A story of two best friends, Max and Elliot.
When the machinations of a jealous, unstable ex-girlfriend
make it impossible for Max to get a date at all --
let alone for his cousin's high-profile destination wedding --
is Elliot the only hope for Max's plus-one?
Would Elliot be Max's plus-one, if he could?
Would Max accept a transformed Elliot as his plus-one?
In case you're not familiar with the genre, you can click here to find explanations and rules.
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
This is about me, Max, and Amber. Mostly me and Max, with Amber agitating in the background, on the margins, and in every place we couldn't see.
I'm Elliot Beekman, and I'm a guy. Or I was a guy. It's something I'll have to figure out, and by the end of this story, you'll understand my perplexity.
Max and I are friends since kindergarten. Best friends. I'd like to say that we've been through a lot together, but honestly, we haven't. We've been lucky. Although Max's family has money and mine not so much, we both have parents who cared and did their best for us. Our lives followed the plain vanilla suburban template until we hit our late twenties, when our lives took different directions. We lost touch for about three years. On my side it was because of my job: I was working as a programmer for a tech startup. When you work for a startup, that's all you do. It's not a normal job. You don't simply put in your eight hours and go home. In a startup, the work never stops. When duty calls, you're already there. It doesn't matter if it's Saturday, Sunday, holiday. All-nighters are routine. Every employee has a toothbrush and change of clothes in their desk. The work/life balance isn't a question. There is no balance. Work gets 100% of you. Life is deferred.
Knowing that, why on earth would anyone sign onto a startup? Is it the pay? No -- the pay isn't any better than a normal 9-to-5 job. Is it the overtime? Ha! There is no overtime! I mean, you work plenty of overtime hours, but there's no overtime pay.
The appeal of working for a startup is the idea that you could strike it rich. That one day, after you've worked like a dog for a couple of years, the startup will take off, with piles of money spilling everywhere in its wake. Once the startup becomes fabulously, outrageously successful, you get the reward, the big payoff. By "payoff" I mean literal money: bonuses, lump-sum payments, or stock options that turn to gold. That's the model: if you work like a dog, you'll get a big bag of money. The startup I joined definitely lived up to the first part of the promise: they made me and my colleagues work like dogs. Twelve-hour days were a minimum. No one worked less than seventy hours a week. And it was mad. I mean crazy. Abrupt changes of direction, poor planning, poor direction. Me and most of my colleagues spent nights and weekends in the office just so we could get some silence, so we could get things done. The "normal" workday, the eight-to-seven, was a basket of nested interruptions, one interruption on top of another. You'd start off the day on one task, get interrupted and switch to a second, get interrupted and switch to a third... when you'd finish interruption number 5, you'd go back to interruption number 4, and so on.
It wasn't overtime. It was an attempt at keeping a semblance of sanity. I've already said there no such thing as overtime pay: we were all salaried. We got the same size check whether we worked 60 hours or 90. Bonuses? Don't make me laugh. There were no bonuses.
The insane hours completely erased my social life, but like my co-workers, I didn't complain. I stepped into this servitude with my eyes open. It's only temporary — that was the idea. That was our mantra.
Max, for his part, met Amber just as I joined the startup, and they began dating right away. I didn't know Amber exactly; she and I had some friends in common. I had heard stories about her. I'd seen her at parties, or out at clubs and bars. It's probably unfair to judge someone at a distance, but Amber wasn't like her friends. She was attractive, physically, but psychologically, she was an odd duck. I never mentioned it to anyone, and back then I never heard anyone say it, but at some point I got the definite feeling that Amber had a screw loose. It's hard to say why. Maybe it was her hairstyle? She had it pulled up high, straight up from her forehead, then back. Kitty told me that Amber was trying to "correct" for her low forehead. The effect resembled nothing so much as a nun's veil.
There is one thing I probably ought to keep to my self, and maybe it's totally unwarranted, but after all the lies that Amber told about me, I'll just put it out there: Max comes from a well-to-do family. I often found myself wondering whether Amber was more interested in my friend's money than his heart. It's not that she seemed particularly greedy — it's that she didn't seem at all affectionate — or even kind. She didn't treat him as though he was special to her. She treated him as though he belonged to her.
Apart from her looks, it's hard to know what Max saw in her!
I had brunch with Amber and Max three times in those three years, and I learned three things: the first was that Amber didn't like me. She really didn't like me. If that fact wasn't clear from the way she talked down to me, or the way she spoke of me as if I wasn't there, she left no doubt about her negative judgment with by saying, more or less explicitly — and more than once! — that any time Max spent with me was time he'd thrown away. She actually told me, in so many words, that I was holding Max back — whatever that meant!
The second thing I learned about Amber is that she could not abide being contradicted. Anyone who differed from her was mistaken, even in the smallest things. According to her, she "didn't have opinions; only facts."
The third thing is that Amber is intensely jealous. For example, I asked Max how his parents were doing.
"Do we have to have this meaningless chit-chat?" Amber complained.
"I want to know how his parents are," I pointed out. "We spent a lot of time at each other's house growing up, and I have a lot of affection for his parents. His mother, especially. I'd like to know how they are."
Max replied, a little sheepishly, "I haven't spent much time with them lately, but I'm sure they're fine."
Amber, with an air of triumph told me, as if she was instructing a child, "It's strange the way that parents feel they're part of our lives, even when we've outgrown them by far."
I was so taken aback, I could hardly find words. At the time all I could say was, "You find it strange that parents care about their children?"
"Yes, of course I do," she said, as if to say It's obvious! How can you even ask me that? "Do you consider yourself a child? I'm not a child, and neither is Max."
It wasn't evident to me at the time, but both our lives — Max's and mine — were being consumed. We each had a parasite stuck on us, sucking the life out of us. Mine was the startup. Max's was Amber. It was a strange symmetry.
When I hit my one-year work anniversary, I'd just spent three nights in a row at the office. The HR lady searched me out to congratulate me. It was 7:30 in the morning. I was slouching, barefoot, in a beanbag chair, eating a bowl of Wheaties and milk. "There he is!" she exclaimed in a hearty voice. "Employee number eleven! Happy one-year anniversary!" She shot off a confetti gun, said "Yay!" She tossed me a t-shirt with the company logo and left me there, still trying to wake up. As I picked the confetti flecks out of my cereal, it hit me: I was living at the office. I was here pretty much all the time! I realized in that moment that my apartment had become superfluous. It was a huge, unnecessary expense. I was never there to clean it, maintain it, improve it, or enjoy it. It wasn't even fully furnished.
Taking stock of the situation: I was eating Wheaties. The Wheaties came from the company kitchen, where the cabinets were full of cold cereals, packets of instant oatmeal and instant grits. We also had five kinds of bread, English muffins, regular muffins, and fresh egg sandwiches (delivered every morning). There was fresh fruit and plenty of coffee. There was always plenty of food: healthy food and junk food, as well as well as soft drinks and beer. If we wanted any sort of snack or drink, like a particular brand of beer or a certain type of snack, we could make a request online and it would show up the next day. The company provided lunch and dinner, and we had an unlimited tab at a nearby pizzeria. It was all on the house. That is to say, the company was happy to feed us.
They also provided scrubs (the kind that doctors and nurses wear in hospitals), along with socks and slippers. Underwear was never mentioned, but there was a little washer and dryer for small personal loads. The scrubs and socks went to a commercial laundry; we could always pick a clean set out of the stacks. Some of my associates stopped leaving the building, even if they weren't working.
"It's like being a monk!" one of my co-workers enthusiastically observed.
"Or a prisoner," another offered, less enthusiastically.
"Or a slave," a third muttered, looking around him as he spoke.
"At least they don't beat us," the guy next to me quipped.
As far as I was concerned, it wasn't as bad as that. At least *I* still left the office sometimes. And I didn't stoop so low as to rotate my wardrobe from the common pile. Early on, I picked out a couple sets of scrubs and washed them myself at home. Home? I mean, at my Dad's place. Soon after my realization that I was living at my job, I let my apartment go and moved back in with Dad. Rents were creeping up, and my landlord was VERY happy to let me break my lease. It gave him the opportunity to charge the next guy more. Dad didn't charge me anything. I offered, but he wouldn't hear it.
Dad liked having the company, and I liked seeing him. I needed a normal home. Dad was my touchstone, my link with reality, with normal life. God knows I couldn't stay at work all the time. I craved other influences.
Every so often Dad would gently chide me about working too hard. Each time I'd tell him it was only temporary, just until the company took off.
My life settled into a predictable grind until two winters ago, when Dad started talking about moving to Florida. "I don't want to go through another New England winter," he said, and started shopping online for a house down there. Several of his friends had already made the jump, and he visited them on his exploratory trips down South.
In June he began feeling his way toward selling his house. He found a real-estate agent who pointed out with great frankness that the house would sell for quite a bit more if he put a little work into it. "Honestly," she told him, "your house has good bones, but it's very dated. When potential buyers walk in, they're going to see projects, projects, projects. They'll cringe at the cost of re-doing the kitchen and the bathrooms. Generally the house needs a good refresh."
"Face it," she said, "If you'll spend a *little* money, you'll make a lot more money." To prove it, she brought me and Dad to a couple of open houses at places similar to our own. The kitchens and bathrooms were updated, there wasn't any clutter, they were freshly painted, and there were no obvious repairs needed. It made a world of difference.
"If you want to ask the same price that these people are asking, you'll need to do the work that they've done. It'll kick up your profit margin, and your house will sell a whole lot faster."
Those updated, more desirable homes provided a strong contrast. Those houses were clean, bright, and move-in ready. Our house, on the other hand, had a dead tree in the backyard, a rusted-out swing set (left over from my childhood), a garage that looked like it might collapse from fatigue, a LOT of clutter throughout the house. Mainly, our house had a lot of old. The furniture was probably as old as I am, but it hadn't aged as well; it seemed neglected and heavily used. I'm sure the house hadn't been painted in twenty years. There were little repairs to do everywhere: peeling wallpaper, ripped linoleum, dusty light fixtures, and on and on.
A contractor did a thorough walk-through, and gave us an itemized estimate. He said, "I can get this done in three weeks, if you let me start on Monday. If you make me wait, I'll have to make you wait as well." He was more than a little pushy and fairly obnoxious. He didn't radiate trust.
"We need a second opinion," I told Dad.
He held the estimate in his hand like it was the Magna Carta, fresh off the press. "This is a pretty good list," he observed. "I wouldn't have known what we needed, but it's all written down, right here."
"Dad? A second opinion? Come on. We need another estimate. Maybe two?"
He smiled and waved me off, his eyes glued to the paper. "Give me a little time... I need to... investigate a little."
I didn't know what that meant, but he deflected my follow-up questions. "I'm not ready to talk about this yet," he insisted. "Give me a few days to noodle over this. Or maybe a week."
Around the same time, things began to lighten up a bit at my job, which meant that I was home before nine most nights. When I'd come in, Dad would be at his computer looking at YouTube videos, the contractor's estimate close at hand. It had become his Bible.
"Hey," he called to me when I got home on Thursday night. "Do you think you can get off early enough tomorrow to have dinner with me? I'll take you to Hoof and How! We can get T-bones with all the fixings."
"Uh," I temporized, taken utterly by surprise.
"Come on!" he cajoled. "When was the last time you had a drink with your old man? We'll make a time of it! We'll take one of those Ubers there and back, so we can drink like we mean it. Friday night! Come on!"
"Okay," I said. "Sounds good."
"You won't get in trouble at work?" he teased. "They'll let you slip off the ball and chain for just one night?"
"Sure," I said. "Things have actually quieted down a bit."
"Yeah? Even so, they still work you too hard."
"Dad—" I began, but he waved his hand. "I know, I know — it's temporary."
We don't have set hours at work, but in spite of that, it's unusual to see someone to leave before seven. I didn't bother to tell anyone I was leaving early, and didn't see the need to ask for permission. My colleagues were lolling around, playing video games or ping pong, or reading. Clearly, nothing was happening that couldn't wait until Monday, so I didn't anticipate an issue when I packed up my things at five. To my surprise, my boss actually gave me some attitude, and wanted me to stay at least until seven, but not for any good reason. I pointed out that I'd never arrived late, never left early (aside from today), and have never taken a single day off. "I think I'm due," I told him, and after fifteen minutes of pointless discussion, I left. I left angry. I'd never been so angry.
It made me feel that all my hard work counted for nothing.
I tried pretty hard to cool off before I got home. I didn't want to spoil Dad's evening. At one point, while stopped at a red light, I silenced the ringer on my phone: one step toward being unreachable. That helped improve my mood. At another red light I turned the damn thing off entirely, and that made me feel massively better.
Dad was pretty happy when I got home. He was as excited as a little kid on his birthday. He was particularly pleased when I set my phone down on the front-door table and left it there. He patted me on the back and put his arm around my shoulders as we walked to the Uber.
Hoof and How! is a pretty hokey, old-timey steakhouse. The walls are red. The trim, posts, and rafters are mahogany-colored. There are no windows. Every space on every wall has a large black-and-white photo, each one a view of Town Center a hundred years ago. The restaurant has that particular old-steakhouse smell: decades of grilled beef and other food aromas that permeate the carpet, walls, and ceiling. I doubt that they've ever opened the doors and given the place a good airing.
Still, Dad was as happy as a child at Chuck E. Cheese's, so I smiled and went along. It was nice to see him so cheery and animated.
Dad ordered a T-bone for each of us, along with a small mountain of thick, hand-cut fries, onion rings, and other sides. We drank a nice Cabernet, and everything was good. It was the first time in ages that I'd been without my phone, and I didn't miss it at all. And after my second glass of wine, I actually relaxed. It felt like I hadn't exhaled in three years.
We ate until we'd gone past eating too much. Still, after the dinner plates were taken away, we shared a slice of New York cheesecake, accompanied by by coffee and shots of bourbon.
Then Dad said, "Now, here's what it's all about. Humor me, okay?" He pulled out his new-found Bible: the contractor's estimate. "Now look at this, Elliot: I want you to look at each item on here. I agree that this work will help me sell that house, and I think this fellow's asking a fair price. But I don't like the guy, and I don't want to get a second estimate. Let me show you." He turned the pages to face me, flattening out the sheets so I could see the list of work. "See — all of this stuff — every one of these things — are jobs that you and I can do. None of it requires the trades, and none of it requires an inspection."
"What do you mean trades?"
"Plumbing and electrical."
"Oh. Uh, okay, but, Dad!" I protested. "I'm working! and more than full time! You know that. I would love to do this work with you — honestly, I would. I think it would be a blast. But I don't have the time."
He scoffed. "You should quit that job. Elliot, believe me. There's never going to be a big payoff. They're just stringing you along. It's pie in the sky, by and by."
To my own surprise, I didn't contradict him.
"Now, listen — I was talking to your Aunt Betsy—" I groaned aloud. Dad waved my protest off. "Your Aunt Betsy is nobody's fool, and she thinks you're suffering from burnout." He said the word carefully, as if it were a strange, foreign, technical term. "Do you know what burnout is?"
"Yes, I know what burnout is—" (in fact, I'd been looking up burnout on the internet earlier that week: what is burnout? and how to deal with burnout) "—but come on — I haven't seen Aunt Betty in years!"
"Yes, but *I* have seen you," Dad said. "I see you now. I'm no expert, but I worry about you, son. Working on the house is healthy, decent work, with a worthwhile result." He bent closer, put his hand on mine, and in a confidential tone added, "If you come work with me, I'll pay you."
"You don't have to pay me," I told him, getting a little choked up. "I haven't been spending money on anything, so I've got a fair amount in the bank."
"Okay," he said. "I'm not going to push it. I don't want to ruin the evening. Drink up your bourbon, and unless you want something else, we can head for home."
