Sub Rosa, page 29
“Have you all gone bonkers? We could get hurt out there.” Dearest yanked at her pigtails fretfully.
“But we’ll be together,” said Portia. “Right? Can I come?”
“Ling is gonna kill me,” said First. “I can handle the Dowager being cross, but I don’t want to upset anyone else’s House.”
“Treasure Anne tried to run away with some gross, ugly, bearded guy, and Ling loves her more than ever now,” argued Portia. First tapped her big bare foot. “I’ll take the blame, Candy. I’ll say I just followed you, or something. I’m going—that is that.”
“Strength in numbers, I s’pose,” said First.
“You ought to come, Dearest.” Portia nudged Dearest with her elbow. “You don’t want to be left behind, do you? That’s the whole point of the Club. So we don’t have to be alone anymore. We stick together.”
“Maybe we can get my news clipping,” Isabella wondered. Portia and Dearest cooed in response.
“I want to find something about me. Hey, what if I find out my sister’s names in the Dark?” squealed Portia.
Dearest kicked a rose quartz pebble out of her garden bed. I’m sure she was weighing the danger against the feeling of being left out. “Do you get to choose your memory when you go to back to the Dark?” she asked.
“No,” I said. I was beginning to wish I could take back my words. The Dark guaranteed nothing. “No, the memory sort of came at me; I didn’t get to decide. I didn’t even know it was coming.”
“Sometimes the best gifts are the ones we don’t choose,” said First, borrowing a line from the speech I made to her in our bedroom. Again, she held up her mother’s portrait, as if it were a cue card, with our answer clearly written across it in capital letters.
XXVIII
We made the announcement on a Wednesday at 12:30 p.m. I knew the day of the week because the Mayflower was serving Oysters Rockefeller, their new Wednesday lunch special. I knew the time because someone had strapped a watch to Shirley’s wrist. “It’s so handy,” she said, waving it in front of the First and me. “It tells me exactly when to get the side dishes started before you girls get here.”
“But we’re never in a hurry, Shirley,” I told her. “We’ll always wait for macaroni salad.” She walked away annoyed, scribbling our orders with her favourite orange feather-topped pen.
Each time a Glory came in through the front door, First’s arm shot up so they’d notice her. “You’re not getting lunch to go, are ya? We got some news.” The mere mention of First having news incited great interest. First never had news—she didn’t care for it. Ling and Treasure Anne grabbed the booth closest to us so that they might be the first to hear whatever it was First had to say. The triplets were sent into a state of high-pitched chatter in their booth. Portia widened her eyes in our direction, mouthing the word now. But First wanted to wait until all the Glories were there.
Two orphans, neither of them Isabella, arrived to pick up a large order. “Shepherd’s pie for the Dowager,” they said in unison. They stared at the kitchen door placidly, waiting for their food.
First pushed a fifty-dollar bill at me. “Little, go into the kitchen and tell Al to delay their order, at least ten minutes.”
The orphans didn’t blink as I passed them and snuck into the kitchen. It was an oily sauna in there. Al wore a funny white handkerchief tied around his head and aimed his wooden spoon at me as I entered. I thrust the fifty at him before he shooed me out. “Only ten minutes,” he said. “I run a timely kitchen.” Shirley was checking her watch as I exited. Has the Mayflower gone crazy or what, I wondered as I left the kitchen. This watch business gave me the creeps. It was as if the whole street was anticipating something that they themselves didn’t even know. Maybe they were anticipating the rise of the Cherished Memory Club? I certainly was eager to announce us.
Fortunately, the House of Man had arrived while I was busy bribing Al. “It’s too early for eating,” Second Man said as he dramatically threw his menu down on the table. He and Fauxnique both donned sunglasses. Dearest probably had to drag them out of bed.
I expected First to stand up once everyone was together. She checked her makeup in her compact mirror enough times. “You tell them, Little. You’re better with the speeches,” she said.
