the counter. I sliced it open and sniffed it. Sweet, musky and ripe. "I'm getting close to blastoff point in here, can you set the table?" I called.

He came into the kitchen, but instead of getting things for the table, he grabbed me from behind. "Seven... six... five... four three... two... one." He picked me up and swung me around. "We have liftoff!"

"At ease, trooper," I said. "Put me down." He set me back on my feet, his hands lingering briefly, and gathered what he needed to set the table. I melted some butter, poured in the eggs, and buttered the muffins. I stuck four more in the toaster, checked the bacon, and loosened the edges of the omelet. I stuck two melon quarters in bowls and shoved them across the counter. "These on the table. And the jam." I dumped some caviar and onions into the center of the eggs, folded in the sides, and moved the pan to a cool burner, forked the bacon onto some paper towels to drain, and stuck three muffins onto each plate. Then I cut the omelet in half, put half on each plate, and spooned some sour cream on top. "Ready."

The table was set with flowered placemats and he'd stuck my cyclamen in the middle. The slider was open, and the fresh sea breeze was billowing the curtains toward us like ghosts. He noticed me watching them blow. "Just like your nightgown, last night," he said.

"I don't understand how you can be so romantic, doing what you do," I said.

"I have to be. How else could I stand it? My mind and body may belong to the state, but my soul belongs to me."

"Thought I had dibs on the body."

He grinned wickedly. "You're the perfect antidote to crime. You give me wit, warmth, and caring…." He broke off abruptly and looked down at his plate. There was more he wanted to say, but he wasn't saying it. "Not bad."

"You haven't tasted it yet." He looked a thousand times better than he had on Friday night. His skin had color again, and without bags under his eyes, he no longer looked like a weary bloodhound.

"No, but to have one's wishes fulfilled, instantly like this, is enough. It doesn't matter how it tastes."

"To quote Suzanne, 'get real, mister,' I didn't make this food for show. Speaking of Suzanne, are you coming down for the dinner on Friday night or not until Saturday morning?"

He took a bite of omelet and stared at me, puzzled.

"Don't tell me it tastes bad."