I slept like a log that night, and uncharacteristically didn't wake up until ten o'clock. The day was overcast, but Dad was sunny and bright. He talked me into walking to the Train Stop Diner, and the two of us had the Full Lumberjack breakfast, which is two of everything: two pancakes, two pieces of french toast, two eggs, two strips of bacon, two sausages, along with toast and coffee. Somehow, even after the previous night's excesses, we managed to do the breakfast justice.
All weekend Dad hummed and sang to himself, doing silly little busywork around the house. He never mentioned the work on the house or my job. It was an incredibly restful weekend. All we did was eat and sleep and hang out.
I forgot to turn my phone back on until Monday, just before I got out of my car at the office. My boss had called me more than a dozen times, and left four voicemails. The time was only ten minutes to seven, so I figured it would be more efficient to see him face to face and find out what was up. Inwardly, I felt convinced he had only called because I'd left "early" on Friday.
The moment I walked in, he said, "My office. Now."
He chewed me out. He kept using the word "unacceptable." My leaving at five was unacceptable. Turning off my phone was unacceptable. He went on for several minutes. It didn't make much sense, so I figured it was all pro forma: he felt he needed to do it, so I stood and listened, nodded where appropriate, and at the end told him it would "never happen again." He asked me sign a paper acknowledging that we'd spoken. I read it quickly. It was worded strangely and vaguely, but as it didn't say I'd done anything wrong, I signed it. He smiled, shook my hand, and I went to my desk and got to work.
It left a strange taste in my mouth. Even my mantra ("it's only temporary") didn't help.
Things only got stranger.
I went to get a coffee and a muffin. While I waited for the coffee to brew, it struck me that I hadn't seen Dave yet. Dave amd I joined the company on the same day. He was a great guy, and a person whose work I respected. Denise wandered into the kitchen area, so I asked her if she'd seen Dave. She glanced around to be sure no one was near, and told me sotto voce, "Dave's been let go."
"Really? Why?"
Again she leaned in and, barely audible, explained, "They're prepping for the buyout."
"So it's happening?"
She nodded. "A French company wants our intellectual property."
"How does letting people go make anything better for them or for us?"
She shrugged. "What I heard is that the buyers need to see certain numbers on the company's spreadsheet, and somehow, firing Dave helps them get to those numbers."
I returned to my desk. The admin/receptionist stood there, waiting for me. In a quiet, barely audible voice, she asked me to follow her to my boss' office. Once there, they sat me down and told me that I, like Dave, was being let go.
A little irritated, I asked, "Is this because of what we talked about before?"
My boss seemed to be thrown by the question. "No, of course not," he said. "Why on earth would it?" In retrospect, I see that I'd thrown him off his script. That was all. He explained that they were "lightening" the company, "adjusting the company's profile," and that this was "no reflection" on my work, on my performance, or anything else. The head of HR explained the "algorithm" that selected who should go.
They offered a surprisingly good severance plan. They spent a lot of time discussing my stock options and how they would be paid. It was pretty complicated.
In the end I signed a bunch of papers, they handed me my last paycheck, and someone walked me to my desk and watched me pack up my stuff.
It was weird. It was nothing but weird.
I mean, why did my boss need to go into his unacceptable tirade, knowing I was going to be let go less than an hour later? The HR lady seemed utterly unaware that I'd been chewed out and made to sign an acknowledgment of the fact. With the help of graphs and explanations, she went to great lengths to try to demonstrate that my being laid-off wasn't personal; for all intents and purposes it had nothing to do with me. The way she told it, nobody deserved to be let go, but after they fed some numbers into a program, the computer spit out a list of names. My name, for instance, and Dave's. I knew for sure there was nothing wrong with Dave, and yet he'd been let go. That was the lesson. At least I was in good company.
I unlocked my car, put my box of crap in the back seat, and sat down behind the wheel. From there, I could see the office windows. No one was looking out; they were all busy working. They were probably keeping their heads down, worried that they would be called next. From here, the office resembled an ant farm. Watching my ex-coworkers walk pointlessly back and forth made me feel a little better about getting fired, but I couldn't sit there. If anyone happened to look out and see me, I'd feel pathetic. I'd switch from being the guy watching the ant hill to someone on the outside looking in — the object of a worker-ant's pity. I had to get out of there. But where could I go? I drew a blank. It had been so long since I had free time, I hardly knew what to do with it. I started the car and pulled out the parking lot. Then I drove, choosing turns at random, until I found myself in front of my elementary school. I shook myself and drove on, and in a couple of minutes I skirted my old high school. I passed through Town Center, but didn't feel like stopping anywhere. I drove by Max's parents' house, which brought me close to Dad's house.
I wasn't ready to go home and tell my Dad. I wanted to call Max, but what if Amber was there? She wouldn't want me "wasting" Max's time. So I didn't call.
Why didn't Amber like me, by the way?
I drove to McDonald's and almost went inside. But I wasn't hungry, and somehow I felt that going inside would make me feel depressed.
In the end I went to the Train Stop Diner and ate some hot apple pie and drank some coffee. I read the menu with great attention. I dawdled as long as I could, and drank coffee until I trembled. At last, and at a loss for any better destination — I went home.
Dad wasn't there.
I needed to DO something, and of course my mind went to the list Dad got from the contractor. I didn't know where the list was, but I knew that the first item was DECLUTTER, and there was one pile of clutter Dad would have a hard time approaching. Or at least, I assumed he would, since he'd never even mentioned the task.
I put on some old clothes, got a big black trash bag, and attacked the upstairs bathroom. Nothing in there was mine, and very little of it belonged to my Dad. It was all left over from my Mom. Clearly Dad never had the heart to go through it after she died. There were just over two dozen bottles of nail polish, some of them utterly dried out. One had broken and leaked all over the shelves. I tossed them out, along with all the other cosmetics, the nail-polish remover, the two broken hair driers, and countless samples: tiny one-by-three-inch packets of shampoo, conditioner, skin cream, eye cream, and God knows what else. There were all sorts of oils and bottles and brushes and contraptions. Anything with a date had long since expired. Buried in the back under the sink was an empty first-aid kit. There were three bottles of peroxide. I was able to combine them into one. I did the same with the two bottles of rubbing alcohol.
There were empty bottles whose contents must have evaporated. There were toothpaste tubes, hardened over time.
There was nothing embarrassing or revelatory in there.
After I'd finished with the medicine cabinet and the vanity, I went through the shower, getting rid of all the stuff that was too girly for me or Dad to use.
Tuesday morning is when the trash is collected, so I dropped my bag in the bin and rolled the bin to the curb.
At that point, I told myself, Now I'll do the same to the kitchen! but I didn't. Instead I opened a beer, went into the back yard and sat down on the rusty swing. I sat down carefully, looking up at the supporting bar — I didn't want it coming down to smack me in the head! The swing groaned like an old man under my weight — not that I'm heavy; not by a long shot. I took a few sips, then spotted my neighbor, Mrs. Irving, watching me from her window. I considered the beer in my hand. It was just past three in the afternoon. I sighed. I raised my beer to her in mock salute. She quickly retreated, but too late; she'd already spoiled the mood, so I went into the house, grabbed a second beer, and fiddled with the TV until Dad got home.
Good old Dad. When I told him what happened, his only visible concern was that I was alright. If he felt any glee, or relief, or hopes for the two of us working together on the house, he kept all that to himself.
"Are you hungry?" he asked. "I'm hungry."
"Dad, it's only quarter to four!"
He shrugged. "I have to train for Florida," he joked. "You know, the early-bird specials?"
"This is early even for them," I said. "But honestly, I could eat."
"We can always eat again later," he told me. "If we need to."
He took a pyrex container out of the freezer. It contained four generous servings of eggplant parm. There was also a frozen loaf of garlic bread. "I've finally mastered the DEFROST setting on the microwave," he boasted. "It takes a long time, but still not as long as just letting it thaw." He dumped a bag of prepared salad into a bowl and dressed it with oil, vinegar, and salt.
Dad looked at his dozen or so bottles of wine and scratched his chin. "Let's go for a Sangiovese," he said, and uncorked the bottle.
"When did you become a connoisseur?"
"Watch your language!" he joked, pretending I'd said a bad word. "I didn't. There's a guy at the grocery store who knows his stuff. I ask him questions and follow his recommendations. It's worked out pretty well for me."
"Nice."
Later, after we'd gotten some food and wine inside us, I said, "Dad, just so you don't have to tiptoe around the subject, I'm ready to start working on the house. Tomorrow, I mean. Might as well get right into it."
He sipped his wine thoughtfully. "You might want to take a little vacation first."
"No, I want to keep busy. After three years of sitting hunched over a desk, I need to use my muscles. If I need a break, I'll let you know."
"Fair enough," he replied, and clinked his glass against mine.
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
You must have seen a cartoon image of a man sitting on a tree branch, sawing diligently. It's funny — or supposed to be funny — because he's sitting on the wrong side of the cut. He doesn't know he's going to fall. You know it; it's obvious. As soon as the saw gets through the branch, down he goes! He doesn't know, though, so he keeps on working hard. We don't need to see him fall. It's inevitable.
That man was me. I was living in my Dad's house, spending my days fixing the place up, getting it ready to sell. It never occurred to me that I was sawing away the branch on which I was sitting. As soon as we finished our tasks, the house would go up for sale. There was no doubt: the house would sell pretty quickly, and after the closing Dad would head off to Florida. He took to spending two or three hours every evening looking at the Florida housing market, while his friends down there kept their eyes and ears open on his behalf.
"If I find the right place down there," he told me. "I'll buy it right away."
"Like right now? Before you sell this place?"
"Sure! My buddies can look it over for me and keep an eye on it until I get there," he said, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. "Although there is another way it could work... Listen, how would you feel about this? I could give you power of attorney on the sale of this place, and that way you could handle all the documents up to and including the closing."
"I've never done any of that," I protested. "What if I screw it up?"
"Don't worry! I have an agent and a lawyer on my side. They'll send me copies of everything. Whatever it is, they'll read it, you'll read it, I'll read it, and if I say it's okay, you sign it for me." He patted me on the shoulder, then added, "It doesn't make you liable for anything. Power of attorney makes it so your signature stands for my signature. That's all. You can talk to the agent and the lawyer about it if you got any doubts."
"Okay," I agreed, uncertain. "But wouldn't it be simpler to send the documents directly to you in Florida so you could sign them yourself?"
"The delay. They send the documents. I read them, I find a notary, I sign the documents. I send them back. That's a minimum of three days. If you have power of attorney, it could be a matter of minutes." He started to walk away, then stopped himself with a little smile. "You can look up real estate power of attorney on the internet. Isn't that what your generation does?"
Actually, I *did* look it up on the internet later that night, and it was pretty much as he described.
Working on the house was fun. I had no idea that Dad knew how to do and fix so many things. Together, we insulated the attic. We pulled up carpet upstairs and tore out linoleum in the kitchen. We put in all new windows. We re-tiled the bathrooms and put in new fixtures. We painted the kitchen cabinets and got new cabinet doors. We took out the old kitchen counters and put butcher block in its place, along with a new kitchen sink. We cleaned everything.
We found enough room near the back door to create a decent-sized mudroom.
Dad got a deal on some second-hand doors, and those doors gave a whole new look to the front and back. We painted the entire house, inside and out.
After clearing out the garage, we realized that shoring up the building might be a bit beyond us. "Honestly, I'm a little afraid to be standing inside here," Dad confided, and the two of us quietly exited the structure. Dad did a bit of networking and four guys who were friends of the brother-in-law of one of Dad's friends came and set the garage to rights in the space of three days, including roofing, painting, and hanging a new garage door.
The only other things we didn't do ourselves were (1) re-roofing the house, (2) removing the dead tree in the backyard, and (3) pruning and trimming the live trees and bushes.
When at last all the work was finished, and the house was bare of pretty much everything except for two beds, a table, two chairs, and the TV, Dad looked over the numbers and pronounced himself satisfied. "We did pretty well," he boasted, rubbing his hands together. "We came in way under the estimate from that bossy contractor."
"We didn't pay for labor," I pointed out.
"True, and we saved a lot by using second-hand finishings. That contractor wanted to go will all-new, high-end materials. But I think we did a pretty good job, if I do say so myself."
"I think so too," I said.
"I guess it's time to call in your friend Kitty," he informed me with a broad grin.
Dad liked Kitty. Everybody liked Kitty. I know *I* did, and Max did, and pretty much every boy in our high school class. There was something about her: a quiet confidence, an understated girl-next-door look, an open, accepting personality... Unfortunately for us, Kitty paired up quickly with Claus, whose family moved here from Germany in the middle of freshman year. Claus and Kitty made a very quiet, low-key couple. They fit together like two pieces of a puzzle, and after that, no other male had a chance with her. It was quite some time before I realized that no other female had a chance with Claus, but it was a long time before I stood on that side of the equation.
They were like an irreversibly covalent molecule: when a molecule like that forms, you can't break it apart again. It's incredibly stable, and (I suppose) perfectly happy.
That was Kitty and Claus: as soon as they touched each other's hands, they were bound together for life. Perfectly happy, perfectly stable.
It made Kitty very easy to be around: where you've got zero chance, there's zero sexual tension.
So, why call Kitty now? Backing up a bit, to a month before Dad and I finished our labors, I ran into Kitty at the grocery store. We chatted, we caught up a bit. We went to get a coffee together and caught up some more. She asked me about the startup, and my answer was probably a lot longer and more emotional than she expected or wanted, but once I finished, I had the presence of mind to ask, "What's up with you?"
As it turned out, among her other news, Kitty told me that she ran a fairly successful staging business.
"Is that something to do with the theater?" I asked. She laughed.
"No. I suppose it could, if someone wanted to hire me to dress a stage, but usually what I do is go into a home for sale, and make it look more desirable. I bring in furniture, wall hangings, knickknacks... Basically, I make it easier for potential buyers to imagine themselves living in that home."
"When the house is sold, does the furniture go with it?"
"No. All the furniture is rented. Or it comes from my warehouse. I take it all away once the house is under contract."
I took her card and passed it on to Dad, but at the time I didn't think he was interested.
Now he was.
Kitty came with her helpers, and they absolutely transformed the house. She made it beautiful, livable, desirable — just as she promised.
"Do people ever want to buy... the whole look?" I asked her. "I mean, I'd love to live in a house like this."
"I guess you will live in it — at least for a little while," she giggled. "But yeah, one time a buyer from overseas bought everything, all the way down to the knickknacks. The whole kit and kaboodle. Sometimes people want individual pieces, but most of the time I end up hauling it all back to my warehouse."
Dad was so pleased with how it all looked, that the very next day he gave me power of attorney over the sale. He had whittled his earthly possessions down to a size that fit in his Toyota. We stood in front of the house next to his car to say our goodbyes.
"I won't let you down, with that power of attorney thing," I assured him.
"As long as you sign your name legibly, that's all you need to do," he laughed.
Then he drew a long breath, stood up tall, and said, "Two last things: wherever I live, there'll always be a place for you, kid. You're welcome whenever you feel like coming."
I teared up a little, and said, "Thanks, Dad. I appreciate it. But— and no offense, but I don't think Florida's quite the place for me."
"Naw," he agreed. "It's the state for old people and crazies, am I right?"
We laughed. I hugged him.
"Oh, what's the other last thing?"
"I love ya, kid."
"I love you, too, Dad."
I slept on an air mattress that night, which I carefully stowed out of sight in the morning. Today, like every day this week, was going to be an open house, and I needed to stay out of the way of potential buyers.
"My idea is to show the house for a week," the agent said, "and we'll accept offers from Monday morning to Saturday night. Sunday we'll evaluate and hopefully decide."
After making sure I'd left no mess, no trace of my presence, I got out of the house and into my car.