It wasn’t hard to get everyone’s attention. As soon as I mentioned the Dark there was a communal groan, then silence. Second Man took off his sunglasses. The orphans turned away from the kitchen door to listen. I mentioned Isabella and they rushed down the aisle and out the front door, their black pixie-girl shoes clapping the floorboards as they went. It was the closest thing to applause my speech about returning Isabella to her rightful home at the House of Arsen got. I didn’t bother mentioning the Cherished Memory Club.
“You can’t do this, First,” Fauxnique shouted, as Dearest slid out of her booth to stand beside me. For once, I didn’t mind Dearest taking my hand in solidarity.
“I am not forcing anyone,” First said. “Dearest made up her own mind.”
“Oh please,” Second Man sneered. “Dearest doesn’t have her own mind. No offence, Dearest girl. You have many assets, but the mind isn’t one of them.”
“How can you say that?” First rose to stand behind Dearest. “She has mind enough to run your whole House and all her gardens, all on her own.”
“You’ve been to our House?” asked Fauxnique.
“Covered in flowers!” I heard Portia say to the triplets.
Fauxnique heard her too. “You’ve all been to our House? Is that where you cooked up your demented scheme? Dearest, I told you breathing in too much pollen would warp your mind.”
“My mind isn’t warped.” Portia was the last to stand up and join our small huddle in the centre of the Mayflower. “I’m more than just some outrageously pretty girl who sits in a diner booth all day. I’m not afraid of the Dark.” Likka and Myra gawked at her. For once they had nothing to say. No one did. We stood like display mannequins until the six sets of eyes on us began to burn.
“I suppose we ought to finish our lunch,” First sighed. We wordlessly slid back into our places. We quietly chewed the remainder of our meal and set out the money to pay our bills. The only sound that followed was Al slamming the unclaimed pan of Shepherd’s pie on the counter.
The silence continued all day and into the evening. Conversations halted as I entered Babycakes and Launderlove. Glories and shopkeepers alike quietly shot me sideways glances wherever I went. First brought supper home in a huff. “Everyone else got their order before me. All I was trying to do was pick up a couple soups and sandwiches.”
We were happier than ever to greet the live ones that night. First practically pushed them up the stairs two at a time. Before it got too busy, I had scanned the Dowager’s property for Isabella. She was still absent from her track patch. The orphans positioned themselves in their abridged line until, one-by-one, live ones picked them off like dolls off a toy-store shelf.
Dearest wasn’t sticking around at the House of Man, either. “Let’s go to your place for a change,” I overheard her saying as she leapt into a navy Volvo. Her little pink watering can was left abandoned on the curb. Fauxnique didn’t bother reaching down to retrieve it. She just nudged it with her foot; it tipped over, spilling water across their track patch.
I tried to spy on how Portia’s night was going. Ling was leading live ones into the Mayflower in rapid succession. Her hair was pulled into a severe bun and, for some reason, she carried a riding switch. She directed live ones with it, waving whoever was next in line until there were too many to keep track.
It was one of Sub Rosa’s whirlwind nights—dizzy with work. Arsen organized the other Daddies to announce a “last call for your Sub Rosa favourites” throughout the city. “Is it true?” the live ones asked First and me. “You may never return from your quest?” It never occurred to us that we might not return. Or course we would return. We let the live ones think there was about to be a famine, anyway.
“Oh, yes,” said First, baiting them like only First could, convincing them to spend more and more. “It’s very dangerous, our journey. I imagine when we return, we’ll all need a holiday to recover. At least a week.” They were greedy for us. They outbid each other to get ahead in the line-up. They paid extra to extend their visits. Even after their bodies were spent and soft, they still thrust money at me so that they could linger in the working room for a little longer.
Then they got the idea to pool their money together to visit in groups. “Little,” a man shouted from the back of the line. “We got the $1,600 between the four of us. Can we be next, please?” As I led them up the Wifey Wing stairs, live ones in line shouted and waved their cash in the air. I saw other gangs promptly forming—men piling their bills together with maddened expressions.
At one point I simply closed my eyes and let myself float, or be floated, around the working room. There was a constant hammock of hands to hold me up, a rotation of flesh and want to kept me from crashing down. I rose until I left a sticky handprint on the ceiling. I rose until everyone and everything lay on the floor in a used-up heap.