Once again, just like the day I was fired, I felt at loose ends. For the first time in months I had nothing to do and nowhere to be. It was autumn, and too chilly for the beach. I didn't have the right shoes for hiking, so that was out. I hadn't had breakfast, so I went to a cafe in Town Center. I took my time. I dawdled. I window-shopped in the nearby stores.
At first I thought I was only killing time. Then I realized what I was really doing was hoping I'd run into someone. It wasn't happening.
I got in my car again. I drove by my old startup, but I didn't pull into the parking lot. I drove by my elementary school, then my high school. I considered driving to my old college campus, but it was too long a trip. I considered stopping at the Train Stop Diner, but I had no room in me for food.
I drove by Max's parents' house. To my great surprise, Max was pulling up to the curb. He was alone. So I pulled in behind him. He was genuinely glad to see me. We didn't hug; we gave each other a manly handshake: a firm grip, shaken meaningfully. Max's mother appeared at the door, called us both by name, and said, "Get in here!" laughing, happy.
It was like old times. She hugged him. She hugged me. She sat us at the kitchen table and tried to feed us. She stood behind us, one hand on my shoulder, one hand on Max's shoulder. We talked, all three of us.
Max's mother didn't have a lot of news of her own, just a few family things. She mentioned that Max's cousin Nessa would marry in the Spring. Asked whether Max had RSVP'd.
"Elliot, I wish you could come, too!" she told me. "It would be so nice to see you there!" I thanked her for the sentiment. I shrugged.
"You can't invite everyone," I replied. "Besides, I don't know Nessa at all."
"She's a nice girl, you'd like her. And that boy she's marrying — he's perfect for her."
"Doesn't he have a dog's name?" Max teased. "Fido or Rex or..."
"...or Max?" I suggested.
"His name is Tag," Max's mother informed us, swatting her son's shoulder in mock disapproval. "I don't know what on earth it's a nickname for, but the invitations read Nessa McLanahan and Tag Curran. Tag. Who knows what his birth certificate says."
"Probably something embarrassing," I offered.
Max's mom fell silent, and fixed her eyes on her son for a bit. He noticed her stare, and said, "What? Did I do something?"
"I don't know," she replied. "But if you did, I don't know why you didn't tell your own mother."
"What are you talking about?" he asked, genuinely confused. In response, she picked up his left hand and looked at his fingers. He still didn't respond, so she rubbed his ring finger with her thumb.
"Oh, Mom — come on!" he protested. "I'm not getting married."
"A lot of people think you are," she informed him.
"A lot of people are wrong," he told her.
"They sound pretty sure," she said in sing-song. Max shook his head.
"If I was getting married, *I* would be the first to know."
"Then where are these rumors coming from?"
Max looked down for a moment, considering. Then, in a quiet, serious voice he said, "It must be Amber," he admitted. "She wants to get married. She tells me every day, in one way or another."
His mother looked dubious. "Do you want to marry her?"
"No. I think we're fine the way we are."
"Apparently she doesn't agree."
"Right. Like I said, she wants to get married. I don't. She ought to quit pushing." He looked me and his mother with an expression that asked can we talk about something else? His mother nodded and asked me what I'd been up to.
I gave as brief a version as I could of my startup woes, then talked about my work with my Dad, power of attorney and all.
"Sounds like fun," Max commented.
"It was," I said.
"When the house is sold, are you off to Florida with your Dad?"
"No," I laughed. "I couldn't live in Florida."
"Then where are you going to go?"
Okay — I know it sounds stupid — it probably *is* stupid of me — but the question never occurred to me before that moment. I confessed my perplexity, and Max's mother immediately had a solution:
"You could stay at Max's house!" she declared. Max smiled.
"With Amber?" I couldn't help but blurt out my objection.
"On the basement level, there's a mother-in-law apartment," she explained.
"Suite," Max corrected. "It's a mother-in-law suite."
"It has its own entrance," she pointed out. "And its own kitchen."
"Kitchenette," Max said. "Don't set his expectations too high!"
"Kitchenette — whatever!" she concluded. "It's nice! If I didn't have this house, *I* wouldn't mind living down there."
"Won't Amber mind?" I objected. "I'd be a live-in third wheel. It would really encroach on your privacy."
"Not if you don't go wandering through the house," Max told me. "It's supposed to have good insulation, and that deadens sound."
"But I'd be right underneath you!"
"You wouldn't be under the bedroom. I don't think Amber would mind. I don't think she could mind."
"You'll love it!" Max's mother enthused. She gripped my arm. "You have to do it! It's a perfect solution!"
I hesitated. I didn't want to tell them that Amber despised me. "I don't know... If you really think I won't get in her way..."
Max shook his head. "The only place we'd cross paths is the driveway. It's not a big deal." Then, struck by a thought, Max asked, "You don't have a car, do you?"
"Yes, you saw it — it's right outside."
"Oh, yeah — of course! Stupid me. Well, you'll have to find a place to park it. That's the only problem. I mean, I have a two-car garage, but Amber's car and my car are already in there. So — no room for a third. You can't park in the driveway, and there's no on-the-street parking in that neighborhood."
"I'll figure out something," I said. "I think one of my Dad's friends..."
Max's mother clapped her hands, happy that she'd helped to resolve a problem.
Or did she create one?
Max could see that I felt uneasy. He assured me that after I saw the setup, I'd feel more comfortable about the arrangement.
"Listen," I said. "You have to ask Amber how she'd feel about it. If she has ANY qualms about it, I don't want to do it."
"She won't," Max assured me.
Oh, how wrong he was! In retrospect, this was the trigger event, the one that inevitably led directly to the Silent Big Bang on Christmas Eve. If I'd never moved in, none of what follows would ever have happened.
Amber is a deep study. On the one hand, many of her moods are right there on the surface. They're very plain to tell. For instance, you know when she's angry, happy, suspicious, offended — in other words, obvious stuff is obvious. On the other hand, it's impossible to tell what she's thinking. Most of us follow habitual lines of logic and association. If you know someone well, you can often predict what they'll say or do, or how they'll react. You can count on it, and if you're wrong, you're surprised. If your friend knows A, B, and C, you assume they'll get to D. Amber, on the other hand, if she gets A, B, and C as inputs, she'll disregard them. Instead, she'll look at the person who told her fact A, and ask herself, "Why did she tell me that now?" and that question will lead her off into an internal wilderness. Relying on what she calls "intuition" and "emotional perceptions" she arrives at an outlandish conclusion. In other words, she mashes together unrelated facts and cooks up implausible theories about "what's really going on." Although she doesn't call them theories. She regards her crazy convictions as solid, uncontestable facts. You'll see what I mean.
Also, Amber's moods and emotional states live on a subterranean level deep, deep inside her. You can't see them or feel them. Friends who are very empathetic admit they cannot read Amber. She buries her reactions, her true feelings, under some internal concrete, tucked way out of sight.
I wasn't there when Max informed Amber that I would be moving in downstairs, but much later — months later — he described the scene for me vividly. They were in their bedroom. Both were still fully dressed; they'd just finished dinner and come upstairs. He explained how the work on my father's house was complete and that soon the house would be sold — the market was pretty hot, so it was expected to sell quickly.
As he went through his presentation, he stopped to tell her, to emphasize and repeat, that if she had any qualms about my being there, for whatever reason or even for no reason, that I wouldn't move in. I'd find someplace else to live.
She listened without interrupting, her face set, impassive, cold. Then, when he was completely done, he looked at her, and waited a few moments for her response. When none came, he said, "Well? What do you think? Is it a yes or a no?"
Her backbone ramrod stiff, she told him in a steely tone, "I see what you're trying to do here."
Puzzled, he asked, "What am I trying to do?"
"You're trying to trick me into a ménage à trois with this Elliot person," she replied, and rose to her feet.
"WHAT!?" he exclaimed. "I'm doing no such thing!" Bewildered, shocked, and stunned, he waved off what she'd said. "No, no. That's ridiculous."
"That's my emotional perception," she informed him — which was to say, I've read this situation, and no matter what you say or believe, what I've said is the underlying reality. Amber could never be shaken from one of her "emotional perceptions."
Max picked up his phone. "I'm calling Elliot right this minute and telling him to find another place to live!"
"No," she commanded. "Don't call him. I need to think." She rose to her feet. "Don't follow me."
With that, Amber went downstairs, all the way down. She looked through the mother-in-law suite, entering every room, opening every closet, cabinet, and drawer. Then she went outside, into the garage.
From there, she called me — of all people! She asked me to come by the next day so she could show me where I'd be living. She explained that she wanted to give me the tour herself, and that I should meet her in their driveway at eleven. Of course, I agreed. She told me — note that I'm saying told, not asked — she told me not to tell Max. She wanted it to be a surprise.
Knowing her distaste for contradiction, I didn't point out that Max had already invited me, so it could hardly count as a surprise. I didn't say any of that. I just thanked her and told her I'd see her tomorrow.
She returned to Max after a half hour's absence. She told him that she'd worked it out, that she'd spoken to me herself, and that Max wasn't to "call or otherwise interfere" by getting in touch with me.
The next morning at nine the real-estate agent called to say she'd already received several attractive offers to buy Dad's house. "I'd like to keep showing the place, but I think we can stop on Thursday. Friday we can evaluate the offers."
"Won't we just choose the highest bidder?" I asked.
"Maybe," she said, "Probably. But we also have evaluate whether the buyer can make good on their offer, and see whether they set any conditions that we may or may not like.."
"Oh, I hadn't thought about that," I confessed.
"That's why I'm here!" she replied brightly (emphasis on the *I*), and rang off.
The next morning was a little brisk; I wore a light jacket. My Dad's house was a little more than a mile from Max's, so by the time I got there, I was carrying my jacket over my arm.
The whole way I kept trying to prepare myself for my one-on-one with Amber, although I had no idea what I should or even could do to be ready. I'd only met her two or three times, and we hadn't spoken much. Mainly I was surprised that she wanted to meet with me — after all, she'd made it pretty clear that she had nothing but disdain for me. She'd told me to my face, more than once, that she considered me a waste of time.
And yet, she wanted to show me around, give me the lowdown, on where I'd be living. That meant she was okay with my moving in. At least, that was a reasonable inference, if you could make reasonable inferences about Amber's thoughts and intentions.
Although I arrived ten minutes early, Amber was waiting. She stood in the driveway, wearing her strawberry blonde hair loose, like a mane. She wore jeans, a loose red top, a shiny black leather jacket, and high-heeled black ankle boots with pointed toes. It was a casual ensemble, but somehow she made it intimidating. She smiled when she saw me, but her smile ran a chill through me.
Without preamble, she said, "Follow me." She turned and walked toward the garage.
"Uh, Amber," I called, "Why are we heading toward the garage? I won't be needing a parking sp—"
"Good!" she interrupted. "I was sure you didn't own a car."
I let that comment blow by. "Anyway," I continued, "Isn't the mother-in-law suite down in the—"
"You're not going to be staying down there," she said, interrupting again. "What kind of sense would that make?"
Her bluntness threw me. Later, of course, I came up with plenty of responses; reasons why it made perfect sense for me to live in a house, in a separate space in a house, in a house owned by my best friend, who'd specifically invited me to live there.
In the moment, however, I was struck as in a hit-and-run. Amber wasn't stopping. She opened a door on the side of the garage. For some reason I noticed there was no way of locking the door: There was no lock built into the knob. There was no deadbolt, or even a hook-and-eye.
A few steps inside, and she ascended a rough set of unfinished wooden stairs. By "unfinished" I don't mean that any stairs were missing. I mean that the wood had no finish on it. There was no stain, no paint, no polyurethane. Just plain, unfinished wood. At the top of the stairs was a door without a doorknob. Clearly, there used to be a doorknob, but someone had taken it out.
Amber had led me into a room above the garage. She stood in the middle of the floor and gestured with her hands, turning both palms up as if to say, behold!
It was a dump.
"You just finished fixing up your father's house, didn't you," she stated. It didn't sound like a question, but I replied, "Yes."
"And how did it come out? Good?"
"Better than good! It looks great now. Better than it ever looked."
"So you know how to fix places — how to fix them up." She nodded as she spoke, and without giving me a moment to answer, continued, "Here's your chance to fix a place up for yourself, and to do me and Max a big favor at the same time."
My mouth fell open. Sure, I could do it. In fact, as I glanced around, I found myself automatically making a list: insulation all around (including the floor), new cabinets (the current ones had no shelves), new sink, new fridge...
Yes, I could do it, but it was pretty shitty of her to ask me to live in such a place, all the while acting as though she was doing me a huge favor.
I hadn't said a word yet. Amber was watching my face, and enjoying the show. "You won't be paying rent, so it will be your way of contributing, right?"
"Yeah, right," I said. Clearly she wanted to screw me over -- and I knew that, but at the same time, I began looking forward to the project.
Also, I got the idea that she was trying to scare me off, but her challenges were having the opposite effect. She wanted me gone? I just dug my heels in deeper.
"Good!" she said. "After all, beggars can't be choosers, right?"
I let that one blow by. Beggars? Clearly, Amber thought I was broke. She probably thought that *I* had asked Max if I could move in, rather than the other way around. In actual fact, I had a pretty nice pile of money saved up — after more than two years of not paying rent (Dad wouldn't accept it), of not buying clothes or food (the startup provided all that). Although I had a car, it hadn't needed repair, and in fact nowadays I'd gotten in the habit of riding my bike or walking everywhere. I could afford to remain unemployed for several years, and with my experience, I could get a job as a programmer in a minute. I was the opposite of broke. But she didn't need to know that.
I just had one question. "Does Max know that you're putting me out here?"
Her face hardened.
"Why do you ask that?" she demanded. "That's between me and Max. It's none of your business! Not your business at all!"
"Fair enough," I replied. She'd thrown down the gauntlet, and I happily picked it up. "Thanks for the opportunity, Amber."
"Hmmph," she said. She finished by saying, "Don't screw it up, and don't make a pest of yourself. They'll be no need for you to come sniffing around the main house."
"Understood," I said. The main house? Where were we, Downton Abbey?
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
Amber was nearly at the bottom of the stairs when I suddenly remembered to ask whether there was a bathroom. (Kind of an important feature!)
"Oh, yes, of course!" she replied, sounding strangely delighted. "It's down here."
I came down the stairs. She stood behind her car. The empty spot for Max's car was on the far side of the garage. Amber pointed over my shoulder, into the corner under the stairs. I frowned, not understanding. Was she joking with me?
"You'll have to move all that lumber and assorted goodies," she said. "There is bathroom in that corner. It might need a few tweaks or whatnot, but in any case, you won't have any reason to come into the house for that, or for anything else. You'll have everything you need out here."
I get it, I said mentally. I get it. You don't want me in the house. I get it.
While she returned to the house, I made my way to the corner under the stairs. The "lumber and assorted goodies" that stood in my way was all rubbish that needed to be thrown away. Clearly I was wading through the clutter, the cast-offs, the discards of the previous owner. There were a lot of children's toys — old, broken, and dirty: a tricycle missing its handlebar and a big wheel without its seat. A ripped badminton net wrapped around a single smashed racket. I came across an ancient rusted wheelbarrow with only one handle. I had to shift a lot of old, heavy lumber — 6x6 beams in various lengths. Nothing was worth saving. Nothing. Luckily, the garage was roomy enough that I could muscle the trash out of the way without impacting the parking.
When I finally managed to free enough space to pry open the bathroom door, I burst out laughing. It was the height of absurdity. The room was a meager eighteen inches square and just over six feet high (there was a reason for the low ceiling, as you'll see). It contained a toilet, a sink, and a medicine cabinet with a door that wouldn't stay closed, which, in that tiny space, took up some valuable real estate. In other words, it only served as something to bump your head on.
Sitting on the toilet worked fine. In fact, if you wanted to shave or wash your face, it was the best place to be, if you could shave without using the mirror.
Standing up, on the other hand, didn't work so well. Apart from having the medicine-cabinet door in your face, the toilet would push your calves forward and the sink would push your thighs backward. There was no standing up straight.
To my immense surprise, there was both hot and cold water! And a bit of soap. After shifting all that debris, my hands needed washing. But where did the hot water come from? As it turned out, the ceiling was low to make room for a small water header above.
Some genius had set a drain in the floor, and I found a cut-off garden hose that could be screwed onto the faucet. Obviously, this was a primitive shower. At the same time, it was a particularly disgusting bit of hose; all covered with black crud. I didn't want to touch it without gloves.
Lastly, this was another door with no lock. There was nothing but a rope loop you'd have to hang onto if you wanted to preserve your modesty. Or dignity. Or whatever.
I smiled. I laughed. I wiggled my way in and out of that contortionist's bathroom, grinning. Amber's game was pretty obvious — or at least, that's what I thought at the time: she wanted to embarrass and humiliate me. She figured I was so desperate that I'd have to live in those shitty conditions. Little did I know! Her plan for me (and Max) was far from being simple. Amber was operating on a whole other level of which I hadn't the least inkling. It would be three or four months before I even began to understand the game Amber was playing.
As Sherlock Holmes liked to say, the game was afoot. Invisible to me, but already afoot.
Back then, as I stood in the garage, it seemed absurdly simple: she wanted to drive me away by offering a place no reasonable person would accept — OR (imagining I was destitute and had no alternative) she wanted to humiliate me by sticking me in that dump.
In either case, I felt that she'd thrown down a challenge, and it was a challenge I knew I could meet.
I raced back to Dad's house. We had a lot of material left over from our renovations that I could use here. I grabbed the old door locks, a length of garden hose (I'd need it for showers until I moved the bathroom upstairs), a broom and dustpan, some trash bags, and all the cans of expanding foam we had left. The foam would keep out the cold and the mice. Oh, yes, and a box of filter masks. I'd want to wear one while sweeping up the dust and mice droppings. Last of all, my measuring tape, a notebook, and some pens. Time to get back and get cracking!
This isn't a story of home renovation, so I'll spare you the details of my labor. I'll just throw in the fact that my Dad sent me a healthy chunk of money from the sale of his house, thereby increasing my cushion of savings. I was grateful, both for the money and for the freedom it represented. After my burnout at the startup, I was in no hurry to get another programming job. If I continued to live frugally, I could go for nearly a decade without working. My only expense was food. I knew that eventually I'd have to allocating money for clothes, but for now, work clothes would do.
Amber was perversely vigilant, and — her schedule being much like Max's — she did her best to prevent Max and me from even saying hello. Despite her efforts, she couldn't be there at every moment. Max and I were able, a few times each week, to have brief, opportunistic chats: some mornings she'd leave for work before him; some evenings he'd arrive home before her.
In spite of my intention of using the windfall from my Dad to pay for the work I was doing, Max insisted that I keep receipts, and every week he wrote me a check.
I'm glad he did, though. The work quickly got expensive. Unlike Dad's house, this little loft required electrical and plumbing work that I didn't know how to do, and online videos didn't bridge the distance between my ignorance and the job at hand.
Luckily, one of Dad's friends knew a guy... He went by the nickname "Duck."
Dad told me not to ask Duck about licenses or permits. And not to broadcast the work Duck would be doing.
After he looked the place over, Duck shook his head and told me, "You know this dump is VERY illegal. I mean, so much that's going on here isn't just wrong. It's dangerous! For one thing, it's a fire trap. You see that, right? Plus, you're living above a garage! With all the fumes, the exhaust! What kind of rent are you paying here?"
After I explained the situation, he seemed to brighten up, as though the challenge appealed to him. We talked about what was needed, how much I could help, the possibility of scavenging some materials, and so on.
Then he made me an offer. I made a lame attempt to bargain, which he rebuffed, so I folded. I took a deep breath, shook his hand, and wrote him a check. That's the only bill I didn't pass on to Max. It was also the biggest check I'd written in my young life.
Looking back at that moment, I'm surprised at myself. I just signed my name, handed over the money and went on working on that loft. I mean, it was a lot of money! The most money I'd spent at once. Why didn't I stop and think about what I was doing? It would have been the perfect moment to stop. I could have taken that same amount of money and rented and furnished a small house for myself. But I didn't. I kept barreling down the road that Amber set my feet on.
But I enjoyed working with Duck. Not as much as I enjoyed working with my Dad, but even so...
First, we took those old 6x6 beams to beef up the structural integrity, especially under the new bathroom.
We redid all the pipes and wires. We put in vapor seals and insulation, then installed baseboard heat.
Time passed. Work progressed.
I got so caught up in the renovations, that suddenly it was Thanksgiving!
It was the first Thanksgiving I'd ever found myself alone, without any plans and without any food. It was simply a lack of planning on my part. At that time, doing what I was doing, one day was pretty much like the next. I never knew which day of the week it was, let alone the date. That's why such a big holiday was able to creep up on me, and catch me unawares. I wandered around Town Center for a few hours with a growling stomach. In the end, I went to the only place I found open, which was a submarine sandwich shop. I ordered two hot sandwiches and hid at a table in the back to eat them. I had no real need to hide: After all, the guy behind the counter seemed totally indifferent, and there was no one else around. Even so, I was embarrassed that I'd forgotten one of our biggest national holidays, and had no one to share it with.
Weeks passed. The renovation advanced. Eventually we came to the day where this story finally starts: Christmas Eve, when Amber's game at last came above ground.
Christmas Eve snuck up on me in exactly the same way that Thanksgiving had. Without any warning (or so it seemed), boom! it was the day. I know it sounds ridiculous, but — apart from my brief occasional conversations with Max — I led a very simple, separate, solitary life. My only concern was to have my abode totally winter-proof before the weather turned seriously cold.
What happened is this: for some reason, the moment I opened my fridge and found it more-or-less empty, a voice in my head told me, It's Christmas Eve. Today.
Again, I had no plans for the holiday. Nowhere to go, nowhere to be. Which was fine. But still, I'd have to eat. I pulled on my coat and hoofed it to Town Center.
Calculating that I'd need two evening meals (one for Christmas Eve and one for Christmas day), one big midday meal for Christmas, plus a festive breakfast tomorrow, I picked up pretty much any food item that caught my eye, as long as it didn't required any cooking beyond a microwave's ability. I also grabbed four bottles of wine and a bottle of bourbon. I doubted that I'd get through all that, but it was better to have leftovers than not enough.
After struggling with my bags as far as the sidewalk, I wrestled my phone from my pocket. Just at that moment, Kitty strolled up, smiling broadly.
"Oh, hey! Merry Christmas!" I called, kissing her on both cheeks. "How are you?"
"Merry Christmas! Really good," she replied. "Do you need help getting that stuff to your car?"
"Oh, I walked here," I told her. "I guess I wasn't thinking ahead. I'm just about to call an Uber."
"Don't do that — I'll give you a ride! I owe you, anyway, for that great gig you got me at your Dad's place."
"Oh, come on," I laughed.
"Seriously! It's only the second time that someone's bought the whole look! Knicknacks and all! I made a tidy profit off your Dad. Claus and I want to take you out to dinner, any place you like. We'd take your Dad out, too, if he was still in town."
I demurred, but she hefted one of my bags and started walking. "My car's over here."
In the car, on the way to Max's house, Kitty said, "I hear you're living like Cinderella."
"Huh?"
"You're living in Max and Amber's garage, aren't you?"
"Technically, it's a room above the garage, but yes. I've fixed it up, though — a lot. You should come up and see." I laughed. "I'm almost done — in another couple of weeks I could hire you to stage the place."
"Huh," she laughed, sounding doubtful.
As we approached, I told her, "You can pull into the driveway. Max and Amber won't be home yet." She gave me a strange look that I didn't understand, but replied, "Okay."
She insisted on carrying one of the bags, although once we got inside, she confessed she wouldn't be able to haul it all the way up the stairs.
"That's okay," I told her. "You run up ahead and see what I've done to the place. I'll deal with the bags."
I clumsily negotiated the narrow steps with two of the bags, leaving the third one down below for a second trip.
Kitty was my first guest: the first person to see my work. Not even Max had been up there yet. I was pretty proud of the transformation I'd effected, so I was grinning from ear to ear when I stepped inside.
She had her back to me, and turned to face me when I entered. I can still see her face, as if it was a moment ago. She had an expression of horrified surprise, of sadness, of pity. "Oh, Elliot!" she cried.
"What?" I asked, alarmed. "What's wrong?"
"This place! I can't believe that you— that they *let* you— oh, Elliot! I know you want to be near Max, but this..."
It was an odd moment. I thought I'd done so well in making it livable! "I've done a ton of work on this place," I protested.
Kitty's face went white. "It used to be worse?"
"Oh, Kitty, come on — it's not as bad as all that! It isn't awful, is it?" Her pained expression answered for her.
She heaved a deep breath and looked at the floor.
"I have to get the other bag," I said. "And put this stuff away."
As I stowed my purchases in the fridge, I told her, "Why don't you sit down?"
She glanced around quickly, nervously. When I realized what she was looking for, I got irritated. "There aren't any mice," I told her.
"Oh, I know," she replied, lying, still skittish.
"Oh, well," she said. "Eventually you'll move into the main house, right?"
"Huh?" I chuckled. "Main house? There's only one house — but why would I move in?"
Up to this point I'd been pretty confused, but now the shoe was on the other foot. Kitty looked positively puzzled. I couldn't make sense out of her reactions or from anything she said.
Looking for some kind of common ground, I told her, "I'm surprised, Kitty, Seriously. I thought I did a good job here."
"I guess," she ventured. "Look, I'm sorry. I don't know... I guess I expected a lot of other things."
"Like what?"
"Oh, nothing. I'm sorry.." She came over, and on tiptoe, kissed my cheek. "Listen, for tomorrow, I'd invite you over, but Claus' parents and mine will be there, and—"
"It's fine," I said. "I'm fine. I'm happy. I like it here. If I didn't, I'd move."
"You mean to Florida, with your Dad?"
"No, I mean to someplace else, here in town."
"Would you be able to afford that?"
"Able to afford it? Kitty, what on earth are you talking about? You don't think I'm living here because I'm broke, do you?"
"Oh, no, no, of course not!" she said hastily, though her face betrayed her doubt. "Okay. Well, I guess I better go. It was nice seeing you, Elliot. take care. And Merry Christmas!" She took a last uncertain look around her, as if she expected a rat to leap out of the furniture.
"Merry Christmas, Kitty. I'll walk you to your car."
"No, it's fine," she said, waving me off. I listened to her footsteps as she fled down the stairs. She slammed the side door — probably without meaning to. Then I heard her car door open and close, her engine start, and finally the sound of her driving away.
Of course, the conversation replayed in my mind over and over. It didn't get any clearer, though. It didn't make any more sense than when she first said those things. I had no idea what she was getting at. Oh well.
Max came home first. I went down to say hello and to wish him Merry Christmas. I told him about Kitty's visit and her strange reaction. I asked him, "Max, could you come up and take a look at what I've done? I mean, I think I did a good job, but—"
"I'm sure it's fine," he told me. "I'll come up, but not now. Amber will be home soon. I found a recipe for a Christmas cocktail I want to surprise her with."
"Cool! I hope she likes it."
"Yeah, me too." He laughed. "Merry Christmas, buddy." He gave me a few manly whacks on the shoulder.
"Merry Christmas."
I saw down on the middle step and watched Max go into his house. Even though I don't smoke, for some reason I wished I had a cigarette. I sat there, without a thought in my head, just sitting, until Amber pulled into the driveway. Not wanting to cross paths with her, I was about to jump up and retreat to my room when she killed her lights and engine halfway up the driveway, next to the house. Odd. She always puts her car away. Always. Oh, well. There's a first time for everything. She got out of her car and walked into the house without seeing me.
Kitty's visit left me deflated. There didn't seem any reason to move from the stair, except that it was a little chilly, that it smelled like a garage. Also, I began to feel hungry. I went upstairs, got out some cheese, some wine, some bread. As I ate, I kept looking at the clock, watching the numbers change. I lay down, I got up, I ate some more, I drank half a bottle of wine. All of that took twenty minutes. Then I heard Amber's car in the driveway. I waited, expecting her to open the garage door and pull inside, but she didn't. Instead, it sounded like she pulled out and drove away. Very odd. On Christmas Eve! I opened my door and descended a few steps. Through the little windows in the garage door, I could see that the driveway was empty. Amber was gone. Oh well! Not my business. I returned to my room and lay down. It was too early to go to sleep. I wasn't tired anyway.
I never should have had Kitty over. Her reactions threw off my equilibrium and spoiled my mood. I didn't know what to make of her weird comments. Living like Cinderella... wanting to be near Max... eventually you'll move into the main house... — what on earth did it mean? That "main house" nonsense could only come from Amber. Amber, giving herself airs, as though she was some great lady, to the manor born. Main house, indeed! There was only one house, Max's house, and the garage, where I lived. It was hardly a house. And why would I be moving into the house? Amber would never countenance that!
While I lay there, staring at the ceiling, I heard the garage's side door open. Max called my name from the bottom of the stairs. He swore, then came quickly up the stairs, still calling my name. He burst into the room. I looked up at him, blinking.
"Have you seen Amber?" he demanded. He seemed confused, upset, impatient.
"She never comes up here," I told him. "but I heard her leave about—" I glanced at the clock "—about forty minutes ago."
"Forty minutes ago..." he repeated, seemingly more confused. "I didn't hear the garage door open or close."
"She parked in the driveway."
Max was clearly startled by my answer. "The driveway?" He ran halfway down the stairs and looked out the little windows into the driveway. "She's gone."
"Right," I said. "You didn't know she was going out?"
"No, she said she'd be right back."
"So? Then she'll be right back. Right?"
"No, no — she said it like she was just going downstairs for— something, I don't know. But not I'll be right back like she was driving off somewhere."
"Okay." He seemed surprisingly upset. I felt he was making a mountain out of a molehill. "Have you tried calling her?"
"Yes, and I think she's blocking my calls. I don't know."
"Blocking your calls? What makes you say that? Do you get a message that says your call has been blocked?"
"No, it doesn't work like that. I'm not sure how it's supposed to go, but I get a voicemail message."
"Sounds pretty standard."
"No — it's not. It's not her normal voicemail message. It's different, like the one that comes with the phone. You know, the one with the weird guy's voice? In any case, she's not picking up and she's not calling back."
"It's only been forty minutes," I pointed out.
He rubbed the side of his thumb against his beard stubble in a distracted way. "I don't know, man. I've got a bad feeling about this." Then he stopped and looked around the room. "Hey, wow — you did a nice job up here. This is quite a upgrade. Can I open this door? Is it a closet? My God! You've created an actual bathroom!"
"Yeah," I said proudly.
Max shook his head. "Don't get me wrong — it's no reflection on your work. I mean, what you've done is fantastic, but in spite of all that, this place is still a shit-hole. It's part of a garage! You have to move into the house, man. Down to the mother-in-law suite, the way you should have from the start."
I shook my head.
"I don't know why you talked Amber into letting you live out here."
"Max, Amber is the one who put me out here. She told me to fix it up."
"What!? Why didn't you say something to me about it? I thought you wanted to live out here!"
"I asked Amber if you knew she told me to live out here, and she said it was none of my business. She said that was between the two of you."
Max sighed heavily.
"I'm sorry, man," I told him.