Arsen turned up with the other Daddies to clear out the delirious, left-over live ones, and then to take us out for an early breakfast. “I’m gettin’ pancakes and corned beef hash,” said First. “It will be a good sleep for me.” We hadn’t all gathered at the Mayflower—both Daddies and Glories—since my debut party. We were a very different looking bunch then. No more formal attire, no more glitz. We wore our hair wild and loose, our clothes were misbuttoned and stretched and soiled. I could tell by the Glories’ appearance and the large plates of food being ordered that it had been a goldmine night for all.
But despite the inflow of dollars, we were as quiet as we had been right after our announcement to return to the Dark was made. Portia waved hello to me from under her table before Myra crowded into the bench beside her, forcing her next to the window. Dearest lay half asleep in her Daddy’s lap; Emanuel hushed a low lullaby in her ear to keep her quiet. I didn’t even dare to look at Isabella. The Dowager sat with her orphans on the far side of the diner; their forks and knives chimed rhythmically against their plates.
I might have worried then that Sub Rosa could never change. That being a Glory was about being a Glory, nothing less, nothing more. And Glorydom excluded reflection. But I was so exhausted that all I could do was chew and swallow the considerable meal before me. And—as always—it was very good food.
When I woke the next day, the silence had broken. The sound of persistent knocking travelled up from the front door to our bedroom. “What is that racket?” First said, sliding the lace-trimmed sleep mask from her eyes.
The two orphans at our door declined our yawning invitation to come inside. But when First told them she wasn’t about to have a conversation at the front door while wearing nothing but her robe and a head full of pin-curls, the orphans reluctantly came in. The blonde orphan (who would have had beautiful flowing hair if it hadn’t been slicked back and braided), quickly scanned our living room before planting herself squarely beside the brunette. I offered them tea. They both said no.
“Isabella’s dowry is set at $2,000,” the brunette said. “Which day do you intend to leave?”
“Isabella was unable to provide the details,” said the blonde.
First and I looked at each other. “Two days?” First asked me. Saturday, the same day as our Club meetings.
“Two days,” I confirmed. At this statement, the orphans showed themselves out.
The Dowager must have wanted to take a stab at First when she set the price. It was the exact same amount as First’s dowry had been. First sprang up after the orphans left and seized her ostrich feather duster. She dusted the doorframe, the railing along the stairs, and anything the orphans may have passed.
“Are you upset, First?” I asked.
“Two Gs is a lot of money,” she said, then tossed her head back, laughing. “If you’re alone in the Dark, that is. But that witch has no idea we already got that two grand in the bag. I put aside triple that, just in case.”
But the price of Isabella’s dowry wasn’t the only dig Diamond had made. It seemed that while First and I were sleeping, the Dowager had been busy spreading sensational stories. The minute I stepped out my front door, Second Man rushed at me, saying, “A couple of orphans came around here this morning. They told me that Royal spoke from the dead; he says you’re not going to make it.” Fauxnique and Dearest stood behind him; Fauxnique fidgeted with Dearest’s pigtails anxiously. I could have reassured them then, told them how certain I was of Dearest’s safe return. But I had made a deal with Arsen to pretend to be soft until the bets were in. I needed to act like a gamble.
“Well, our journey to certain doom requires a bit of planning,” I said, peering around Second Man at Dearest. “Planning meeting at our house in two hours,” I told her.
Ling cut me off as I approached the Mayflower, shaking her head and waving me away. “The triplets are worked up into a frenzy,” she said. “And you’re not the person to calm them down.”
“It’s all right,” I said in a low, deadpan voice. “It will all be over soon.” I walked a few steps past her and stopped. I hated playing with Ling. She was a good First, like my own, and was surely worried. I backtracked to meet her eyes again. “I didn’t rescue Treasure Anne from being kidnapped just to lose Portia. I won’t split up the triplets, Ling.” There was a look of immediate relief, but less than a second later she seemed worried again. I darted past her before she could ask for further reassurance.