"You're sorry? I'm the one who should be sorry! This is ridiculous. Elliot, I had no idea." He looked around the room. "All this work, all this time..."
"Max, seriously, I didn't mind."
Max frowned. "Listen," he said, "Come into the house now, right now, and have a drink with me. I'm going to make this Christmas cocktail, the one I was going to make for Amber, and you and I will drink it."
"I think you're overreacting," I told him. "She'll be back any minute."
He shook his head in response.
"What if she comes home while I'm in there?"
"Fuck her!" Max declared. "It's my house! You're my friend! What right does she have to separate me from my friends? from my family? On Christmas Eve no less!"
"Uh..." Clearly there was more going on than I knew.
"Come on, Elliot! Join me in a Christmas toast. Come on."
I followed him down the stairs and into the house. After months of living above the garage, the experience of stepping into Max's kitchen took my breath away. Just as a general overall impression, it was a hell of a lot nicer in the house than it was in the garage. For one thing, it was warmer. And prettier. And — it smelled a lot better. That was for damn sure.
"First, the Christmas cocktail!" Max exclaimed, placing himself at the kitchen island, where an assortment of bottles awaited, along with two martini glasses and a shaker.
"Does this drink have a name?"
"Yes, of course it has a name! It's called a Mistletoe Martini. There are several versions, but this one appealed to me." He paused for a moment, then: "Full disclosure: I haven't tried it yet."
I glanced around, half-fearing that Amber would pop out of the woodwork and throw me out.
As if reading my mind, Max growled, "Quit worrying. She's not coming back tonight."
"Has she taken off like this before?"
"Not exactly like this, but yeah, she has a tendency to up and leave. Not often." He considered for a moment. "This is maybe the fourth time since I've known her. One time she got impatient about something and just walked away from me. I was trying to read the map on my phone, but without a word, she took off. She had no idea where she was going. She ended up walking for hours in a straight line until she finally... I don't know... came to? and realized she had no idea where she was." He sighed. "I should have known when she said I'll be right back. She never says that."
I frowned, not understanding.
"She says that, and you figure she'll be right back. If she said, I'm leaving, she wouldn't make a clean getaway."
"I don't know what to say."
Max put the lid on the shaker and hoisted it near his shoulder. "Then don't say anything. We'll just drink." He smiled and started shaking the drink.
I looked at the bottles he'd used: cranberry iced tea, orange juice, lemon juice, vodka, cherry brandy. After pouring out two martinis, he garnished them with fresh raspberries and handed one to me. "Merry Christmas, man!"
"Merry Christmas."
We each took sips, nodded approvingly. "It's refreshing," I told him.
"Whatever," he said with a laugh. "It does the job. Come on, let me show you the mother-in-law suite. You're done with that garage. I'm sorry I let her do that to you."
"It's okay."
"No, it's not okay. It's just that, with her, it's easier to go along. She's like a wall, if a wall could be aggressive. An aggressive wall. An aggressive, pushy wall. I am SO done with that."
"Do you mean you're breaking up with her?"
"No. I mean I'm done giving in to everything she wants or says. This is my house, and you're my friend. I mean, it's not as though you're moving into the bedroom across the hall. You'll see. It's a totally separate... uh... living space."
The tour only took a few minutes. The suite consisted of a bedroom, a bathroom, a sitting room, and a kitchenette. There were two big closets, a wide chest of drawers, and lots of cabinets in the kitchenette. The suite was as nice as Max's mother had said. It was clean, bright, and comfortable.
After we knocked back the rest of our drinks, Max insisted we move all my belongings, right then, without waiting a moment.
I would have been happy to carry over a couple of items, to symbolically move in, but Max insisted on carting over everything — not that I had that many possessions. "I told you: you're done with the garage, man! Welcome back to civilization!"
Then he fixed another pair of martinis. "It needs a little more booze this time," he said. "Do you think Triple Sec would help?"
"I think they were fine the way you made them. In fact, I feel a little loopy already."
"Huh. Well, you can't fly on one leg — am I right?"
"I dunno—"
"Triple Sec it is!"
While he mixed the second pair of martinis, I wandered into the living room and admired their Christmas tree. It nearly filled the bay window at the front of the house. It was the most beautiful tree I'd seen. It was exactly the right height, with three inches between the star on top and the ceiling. Its proportions were perfect, a symmetric cone, adorned with blinking lights, festive draping, huge glass balls colored deep green, blue, and red. I couldn't help but exclaim, "This tree is beautiful! It must have taken an entire day to put all this together!"
"I guess so," Max answered. "Amber hired someone to do it." He shrugged.
"Really? It's something I always liked doing — it's something I used to do with my Mom." My eyes misted (an effect of the alcohol).
I leaned down to look at the presents under the tree. There were five, different sizes, all perfectly wrapped in golden paper with red ribbons. "Did she hire someone to wrap the gifts, too?" Just being nosy, I poked at the labels. To Amber, From Max, To Amber, From Max — all five said the same thing. To Amber, From Max...
"Hey, Max, all these presents are from you to her. Doesn't she give *you* any presents?"
"What?" he asked in a sharp tone. He entered the room with the second pair of drinks and handed me one, a little roughly. I repeated my observation that all the presents were from him for Amber; none from her to him.
"There were presents for me yesterday!" he exclaimed, mystified.
"Huh," I said.
He knelt down and put his head near the floor, examining the entire space beneath the tree and finding nothing.
I don't know why I did the next thing that I did, but I did it. I walked over to the front closet, the one next to the front door, and opened it. Maybe I thought the presents would be hidden there, I don't know. In any case, the closet was half empty. Like, exactly half. It was easy to see that everything in there belonged to Max. All the coats, shoes, everything was obviously masculine. None of it was Amber's. When I pointed this out to Max, his jaw fell. He swore. Then he set his drink down and cried, "Come on!" He raced up the stairs. I quickly followed.
Max entered their bedroom, and ran to a bureau. "Check that closet!" he told me, pointing. As I opened the door, I heard him behind me, opening drawers, swearing, and saying "Empty! Empty!" I could tell by the hollow sound that each drawer he opened was empty. In fact, the closet, too, was empty. Completely empty. It was a walk-in closet with shelves and rods and hooks and drawers, but there were no clothes, no shoes, no jewelry. Not even a handkerchief.
Max came, peering over my shoulder. "How did she— how could she— it's—" He half-sat, half-collapsed onto his bed. "She must have been planning this for days... for weeks, even! Do you realize? The extent of this? She moved all her stuff out — everything — without my noticing! Right under my nose! And she had a LOT of stuff. A shit-ton of stuff! She couldn't have done this overnight!" Turning to me, he asked, "Did you ever see a moving van? A truck? People carrying stuff out? Boxes? Bags? Anything?" I shook my head no.
Max looked around him, stumped. Then he sidled over to one of the bedside tables and opened the drawer. "Nothing. No note, no message, no clue, no warning. What the fuck?" He sat there for a space without speaking, his shoulders hunched, squeezing the fingers of his left hand with his right.
"I'm just... floored," he whispered at long last.
I waited for what seemed a decent interval, then asked, "Have you eaten? Max? Have you eaten?" He shook his head. "Then I'll prepare something. It's Christmas Eve. We should have a meal. Like Martha would say, it's a good thing."
"Martha?"
"Martha Stewart."
He turned his head to look at me. It was as if I'd spoken an unknown language.
"Never mind," I said. "I'll bring up your drink, then I'll get some dinner together." He replied with an almost imperceptible shrug.
The food I bought earlier only needed a little microwaving. I found some leftover lasagna in Max's fridge, so I heated that up, too. Then I managed to carry two wine glasses (shoved upside-down between my fingers), my half-empty wine bottle and a full, uncorked bottle. I laid the two plates full of food along my left forearm, and draped a pair of napkins over my wrist.
When I entered the bedroom, Max murmured, "We shouldn't eat in here."
I said, "I won't tell if you don't."
We sat on the edge of the bed, the wine on the bedside table. When we were ready for second helpings, we went back downstairs, and turned on the TV in the living room. Miracle on 34th Street was just about to start. I was shocked to hear that Max had never seen it. His lip curled in disdain. "That's the one where Rock Hudson dies and it screws up everybody's life, isn't it? And every time a bell rings, an angel gets their wings? No thanks."
"No, no — you're thinking of It's a Wonderful Life and it's James Stewart, not Rock Hudson. You're right, that *is* a terrible movie. Miracle on 34th Street is the best. It's totally opposite. It starts off with a drunken Santa. With a whip."
Max managed to finish most of the wine, and then moved to tequila. I switched to water. I didn't want to be drunk and stupid if Amber happened to show up. I knew it was unlikely, but with her you never knew.
By the time the movie ended, Max was sound asleep in his recliner. I took his shoes off and covered him with a blanket. I had my back to the window as I did those things, and when I turned again toward the tree and the window, I saw something that froze my blood within me. In the lowest right corner of the window was a face, surrounded by a mane of hair. The face had a fierce expression, and it stared unblinking at me. It was the most frightening thing I've ever seen in my entire life.
It was Amber's face. Shocked, startled, even shaking, I was unable to speak or move. Then I blinked and the face was gone.
I ran to the window and looked outside. There was nothing; no one. I ran to the side windows. There was no one there. No car in the driveway. No trace of anyone. The sidewalks were clear.
Unnerved, I ran around the house, throwing the deadbolts on all the doors, locking all the windows. Not that it would do me any good — Amber had the keys to the house.
I poured myself a shot of whiskey to steady my nerves. Could I have imagined it? I had been drinking; I could easily have imagined it. After all, it was a very emotional day. That face — it probably wasn't real, was it?
Then came an idea that helped calm my nerves: a primitive alarm system. I found some folding chairs in a closet. I pressed a chair tight up against each door, then set two wine glasses on the seat of each chair. I figured that if she came in, the glasses would fall and break. I was sure to hear it, no matter what. I didn't want her sneaking in on me while I slept. Even if she wasn't really there.
Then I found a blanket, wrapped myself in it, and lay down fully clothed on the couch in the living room. Trembling, I listened to Max's snoring, which I somehow found reassuring. It soothed me until I fell asleep.
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
Susan Walker: Oh, sure. That's when you see things, but they're not really there.
Kris Kringle: Well, that can be caused by other things, too.
— Miracle On 34th Street
When I woke up, Christmas morning, Max was already up and moving. I could hear him in the kitchen, making breakfast. There was the wonderful pots-and-pans sound of someone cooking, along with the homey smells of coffee, bacon, and toast.
Under the Christmas tree, all the presents were gone; the five boxes wrapped in golden paper with red ribbons had disappeared. Still groggy with sleep, I wondered for a moment whether Amber had come in the night like the Grinch and collected them. It was silly of me, but as I've said, with her you never know.
I made my way into the kitchen. Max was at the stove, flipping pancakes. The table was set with plates, cutlery, glasses, butter, jelly, honey, sugar and cream...
"There he is!" Max exclaimed. "Merry Christmas! How's the head this morning?"
"Not bad," I replied. "I switched to tequila when you started drinking water. Wait — I mean the other way around." He laughed. "How come you're so chipper? I expected you to have a massive hangover."
"I've got a high tolerance, I guess," Max said with a grin. He lifted the last pancake onto a plate, completing a pile. Then he pushed a mass of scrambled eggs into a bowl. "Help me get this food on the table."
As we filled the table with plates of food, he explained, "I was going to do all this for Amber, but you end up being the beneficiary."
"This is great!" I said. "The bacon is perfectly crispy, and everything is good and hot! And these pancakes are so light and airy! I had no idea you could cook, Max!"
"I can't, really. Breakfast is just about my limit. I had to learn because Amber doesn't cook at all." He stopped to suppress a chuckle. "Speaking of which — I saw your burglar alarms. My wine glasses perched precariously at every door? Were you afraid of burglars? Or did you think that Amber would come and cut our throats in the night?"
"Uhhh—" I wasn't sure how to answer. One thing was certain: there was no way I was going to mention seeing that particular face in the window... although I could tell part of the truth. "Uh, keep in mind that I had been drinking... but I thought I saw a face looking in the window." *A* face — I didn't say Amber's face. Just a face.
Max burst out laughing. "It was probably Santa Claus, you goof!" He threw a piece of toast at my head.
"Oh, yes, of course," I replied drily. "Why didn't *I* think of that?"
"You should have piled the wine glasses in the fireplace. When he came down, the shattering crystal would have woken you up."
I sighed. "Very funny."
"Seriously, though, Elliot, seeing what you did made me realize something — I do want to change the locks. All the locks. And the code to the garage. Can you do that? I mean, can you change the locks? The code I can do myself."
"Sure," I said. "I have some locks left over from my Dad's house. They ought to fit. If not, I can get some other ones on Monday, but if mine work, I can change them all right after breakfast."
Max smiled, amused by my haste. "You're not worried, are you, Elliot?"
"Worried? No, of course not. Worried about what?"
"I don't know. That Amber — or someone — might break in?"
"No, no — of course not!"
"That's good, because you're going to have the house all to yourself this week. I'm going to make the rounds of my relatives — I wasn't going to, because Amber hates that stuff—"
"You mean family stuff?"
"Yeah. So, now that she's definitely gone, I'm free to see my cousins, aunts, and uncles. I'll be back on New Years, in time for Diane's party."
"Okay," I acknowledged, with a tone of uncertainty.
Max chuckled. "Don't worry! Get those locks in, and Amber won't bother you!"
Max's house seemed like a mansion after my months in the garage. While he was away I watched a lot of TV and ate and drank a lot. There were still some small projects I could have worked on in the garage, but I couldn't motivate myself to go out there. Much like a prisoner recently set free — I had no desire to go back to my cell. Not even if I was "just visiting."
Also, I realized there was a huge problem with the room over the garage: the water line. It wasn't buried very deep, and in winter, it could easily freeze. I'd have to shut that line off and drain it before the freezing weather arrived.
Anyway, the days alone in that big house — well — those, I could handle just fine. I didn't mind being alone while the sun was out. I managed to keep busy. I washed all my clothes to get the garage smell out. I threw the worst of my work clothes away. I did some cleaning, I did some poking around. But the nights... Well, I didn't sleep well at all, the entire time that Max was away. It's not that I was afraid — I'm not a fearful person. I was just... uneasy in that big house, alone. It seemed like the ghost of Amber was everywhere: in the walls, in the windows, in the closets and floorboards. I can't explain it... as if she left an afterimage I could almost smell. I'd tell myself it was only my imagination, but that assertion didn't help. I tried sleeping in almost every room in the house — I even tried sleeping on the floor, hidden behind the couch — but I'd wake at every sound, not knowing whether the sound was real or part of a bad dream.
Diane's New Years party was Friday night, and I expected Max back on Friday morning. Thursday night (my last night alone) I had the idea of sleeping in the tub in the upstairs bathroom. I know it's stupid; you don't need to tell me. In part I got the idea thinking about panic rooms, and also in part from the Beatles' song Norwegian Wood. ("She told me she worked in the morning and started to laugh / I told her I didn't, and crawled off to sleep in the bath.") Just as an idea, it had a lot of appeal, like sleeping behind an armored wall.
Again, it's not that I honestly believed Amber would break in and try to hurt me. I mean, I know how to defend myself. It's just that with her, you never know.
The tub was an old one — cast iron with an enamel coat. Consequently, it was uncomfortable and VERY cold. I put a blanket under me and a second over me. I shoved a stopper in the drain in case there were spiders (or worse!) down there. I tossed and turned, unable to find an unpainful position. Then, just went I'd decided to give it pass and sleep in a real bed, I fell sound asleep and slept until morning. I wasn't rested at all. There was a terrible crick in my neck and dark circles under my eyes.
Max got home just before lunch. As soon as he came in, I went downstairs to the mother-in-law suite and slept like a dead man (which is a good thing!) for six hours and woke up feeling perfectly refreshed and ready for the New Years party.
About that party: I should explain that in our town everybody knows everybody, more or less. More specifically, I'm trying to say that — although Amber herself was little more than an acquaintance to me — I knew most of Amber's friends pretty well. Kitty was a good example. It would have been next to impossible for Max (or me) to have any social life whatsoever and NOT run into Amber or one of her friends.
So, everyone we knew, including Amber, was invited to the same New Years party. This year, the parents of our friend Diane were hosting, and the party had a secondary theme: Diane's boyfriend proposed to her two weeks before Christmas, so we'd be celebrating her engagement as well as the New Year. It was a great party. We all had to admire Diane's ring, and pretend to commiserate with her boyfriend (as men do). Amber was there, but in such a crowd of people, it was easy to avoid each other.
Still, Amber didn't show any hostility — no staring daggers, no muttered insults, no veiled threats — so I got the feeling that she'd already moved on, in her own crazy way.
Max clearly enjoyed himself, and he seemed buoyed up by his family visits, so after seeing Amber acting neutral and Max looking happy I naively thought that their break-up was a non-event. Maybe he was even relieved to be free of her? That was my take.
Until the next morning, January 1. On New Years Day he started processing what had happened.
And he crashed. He crashed hard. I found him sitting at the dining room table holding an empty, unused coffee cup. His face was empty and expressionless. If he wasn't wearing pajamas, I could have easily believed he had just crawled from the sea, the only survivor of a shipwreck. He seemed in a state of shock and nervous exhaustion.
I asked him how he was feeling, and his response was, "Like I'm filled up inside with dead wood: and it's all thin, spiky branches. Spiky like daggers, but dead."
"It sounds like you're describing a honey locust tree," I said.
He shrugged and shook his head in response. "It's just an image, man. I don't care if there's really a tree like this anywhere. If there is, it ought to be burned down and buried."
Whatever pain these imaginary daggers caused him, he kept it hidden for the most part. He continued to go to work every day. He kept up with his personal hygiene: He showered each day. He shaved. He wore clean clothes. The thing was, his life dwindled down to a minimal, functional routine. He didn't talk — much. He didn't smile at all, or laugh. At least... well, we'll come to that.
Tired of living like a hermit, and afraid of being dragged down into Max's dark mood, I found a job for myself, a part-time gig as handyman for a property management company in Town Center. There was simple stuff, like cleaning and painting, and a lot of DIY. Most of my experience with my Dad was applicable, and the things I wasn't familiar with, I learned from online videos. Every day I learned something new. I hung two chandeliers and felt like an expert. I hauled a lot of trash to the dump, and made some home repairs that I never thought I'd be capable of.
I was working, out among the people. The pay was nominal, but I didn't need money. I could have paid rent if Max would let me, but he wouldn't let me.
Max lived a sad repetion. He'd come home from work, pour himself a generous glass of wine, pile two sandwiches on a plate, and trudge upstairs to his bedroom. Sometimes we'd get home around the same time, and I'd sit there in the kitchen, to be with him. At first I tried to make conversation, to reach out to him, but most nights he'd put his finger to his lips. He'd say, "I'm glad you're here, but I don't want to talk." Or, "Can you keep me company but not talk? I like knowing you're there, but I don't have the energy for—" and then he'd sigh.
So that's what I did. I sat there. Sometimes I *did* speak. Sometimes he didn't react at all, as if he hadn't heard. Usually he answered verbally in monosyllables. At other times, he'd just put his finger to his lips or shake his head.
Three times during that month, he lifted his head and fixed his eyes on me. I don't know what he read in my face, but he said, "Don't worry, I'm not going to kill myself."
Well, I never thought he would, until he said it. Happily, it never came to that.
It was awful, really. Have you ever been close to a person who's depressed? I don't mean sad; I mean depressed. It's like they collapse into themselves, and become a black hole. No energy comes out of them, and whatever energy you give gets sucked away into some negative zone. It's never reflected back to you, not even minimally.
It was like he'd fallen into a pit, or was sitting at the bottom of a well, looking down. I could see him... see the back of his head so to speak. I could say things to him, but mainly I was scared that he was never going to come out of that hole.
I tried, but I couldn't understand or relate. His state seemed out of all proportion to what happened. Okay, Amber left. But Amber was a horrible person. How could he be so wounded, so down, so hurt? I've felt bad, I've had my heart broken, but I've never fallen into myself like that. I never suspected that Max carried this abyss inside himself — this unmeasurable, uncrossable distance that separated him from himself, and him from me.
I started reading a lot, to pass the time. I'd sit in the living room, so I could hear him if he made a sound. I could tell that he was watching movies, and so one night as he assembled his sandwiches, I asked him what he was watching.
"Truffault," he replied laconically.
"Francois Truffault?" I asked, a little uncertainly. I was surprised I knew the name.
"Yeah."
"Why?"
He stared at me for a while before answering. He wasn't angry or irritated or... or anything. He just stared for a while, his face impassive. Then he answered me. "The only thing that's keeping me together right now is my routine. Getting ready for work, working, coming home, sandwiches, wine, movie. Don't ask me for more or ask me for less. Don't ask me to change anything."
"Sorry. I won't."
He shrugged.
"I'll get over it eventually," he said. "I realized that I've never been dumped before. I was always the one who... ended things, the one who did the dumping, and now I see that it's hard when you're the one who got left. The dumpee." He set a slice of bread atop his sandwich pile, then he cut the two sandwiches in half along the diagonal. "Also, I've never had a rejection that was so... total... so... surgical... so... absolute. And without any explanation or warning. It's like a nuclear weapon was deployed in my... in my... world." He gave me a half-smile and a shrug. "Okay," he concluded. "I've got a date with Monsieur Truffault." He raised his glass in salute and walked heavily up the stairs.
The depth of his feeling astounded me. I'd never seen him so dark and depressed. Even though Amber was a very taxing and difficult person, Max must have been heavily invested emotionally in their relationship. "It's not that I miss her," he said on another evening. "I don't. I don't miss her at all. In fact, I'm glad she's gone. A huge weight has been lifted. But I feel as though something died in the world, and something died inside of me."
As I sat by the front window reading, I'd listen for the sounds from his room. Sometimes I'd hear him laugh. Sometimes I'd hear him cry. But most of the time all there was to hear was the low murmur of the characters in the film.
It would have been horribly depressing for me as well, if I wasn't busy at work and spending my days with other people.
His funk ended abruptly toward the end of the month. I was sitting as usual in the living room, with The Three Musketeers open on my lap. Max was upstairs, communing with "Monsieur Truffault." He was up there about an hour and a half when I heard him swear, and he burst out of his room. "I'm done!" he shouted. "I am DONE!" He came downstairs, looking more alive and alert than he had in weeks, although he was still pale, needed sleep, and was a little too thin. He bristled with indignation or anger.
"Have you seen The Green Room?" he demanded.
"No, I don't think so," I said. "It doesn't sound familiar. Is it that classic porn movie? I don't think I've watched any porn."
"No! What the hell! No! It isn't porn! It's another damn French film. Francois Truffault? Oh, my God, it's horrible. Now I've had enough! It's given me cinematic indigestion. No more French films for me. God! In fact, no more movies for a while."
He made himself a pot of coffee and sat with me, talking nonstop for two hours. "I feel like I've come back to life," he said. "Back from the dead."
After that, Max gradually returned to his old self. It was as if he'd recovered from a serious illness. It took about two weeks, but each day he was a little better, a little more hopeful, a little more smiling.
And that was January! I remember telling myself, Now it's over! Meaning, Amber was gone, Max had finally moved on, and my living situation had stabilized for the present.
Unfortunately, it (whatever it was) had only just begun. Out in the general community, Amber's plan had unfolded, completely. Her spider's web was everywhere, covering everything, and we were already living in the aftermath. Blissfully unaware, but living in the aftermath.
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
My job — working as handyman for a property management company — made me quite conscious of the calendar. Not so much the individual days, but the months: people moved in and out of their apartments at the start and end of the month, which became the busy time for me. February first was a Tuesday, and happened to be a light day. All I had on my schedule was a quick inspection of a recently-vacated property and a little bit of clean-up — specifically, washing the windows. It's remarkable the boost an apartment gets when the windows are clean.
Of course, that didn't take all day. I was done by eleven, and whlle casting about for something to do, I decided I'd cook dinner. Max had just spent a couple of weeks eating nothing but sandwiches, and that can't be good for anybody. I asked what he (and Amber) did for dinner when they were together, and he replied, "We always either went out or or sent out."
That's not such a healthy choice, either.
Aside from his diet, Max seemed to have fully recovered from his January post-breakup depression. He was smiling again. The darkness that hung beneath his eyes was disappearing. He had a spring in his step. In fact, he was grinning pretty broadly when he arrived home and found me in the kitchen.
"Hey, Ma!" he joked. "Whatcha got cookin'?"
"I was going to boil some pasta and pour some sauce on it." I held up a jar of tomato sauce to show him. "You interested?"
He lifted the lid. "There's broccoli in here!"
"Yeah, um, once the water boils I'll throw the pasta in and they'll cook together."
He scratched his head.
"It's an easy way to get some vegetables in your diet."
"I'll give it a try," he said, voice full of doubt.
"It's good," I assured him. "Hey, you're home a little later than usual. Did you go for a drink with your office buddies?"
"Yeah, I did, and it was fun. They're nice people. I had one drink, then paid for a round of shots. After that, I took off. I'm trying to ease back into the social scene. Take it a little slow."
"Sounds wise."
He picked up a piece of raw spaghetti and gnawed on it. "You know, I never went out with my office mates when I was with Amber."
"Never?"
"Nope. Never."
"Why not?"
"Amber always made me feel guilty about it. Like I was choosing them over her."
"That's pretty heavy! Did she think you had something going with someone from work? You didn't, did you?"
"I didn't. No, I never cheated on her. And yes, she thought I did. If I went to a bar instead of coming straight home, she'd outright accuse me of having sex with another woman. In her mind, if I didn't come straight home, I was avoiding her. To her, it meant I was already balls-deep in a torrid affair."
"Whoa — talk about being jealous!"
Max shrugged and gave a rueful grin.
The lid of the pot began dancing as the water boiled. I lifted it off and dumped the spaghetti in, stirring to get it all submerged.
"It gets worse! You know how simple my life is. It's all work and home, home and work. Anyone could easily account for every second of my day: I was either at work, at home with Amber, or going from one place to the other. And yet, she once accused me of having a secret life!"
"A secret life!?" I laughed, but it wasn't really funny.
"So I said When? When would I ever have time for this secret life? I'm either at work or with you!"
"What did she say?"
"She didn't have an answer for that." He took another uncooked piece of spaghetti from the pack and crunched on it meditatively.
"Anyway, enough about Amber! I took another small step today back toward normalcy," he confided. "I asked someone out — this woman in my office, Daphne. She has this quiet cool... looks a little like Kitty, you know? I've always been attracted to her, and I thought she had a thing for me, too."
"What makes you think she doesn't?"
"I asked her out for a drink, and she said no."
"Maybe it's just 'no' for now." He shrugged. I continued, "Anyway, you can't expect EVERY woman in the world to go out with you."
"True." He looked doubtfully at the bottle of sauce. "Aren't you going to heat that up?"
"No, I figure it will heat up when I pour it over the pasta."
"Do you have any Parmesan cheese to grate over it?"
"Mmm, no. Tomorrow I can pick up one of those shakers, you know?"
"Grated fresh is better," he said. I didn't reply. I suddenly recalled what a great cook his mother is. Max was used to eating well.
He chose a bottle of red wine. As he uncorked it, he asked, "Have you thought about learning to cook? I mean, real food, not shortcuts like this?"
I shot him a dirty look. "I'm not the girl in this situation, you know."
"Hey! Don't look at me like that! Don't get all sensitive! I'm not trying to offend you. It's just that, you know, it might be interesting for you to explore... while you're trying to sort your life out. It's a chance to learn something new and creative."
"Hmm," I replied. "Couldn't it be something interesting for you to explore, and be new and creative and all?"
He took two glasses and poured some wine into each. He grinned as he handed one to me. "It's my house," he said. "and I've got a full-time job. I don't ask you to pay rent, or to clean, or..." he laughed "or to sew, or wash windows. It would be nice for both of us if we had real, healthy meals. I'll spring for the groceries." Then he stepped closer and gave me a hip bump. "Don't be mad, man. It's just division of labor. If you really don't want to do it, we can send out for food." When I didn't answer, he gave me a gentle elbow nudge and said, "By the way, cooking is not a gender-specific activity."
I gazed into the pot. The spaghetti was still stiff and stick-like. I glanced at him a couple of times, not saying anything, and sipped the wine. It was pretty nice.
"Like the wine? Tasty, huh?" he grinned, seeing my reaction. "I'll provide the wine, too."
I sighed, resigned. "Okay, I'll do it."
"Great!" he said. "I'll ask my mother to get you a good cookbook."
I twisted my mouth to the side. He grinned and chuckled, and gave me a playful push. I sipped some more wine and looked at the pot. The spaghetti were beginning to stick together. "Why do they do that?" I murmured, a little frustrated.
"Don't worry — patience and practice are the keys."
"Okay," I told him. "I said I'd do it. Don't push it."
Two days later, Max's mother was waiting for me when I got home. She got out of her car, and gave me a hug and a peck on the cheek. "It's been so long since we've seen you, Elliot! You're looking well."
"Thanks, Mrs Errison, so are you. You always look great."
In spite of my compliment, she winced at my greeting. "Elliot, I feel so old when you call me Mrs Errison — can you call me Melissa?"
"Um, I'll try," I promised. "Melissa." It sounded weird when I said it, but she smiled when I did.
Melissa opened the rear door of her car and pointed to a shopping bag. I picked it up. "I hope you don't feel that I'm ambushing you. I wanted to call, but I don't have your number."
"It's fine," I told her. "I'm happy to see you."
"Good! Max told me that you want to learn to cook. You'll be happy you did. Cooking is very rewarding, and it's lots of fun. It's a great way to express yourself and make other people happy."
"Um, yes," I replied.
"Do you want to know something? The best way to be happy is to make other people happy."
"I guess," I replied.
"I got you this great beginner's cookbook," she said, full of enthusiasm, "and I brought the makings of a nice risotto — that's my go-to dish."
"Oh, yeah, I've had your risotto — it's fantastic."
"Good! I'm glad you like it!" She took my arm, and leaning close, confided, "Soon it will be your risotto, too!"
I set the bag down on a chair in the kitchen. Mrs Errison — I mean, Melissa — moved to the far side of the island, away from me, the stove, and the food. Hmm. I was kind of hoping that she would be cooking, and I'd learn by watching. Guess not!
She didn't say anything, she just smiled at me. I poured two glasses of wine. She took the tiniest sip.
"Okay," I said. Obviously, she was waiting for me to unpack the bag. There was the book: How to Cook Everything. "Looks promising," I said, and pushed it to the side, so it could stay clean. "Tonight you can pick out a recipe for tomorrow," she suggested. I nodded. "You can always call me if you get stuck or have questions."
Melissa directed me step by step through the recipe. It wasn't hard if I just did what she said. A couple of times she stopped me from rubbing my eyes after I'd cut the onions.
"Have you ever used a pressure cooker?" she asked. I shook my head. She rooted around in the cabinets until she found it. "Aha! I knew it!"
"Knew what?"
"This pressure cooker — I gave it to Amber. That girl... Of course she didn't take it when she left!" With a angry clatter she set the pot on the stove. "It still looks brand new. I'll bet she never used it!" Her jaw was clenched, her knuckles white. I watched her in silence, not sure what to say. It seemed a bit of an over-reaction. She caught my look, and stopped what she was doing.