As Ling had warned, the triplets were yelling over each other. Their rants met my ear as soon as I pushed the Mayflower door open. I was also fond of them, all three of them, and the sound of them fighting made me wince. I stood beside their table watching them point and throw their hands up and pound the tabletop. Their voices blended together into one loud, high-pitched siren. It took me awhile to realize Likka was talking to me. “Do you know that Diamond has Isabella sleeping in the garden shed thanks to you?”
“She’s being fed only rice and water,” Myra added. “One bowl of rice a day—did you know?”
Too quickly I was sucked into their tantrum. “You’re blaming me because Diamond is a shitty First?”
“When are you going to call this whole thing off?” Myra demanded.
“What happens if you all die out there?”
I grabbed one of their coloured markers from the table and wrote Portia a note. Our House. Two hours. Planning meeting. More angry questions ricocheted off my back as I fled the diner.
I marched past Ling, past Dearest and Second Man eating Danishes outside of Babycakes, past Launderlove where Fauxnique was being fitted for a new dress (black and formal, like a funeral dress), past the Dowager’s Mansion, and down the street to where the broken street lamps stood. I didn’t stop until I reached the last lamppost, the twilight place right before the Dark. This is where First and I planned to deposit the money that we put aside for Isabella’s Dowry. I understood very well that I couldn’t risk being witnessed planting an envelope of cash anywhere, but especially near the Dark. If I so much as crouched suspiciously near the road’s shoulder or seemed to be fixing something to the lamppost, someone surely would see me and get suspicious. They had to be watching.
I stared head on at the Darkness. Like a mad woman I raised my hands into the air, waving and screaming at the black curtain before me. I felt clever; not only did I look crazy, but my hands were in plain sight. Phantom hand removed the hidden envelope tucked inside my shirt. I watched the manila paper float forward and disappear. I heard phantom hand scratching around in the dirt, scouting out a secure burial spot. Our plan was sure-fire—phantom hand would be able to uncover the dowry on our way into the Dark, and all we would have to do was simply step in and stay safe for an hour at most before returning to Sub Rosa with our pockets full of money. If we were lucky, Jellyfish would show herself and grant each of us a memory.
I planned to go there three more times for effect. Each time I’d stare into the Dark, arms flailing, talking gibberish. I imagined the Glories; “There she goes again, to the Dark,” they’d say. “Poor girl.”
By 2:10 p.m., First had transformed the Wifey Wing library into a strategy room. This time there were no jinxes or rules to quiet her. She was ready to discuss everything we knew about the Dark. Portia, Dearest, Isabella, and I brainstormed all possible details. First filled scrolls of paper with notes and hung them from the bookshelves. “What else?” she kept asking. I had told her about the blue light, the scrap yard, the tractor tires, the fountain, the Night Watchman’s garage, and any other lane or corner I could squeeze from my mind. Portia mostly remembered monsters: zombie men and wild dogs and bugs. Isabella was blank and Dearest started to cry at the thought of it all. Her dowry had been only one hundred dollars, and it still took her a week. First shushed her and rocked her in her arms while I poorly attempted to recreate my map, phantom hand scribbling indecisively.
We bought glow-in-the-dark nail polish from the beauty shop. We had the seamstress make us dresses with reflective-tape piping and long sashes for us to tie ourselves together. Dearest stocked up on sweets. “Sweet Georgia Browns help us now,” she said, hugging her brown bakery bag.
On my last trip to the twilight spot, I leaned forward into the Dark and said, “Get ready for us.” The Dark sent a cool breeze to my cheek; it rang in my ear. I accidentally took a step too far forward and everything went black. I panicked and turned straight around and ran. What should have been a simple step backward took immeasurable time. There were dozens of voices, all calling my name. Not villainous or creepy voices, but familiar ones, though I couldn’t identify a single one. “I’m here,” I cried, but just once, for I knew it was a bad idea to engage in the tricks the Dark played. When I got back to Sub Rosa. the day was almost over. Phantom hand waved at me from beside the lamppost. At least it had remained on track. I saw the neon clock in the Pawnshop window just as it switched off for the evening. I knew what time it was—just past eight o’clock—but I couldn’t figure out how much time had passed.