"I'm sorry," she said, "but that damn girl makes me so angry."
"She wasn't a nice person."
"No, she wasn't. Isn't. She's not dead yet — is she." I smiled, then the two of us burst out laughing.
"Do you know what she did? She isolated my b— my boy, my Max. She did her best to separate him from us, from his own parents! She wanted Max all to herself, as if there wasn't enough of him to go around. She had to have him all. Body and soul."
"Yeah. She was pretty weird that way."
Melissa looked me in the eyes and smiled. She ran her hand through my hair. She was always an affectionate parent. As a kid, I often wished she was my mother, especially after my own Mom died.
"You've always been such a good friend to Max."
I shrugged. "It isn't hard. He's a great guy. And a good person... a good friend."
Her eyes watered. She sniffled and grabbed a tissue. "It's the onions," she joked.
"Yeah."
She pulled me into a motherly hug. It was so nice. I caught the scent of the floral perfume that she wore so lightly. She came out of the hug, but held me by my shoulders, looking me straight in the face.
"You know, there's something that I often thought... I've thought so often, that I want to tell you even though it's silly... but I don't want to offend you or hurt your feelings."
"What?" I felt a little alarmed. Was there something I'd done or said?
"It's nothing bad!" she assured me. "It's just that..." she sighed. "Oh! I often wished you were born a girl, because you would have been so perfect for Max."
"Oh," I said, feeling a light red coloring spread across my cheeks. What she said startled me so much that I had a brief fit of coughing.
She patted me on the back, then put her arm around me. "What I really mean is, why did my boy end up with someone as awful as Amber? Why?"
"I don't know."
"Why couldn't he have found a girl — you know — a girl like you. I mean, you know, your personality and kindness and all..." She fumbled, her cheeks reddened. "Do you know what I'm trying to say?"
"Yes, I think so. I never understood what he saw in her."
"Mmm. Me neither." She smiled ruefully. "But you— you're not offended are you? By what I said. I just mean that — you know, there are nice people in the world. People like you. Why couldn't he find—"
"I know. Someone like me. I get it."
"Okay!" she said. "Back to our recipe! If you don't have a pressure cooker, this takes about 40 minutes. In a pressure cooker, ten."
"Wow."
"Yes, it's very wow."
Among the grocery items were salad greens. She showed me how to mix a vinaigrette, "You prepare the dressing in the empty bowl, see? but don't toss it with the salad until you're ready to eat it."
She gave some final instructions about the pressure cooker, and put on her coat. "Are you leaving!?" I cried.
"Yes, you've done everything," she replied. "You don't need me. Once the pressure cooker starts hissing, set your timer. When the timer goes off, turn off the flame, let out the steam, let it sit for a minute, and open it. That's all. Add the grated cheese, stir, serve. You don't need my help to do all that — you've done the hard part already!" She gave me a hug. "I'm glad your cooking for my baby boy!"
"Yeah," I said. She held me and looked me in the face, her eyes twinkling. "He's lucky to have a friend like you."
"I'm lucky too," I told her.
"Oh, hey!" she called, stopping in the doorway. "Does Max — do you boys have dates for Valentines Day?"
"Um, when is it?" I asked.
She grinned, "February 14, just like every year. It's a week from Monday. Eleven days away."
"Oh. Well, I don't. Max probably does. Or he will. I mean, how could he not?"
She nodded and left, crossing paths with Max on his way in.
I had trouble convincing Max that I had done the cooking, so at last I told him, "Wait until you see what I make tomorrow!"
"Oh, what?" he asked.
"You have to wait and see!" I repeated. I'd have to find something in that "Cook Everything" book tonight.
Halfway through dinner, Max took a breath and told me, "It happened again today: I asked somebody else out. Tina, who coincidentally broke up with her boyfriend on Christmas Eve. I figured, wow, what are the chances? It could be a nice, discrete rebound thing for both of us."
"But she said no?"
"She said no. That's not the weird part. What was weird was that she seemed surprised that I asked her."
"Why is that weird? Did you think she was just standing around, waiting for you to ask her out? Who knows what was on her mind in that moment? Maybe she had a toothache or a migraine, and you say, Hey, wanna go for coffee? and her first reaction is What does that have to do with my tooth?"
Max stared at me, wordless, for a few long seconds. He opened and closed his mouth as if he wasn't sure what to say.
"Are you serious?" he asked. "That sounds absolutely crazy!"
"Oh come on! Why not? There's nothing weird about someone saying no to a date, or being surprised at being asked."
"I guess you're right," he said. "It's just that I feel so... out of the game, you know? After three years with Amber, and... you know, we were actually considering marriage there at the end."
"Marriage?"
"Yeah, is that so weird?"
"Yes, that is weird. I thought you said it was strictly *her* idea."
"That's—" he stopped, considering. "Well, honestly, it was hers. She was always hammering on that that one note, and after a while it started feeling like my idea as well. It did make some kind of sense, though."
"I seem to remember you saying you didn't want to get married."
"Right, yeah, I did say that."
"Did she ask you to marry her?"
"No. She just dropped hints, day after day. Suggestions."
My eyebrows went up.
"Yeah, she was a piece of work," he agreed.
"You're lucky to be well out of it," I told him. "But hey, do you think maybe she left because she realized you wouldn't marry her?"
He thought about it for a while, and said, "No." He didn't elaborate. "At least I don't think so." After a short pause, he admitted, "Maybe."
While we chomped on our salads I told him that his mother wanted to know whether he had a date for Valentines Day.
He groaned and covered his face with his hands. "I think I'm going to have to give it a miss this year."
I didn't believe him. His current frustration clouded his expectations. I was sure he'd have a date for Valentines Day. It was impossible to picture Max without a girlfriend, or at least without a date. He wasn't that kind of guy.
By the time we got to Friday morning of the next week, three days before Valentines, a few things had happened. I'd cooked seven different dinners for me and Max. One failed terribly, filling the house with smoke and a lingering smell of burnt fish. We resorted to pizza that night. Max asked out three other women in his office; all three said no. The second one giggled when Max asked her. The third looked angry and told him, "I heard that you're asking every single woman here and now you've asked me? I'm last? I'm at the bottom of your list? Even if I ever wanted to go out with you, I'd have to say no. N-fucking-no."
Max looked baffled. "What does that mean, even if ever *wanted* to go out with you?" he asked me.
"I think it means she did want to go out with you," I offered.
"She could!" he spouted. "If she wanted to, she could! I asked her! If she said yes, she would!"
"Okay, she was pissed off at being asked last."
Max shook his head. "She wasn't last. There are other women in the office I haven't asked." He scratched his head.
"Is there a yet on the end of that sentence?"
"Huh?"
"There are women in the office you haven't asked yet?"
"Naw, I don't think so. I'm pretty sure I've fished that pond dry."
It turned out, though, that there was more to the story of today's dating mishaps: Max had forgotten, or skipped over somehow, one particularly cute, amazingly feminine woman: Kass. I didn't know her; I knew who she was. I knew what she looked like and what she moved like.
Kass is a dancer. The moment you see her, you know it. She has a dancer's body: lithe, long, lean. Strong, without being overtly muscular. Her posture: perfect. Her movements: graceful. Everything about her is precise, controlled, beautiful.
Max didn't run into her much because she worked in what he called "the back office."
On Friday morning, Max looked up, and there she was, standing in front of his desk.
"Do you know what Sunday is?" she asked, in a low, throaty voice.
"The thirteenth?" he ventured. She bobbled her head, meaning yes-and-no.
"It's Desperation Day," she informed him. "It's when every single person of dating age tries desperately to line up a date for Valentines Day. It's the last chance."
He started to say, "I'm not des—" but she cut him off.
"I need a favor," she told him, and in a voice so low that only he could hear, she added, "I'm gay."
Max's eyes sparked in surprise. "You are? I had no idea."
"I'm not out. Hopefully nobody has any idea." She smiled. "Apart from my girlfriend."
"Okay." Max shrugged.
"So...," Kass continued, "Months ago, a small group of my oldest friends reserved a table at the Celestial Lamb for Valentines Day."
"Wow. I'm impressed."
"I need a date for that dinner. I can't bring my girlfriend. Even if I was out — which I'm not — she can't come. For complicated reasons. Basically, her mother is pretending to be ill and is demanding attention."
"Sorry to hear," Max told her, not unsympathetically. "But I'm not your guy."
"Look, you don't have to pretend anything. You don't have say you're my boyfriend, or be affectionate, or pretend that you know me well. You're just a guy from work who's my date for the evening. It's simple. And you get a free dinner at Celestial Lamb."
Max drew a long breath and looked at Kass. She was obviously nervous. There was a look on her face that was nearly pleading.
"Look," she said. "Think about it. You would be helping me out in a big way."
"Why don't you just tell your friends who you are?" Max asked.
"I don't... I don't know if they'll accept me that way," Kass responded hesitantly. "I don't feel... in a safe enough place in myself. I don't feel brave enough."
Max didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. Kass looked around, a little impatiently, and said, "Look, you think about it. I don't know what I could ever do to pay you back, but if there's something, anything reasonable, I'll do it. I'm just asking you to come sit at a table and make conversation with a few nice people. Nothing more." She handed him a card with her name and number on it.
"What happens if I don't go with you?" Max asked. "Do you have a plan B?"
Kass laughed. "I'm so far down the alphabet, I'm somewhere past L-M-N-O-P. If you don't come with me, I do have a date of last resort, but I really don't want to call him. I'd rather go alone, but that won't fly with my friends." She tapped on her card. "Think about it. Please."
"Why didn't you say yes?" I asked him.
"I don't know," Max said. "I guess it bugged me to know that she knew I didn't have a date."
I almost pointed out that every woman in the place probably knew he didn't have a date, but I knew it wouldn't help.
"Am I being an ass?" he asked me. "I don't know why I want to say no."
Again, I almost ventured homophobia? but again, it wouldn't help.
Max looked at me, perplexed. "If you were me, would you do it? Would you go with her?"
"In a heartbeat!" I said. "Help somebody out of a jam? Sounds good. Rescue a damsel in distress? Sign me up. Free dinner at a high-end restaurant? Check. Go on a date with a beautiful, ultra-feminine dancer? Yes, please!"
"Okay," Max said. "You've convinced me. I better call her before I change my mind."
Max drew her card from his pocket, dialed the number, and said he'd be happy to be her date for Valentines Day.
Kass, as you can imagine, was grateful and relieved. I could hear her giving him her address (which he wrote on the card) and the time to pick her up.
Then she said something I couldn't hear, to which Max replied, "Oh, really? How do you know my cousin?" And he stood up and walked into another room to continue the conversation. I couldn't hear him very well and couldn't hear her at all.
When he came back in, he was smiling and radiating positive energy.
"I'm glad you talked me into that," Max told me. "You're a genuinely good person."
"So are you," I rejoined. "You know what shows that? Kass hardly knows you, right? And yet she trusted you. She confided in you."
"Yeah," Max acknowledged. "How about that? I guess I'm not a total asshole."
"So what was the rest of the conversation? Why did she bring up your cousin?"
"Yeah, yeah, it's funny... She happens to be good friends with my cousin Nessa. Do you know Nessa?" I shook my head. "Well... she's my cousin. She's alright. A little spoiled. A Keeping Up With the Kardashians type of girl. Well, anyway, Nessa's getting married in May, and Kass will be at the wedding. I'm kind of relieved. My family can be a bit much sometimes, so it'll be nice to have someone to hang out with — if I can."
"Maybe she'll be your date!" I suggested with a laugh. "Your plus-one!"
He scoffed. "It's three months off! I'm sure I'll have someone by then!"
"It's not that far away, though," I pointed out.
"Don't wish me bad luck!"
"I'm not! But won't *she* need a fake date for the wedding?"
"Maybe she will, but I sure as hell won't! I asked her to save a dance for me, but that's all."
"That's nice of you."
"My mother says being nice does't cost anything. Anyway, I do have to branch out, widen my net, though — I think I've gotten a no from every woman in the office."
"Except Kass."
"Who doesn't count."
"Is Nessa an Errison?"
"No, she's on my mother's side — she's a McLanahan. Nessa McLanahan."
"Banana-fanna-fo-fan," I offered.
"Okay," Max said. "Be careful with the name jokes, especially when my Mom's around. Remember: my Mom is a McLanahan. Or was."
"Okay," I agreed, giggling as I wiped my tears.
It didn't occur to me that *I* could have been Kass' beard until I was lying in bed that night. Of course, she didn't know me from Adam, so there was that.
It didn't occur to Max until he was about to walk out the door on Monday night, going to pick her up.
"Oh, God!" he exclaimed. "You're going to be alone on Valentines! You could have been Kass' date!"
"Naw, I couldn't," I protested. "We're complete strangers, and it would show."
"I don't really know her either," he confessed.
"But you have things in common: you can talk about the office, you can talk about the wedding, and the Name Game and all that."
"Yeah," he grudgingly admitted. "I think I'll have mercy on Kass and her friends and not try to get them laughing at my mother's maiden name."
"Probably a good idea."
What did I do alone on Valentines Day? I made a lovely pile of stir-fried rice with some leftover beef and pork and some Indonesian shrimp paste. I made it pretty spicy, and garnished it with a fried egg, sunny-side up, sitting on top. It was great. Then I watched Love Hard which is a rom-com (don't tell Max!). It's really a Christmas movie, but it works on Valentines Day as well.
I was cleaning up the kitchen when Max got home. He was SO HAPPY it amazed me. His smile was so broad he practically had to bend backwards under its weight.
"You look like you had a good time," I observed.
"Oh hell yes did I!" he shouted in response. "I had the BEST time!"
"Are you drunk?"
"No, actually, no I'm not, mother dear."
"Hey, I'm just asking. No judgment here."
"I had two drinks, hours ago. Well, yeah, and then two drinks or so after that. The food was excellent." He kept letting out gusts of laughter.
"So what happened?"
"Well, for one thing, let me tell you that Kass will NOT need a fake date for the wedding."
"What happened!?"
"Guess who was at the Celestial Lamb?"
I shrugged. "Who?"
"Guess!" He grinned wickedly and burst out laughing.
I hardly dared say the name but... "Amber?"
"BINGO!" he shouted, laughing and jumping and pointing at me. "You got it in one!"
"So why is that a good thing?"
"Well, because she spotted us. I didn't see her until she came up, right behind Kass, so she could look me in the face." Max began imitating her movements and speech, moving his arms, holding his head, chin high, the way she does.
"So she comes over, all fire in her eyes, spitting venom and spite, full of black hate..."
"And?"
"She says to me Look at you. Do you think you're fooling anyone? And she goes on and on about how I'm a liar and a phony and a fake, and then she says, "And here you are on a fake date, as if nobody knows. Let me tell you: everybody knows!" I didn't realize it at the time, but Kass thought Amber was talking to her the whole time. And THEN, Kass looks up at Amber — she turns her face up to look, like this, and Amber looks down at Kass and right in her face she says fucking dyke."
"Holy shit!"
"Holy shit, indeed! I was just about to get up to deal with her, when Kass takes her drink, almost a full glass, and tosses it over her shoulder, so it goes all over Amber's dress."
My mouth fell open.
"And THEN Kass stands up to face her, and she says in that low voice of hers, Look what you did to yourself, you clumsy cow."
"God!"
"And THEN Kass, fast as lightning, gives Amber a punch to the gut! Amber bends over, and Kass puts her hand on Amber's neck to keep her from standing back up. She bends down and says something in Amber's ear.
"At that point, everybody was looking, and Kass says in a voice of fake concern, Oh, my God, I think she's going to throw up! and she says Can you stand up, honey? and she — she doesn't exactly push her, but she maneuvers Amber so she falls on her butt. Then Kass sits down like she wasn't involved. Somebody from the restaurant hurried over and escorted Amber out."
"Wow."
"Yeah, and you know what was really impressive? Kass was only like a foot away from Amber when she punched her — maybe less, probably like eight inches. It's hard to get that kind of power in that short a distance; that short a punch."
My eyebrows danced in astonishment. "And nobody saw?"
"Nobody saw Kass throw the drink and nobody saw the punch except our table, and THEN after they tossed Amber out, the manager came over and apologized for the disturbance! Can you believe it? He comped us a round of drinks and told us that our dinner was on the house!"
He burst into laughter, and laughed for a good while. I was mute with astonishment.
"What about Kass' friends, though?" I asked. "Amber outed her, didn't she."
"Yeah, she did. Not as much as Kass thought, though. See, she thought all the stuff that Amber was spewing at me was directed at her. So when the commotion died down. Kass was blushing like fire, and figured she had to do some serious damage control. She said, I guess I have something I need to tell you... but her friends already knew." Here Max's emotions took an unexpected turn, and he started sniffing. The more he sniffed, the more he needed to sniff, and soon his eyes were full of tears. "Kass looks around at them, with this little frightened face and she says I'm gay. And she starts to cry. And her friends, they reach out and put their hands on hers, and the closest friend hugs her. And they all said, Oh, Kass..." (here Max let out a sob) "They said Oh, Kass, we know. We've known forever. What did you think? and she starts to cry harder and she says, I didn't know — I didn't know if you'd still love me!"
Max bellowed out the last two words, and then he broke down crying. He cried with everything in him. He shook, he gasped, he used tissue after tissue. Somehow I understood that he cried not just for Kass and for the tenderness of her friends, but also for his own isolation, for his frustration, rejection, incomprehension, and pain.
He cried hard. His sobs were deep. His tears were copious and drenching. But he didn't cry for long.
Soon he calmed himself, and after a few good breaths, he continued. "They said, Of course we love you! What did you think!"
I held the box of tissues, offering, but he said, "No, it's fine. I'm done. I don't know why, but it really got to me. Totally unexpected."
Later, after Max drank some water and took off his coat and shoes, he told me, "Oh — there's more."
"MORE?" I asked, stunned.
"Yeah." He took a good breath, straightened up, and said, "Yeah, so one of Kass's friends is ALSO coming to Nessa'a wedding. Actually, the wedding, the topic of Nessa's wedding came up before all that. Because I'm going, Kass is going, and this friend of Kass, she says, I'm going too! So, you know — wow, funny, how about that." He paused a moment and dabbed his eyes. "Anyway, so, after we left the restaurant, we're standing out there in the parking lot, saying goodbyes, and hugs and all, and Kass's friend says, Oh, by the way, the wedding? That bitch Amanda's coming too — at least, she's invited. I can't see her NOT coming."
"Who's Amanda?" I asked, confused.
"Oh, oh! No, no, not Amanda — she said Amanda. She meant Amber."
I was about to swear, but instead I burst out laughing. Max looked at me for a while with a bemused grin, and then he said, "Yeah, it's a laugh riot," he said drily. "Anyway, I'm off to bed. I have to go to work tomorrow."
"Oh, wait—" I stopped him at the door. "Who was Amber with?"
"With?"
"At the restaurant. She couldn't have been there by herself, right?"
Max shook his head. "I guess." He shrugged. "Who knows? Who cares? Whoever he is, God bless him. I'm glad it's not me."
With that, he turned and his footsteps thudded up the stairs.
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
The evening with Kass felt like a victory, even if it wasn't a true date. It did buoy up Max's spirit and gave him hope of finding someone.
Yet, he continued to strike out. No one seemed to want to go out with him. He wasn't exactly snubbed in the sense that women turned away from him. They just wouldn't go out with him: not for coffee, not for a walk, not for dinner, lunch, or brunch... you get the idea.
To say he was perplexed is putting it mildly. I should explain that Max is a good-looking guy. Strikingly good looking, to the point that women, young and old, turn to look, and get caught staring at him. He's also a good person. He's not vain, or spoiled. He doesn't act entitled. He's modest, considerate, looks fairly athletic although he doesn't play any sport.
If he has any bad side, I can't think of what it is. I'm sure Amber would have some strong input on that, although I'd be inclined not to trust it.
In any case, Max widened his circle. He tried visiting museums, going to bars... he joined a gym, did volunteer work. He asked woman after woman, and got rejection after rejection.
In one particularly puzzling episode, Max was at a bar, chatting up not one, but three young women, and as he put it "doing very well," until one of the three placed him as "the Max who used to date Amber," and the mood changed. The women didn't walk away or turn away or turn him off. It was like a light went out -- the light of possibilities. All the cute, flirty repartee abruptly flattened out. Max went from thinking he had a chance of getting lucky to knowing for absolute certain he didn't. He tried to ask what happened, but one of the women waved off his question saying, "It's fine. Everything's fine. It's cool."
For Max, it wasn't fine or cool. It was bewildering and disturbing.
He pored over his college yearbook, considering calling his college flames. Then he dug out his high-school yearbook and searched online to see what some of the women look like now. In the end, though, he couldn't bring himself to actually call any of them. "I know I'm desperate," he said, "but I don't want to come across as desperate, and I definitely don't want to be known as desperate."
Under normal circumstances, he would have gotten a yes right away, but for some reason these weren't normal circumstances.
"I don't understand it," he said to me. "I'm not an asshole, am I? Do I have bad breath? Body odor? Do I dress funny? Am I rude? Am I a misogynist and don't realize it? Am I one of those toxic masculinity guys?"
"No to all that," I assured him.
"Yeah, but you're my friend; you *have* to say that." He rubbed his chin, reflective. "I've got to tell you, this total rejection is seriously undermining my confidence. It's really messing with my head. You know, before Amber, I maybe got turned down twice — in my whole life. When one relationship ended, I went right into another. I've always been with somebody. It's weird to be alone. I feel like a pariah."
"I don't understand it either," I told him. "It makes no sense."
"I'm just about ready to give up," he declared. "I mean, why try, if I can only fail? At this point, I'm resolved, or resigned. I'm just going to stop looking, stop asking. If I have to be alone for a while, I'll be alone for a while; see what that's like. Maybe life is trying to teach me something, and until I learn it, this door will remain closed."
"That's very philosophical, man."
He smiled. "It's not like I have a choice, right?" He shrugged. "Complaining isn't going to help."
I have noticed that sometimes when you're blocked, when you continue to fail on the same step, that things remain blocked until you give up, the way Max did. I don't know how it works. Maybe it's some kind of superstition that's actually real, or maybe what's blocking you is your own tension and anxiety. So, when you give up you stop being tense and anxious, and you're finally ready to receive that thing you've been longing for. In either case, the key is that once you let go, the dam breaks.
It happened this time as well.
About an hour after my conversation with Max, I went to buy groceries. Before I entered the store, I bumped into Kitty. She seemed quite excited to see me — which I found a little odd. Nice, but odd. I mean, we're friends, but not best friends. Not usually excited-to-see-you friends. To my surprise, she insisted on going for coffee "so we can catch up." She offered to treat.
Once we were served and seated, she just gushed at me: "I heard you moved out of your little adventure into a big adventure!"
"Um, what?"
"Remember? When I saw you in that horrible garage apartment, you said it was a little adventure."
"Oh, oh, yeah, I remember now! You were right, it was horrible in there. I didn't really see it at the time. I was so caught up in the renovation."
"But now you're with Max, huh? In the big house, living the dream."
"I guess," I replied in a puzzled tone. I couldn't understand what she was getting at.
"You were going in the grocery store just now? I heard that you're in there a lot."
Heard from who?
"Yeah, I'm, uh, making salmon in parchment tonight. I need some ingredients."
Her eyebrows lifted. "You do the cooking?"
"Yeah, yeah. Max suggested it, and it's actually a lot of fun."
A cute smile appeared on Kitty's face. My puzzlement gave way to uneasiness.
Kitty gave me a playful poke and said, "You just slipped in and took Amber's place, didn't you."
For some reason, when she said that, I saw in my mind's eye the memory of Kitty and me standing in Max's empty garage, when she came to see me on Christmas Eve. In that detailed mental picture, I could see the spot for Max's car (over there) and the spot for Amber's car (where Kitty and I were standing). With that invisible visual aid in my head, when she said Amber's place, I stupidly took her to mean Amber's parking place. I scratched my forehead, more than a little confused, and then replied, "But I already had a place to park my car. In fact, I still leave it there. I don't use it very much."
"What?" Now it was her turn to look confused.
"Kitty, why are you asking about my car?"
"Your — what?" She responded, giggling at my non sequitur.
Then, delayed understanding — All the pieces fell into place: her innuendos, the sly undercurrent to each thing she said. Her playful pokes... It hit me all at once.
My expression of shock and surprise shocked and surprised Kitty. It wiped the smile right off her face.
"WHAT!?" I gasped, nearly upsetting our little table. Fortunately, no coffee spilled and none of our food fell on the floor.
"Oh, my God! Elliot! I'm sorry! Elliot! But aren't you?" I was too stunned to answer. She went on: "I'm sorry, really sorry! I thought — well, everybody thinks that you... and Max... you know!"
"No, no I don't know!" I exclaimed, hurt. "Whatever you're thinking, it's not true!"
"But, but, nobody ever sees Max with a girl any more! He's always with you!"
"That's because every woman's turned him down! All of a sudden he's persona non grata and he doesn't know why. He feels like a pariah."
"He's— what?" Kitty began. She was still struggling to understand.
"He's going crazy," I said. "I don't know what the fuck is happening. Neither does he. Max can't get a date to save his life!"
"He's trying to get dates?" she repeated in a mystified tone. "With women? But, Elliot, no one's going out with him because everybody kn— everybody thinks you two are a couple! Aren't you?"
"No, we're not! We never were. We never will be! Neither of us are gay, or even bi! Where did anybody get that idea?" I paused for a moment, casting about for an idea, then told her, "Listen, if you don't believe me, you can ask Amber."
At the mention of Amber, Kitty stopped dead.
"What's the problem?" I asked her. "If anybody knows that Max is not gay, it's Amber. Just ask Amber."
"Uh—" Kitty suddenly looked very uncomfortable. Mentally she went back in her memory through her social interactions, calculating. Then, in a low voice, she confided, "Amber is the one who says you two are gay. She's been saying it for a long time. For months." She blushed. "As far back as November, maybe even before. That's why she left Max. Didn't you know?"
"No, I didn't know! There was nothing to know! Amber— Amber just vanished one day. Gone! Poof! One minute she's there, the next minute, gone. She didn't leave a note. She never said why. She just up and left. Just gone." I told her how Max and I discovered on Christmas Eve that she'd covertly moved all her belongings out of Max's house.
Kitty's face went white. Pieces of memories, images, puzzle pieces shifted and moved and recombined in her head. Things were falling into place; her picture of how things were, began to line up in a different way. She asked, "Amber said nothing to you, or Max, at all?"
I shook my head. "Nothing."
Kitty took a deep breath. "Wow. Well, she's been saying a lot to everyone else. She's been telling things, and hinting things, and—-" she swallowed, and looked down. "I'm sorry, Elliot, but I honestly believed it. I was actually happy for you two!"
"Ohhh," I sighed, like a balloon losing air. "Oh my God. Oh my God! I have to go. Kitty, I have to go. I have to get out of here. I need to tell Max. I need to tell Max." While Kitty fumbled with her bag, I got up and left the cafe. "Wait! Elliot, wait!" she called after me. "Dammit!" She was trying to pull out some money to leave on the table.
I got outside, and looked around, as if I needed to get my bearings. Behind me, from inside the cafe, I could hear the waiter calling to Kitty, "Miss? Miss? You haven't paid for your food! You can't just leave! You and your friend—" Then the door shut, cutting him off. Kitty appeared at my elbow. "At least let me give you a ride, Elliot. I'll come with you and talk with Max. Come on, my car's over here. Come on. I can help you explain."
The explaining didn't take long. Evidently, from the day that I moved into Max's garage, Amber began a whisper campaign, telling everyone she knew her stories about Max and me, always stressing that it was strictly in confidence. She knew very well that nothing spreads faster than a secret — and her "secret" was that Max had moved me in as her replacement. That the two of us had always been in love. She claimed that once in high school she'd seen the two of us kissing.
"But that *did* happen, though, right?" Kitty asked, in totally innocence.
"No!" we responded in unison.
That's when Max told me about Amber's ménage à trois comment — that she knew -- that she "emotionally perceived" that Max wanted to move me into the basement as the first step in tricking Amber into a threesome with Max and me.
According to Kitty, Amber claimed that when she refused to go along with the threesome, Max installed me above the garage "like a princess locked in a tower," just for the sake of making Amber appear heartless and mean. She claimed that Max had hinted at moving me in with them from the very start of their relationship. She claimed Max wanted me in the bedroom across the hall.
Kitty told us, "She said that finally she couldn't compete with Elliot any more, and that's why she had to leave." Kitty flushed a deep red. "She said that the last straw was when she found the two of you in bed together."
"Oh my God!" Max exclaimed.
"But, Kitty," I asked, "Why did you just believe it? Why didn't you ever ask me if it was true?"
She shifted uncomfortably. "Well, everything she said fit everything you guys did! Like, you were living in that terrible space above the garage. Why did you go there?"
"Amber put me there. It was her idea!"
Kitty continued to look away, embarrassed. She said, "Well, okay. I had another reason. It's a little embarrassing and will sound very vain, but in my defense I didn't come up with this. It's something that Amber pointed out."
"So what is it?"
"Neither of you guys ever asked me out. Why is that? How come neither of you ever asked me out?"
"I did," Max said, looking a little irritated. "I did ask you out. Twice. Each time, you told me you were waiting for Claus to ask you. And then the two of you stuck together like two Lego pieces."
"Oh," Kitty replied, suddenly remembering. "Right, right — you did. But you never did, Elliot. Just about every other guy in our class asked me out. Why didn't you?"
It was my turn to flush red. "I knew you'd say no. I could feel it." After a pause, I added, "Besides, I haven't asked many women out. When I did, I got a lot of no's."
"Ah," Kitty said. "Sorry to hear that."
"It's fine," I told her.
Max frowned. "So now, every woman in town believes I'm gay and shacked up with Elliot."
"That's about the size of it," Kitty admitted.
"And Amber has been soaking the airwaves with this idea for—" he counted "—for five months?"
"At least."
We three fell into silence for a few moments. Then Kitty said, "I'm sorry, guys. but honestly, I thought it was true. I even thought it was nice for the both of you, that you had each other."
Max looked at me and said, "No offense, Elliot, but—"
"I hear you," I agreed.
Kitty offered to tell people the truth — to say that Amber had made it all up.
"Don't bother. It won't work," Max told her. "You can't undo a rumor. It's like trying to take pee out of a pool."
"So what are you going to do?"
"I don't need to do anything," Max replied. "I mean, I'm going to quit doing one thing: I'm going to quit asking out every single woman I see. I'll just stop. Sooner or later I'll meet somebody. It'll be fine."
"Do you want me to move out?" I asked. "It's no problem. I've got plenty of money. You know that."
"Really?" Kitty asked me. "Amber said you were broke, and that you were after Max because you're a gold digger."
I burst into laughter at that. It felt good to laugh.
Max, answering my question, said, "No, I don't want you to move out. It wouldn't convince anyone of anything. Besides, I like having you here." Then Max stopped, and started back a little. An idea had just struck him.
"Ohhh!" he said. "Now I see! You know my date on Valentines, with Kass? I went as Kass' beard, but Amber thought that she, Kass, was my beard!"
Kitty looked puzzled, so he told her, "It doesn't matter — not worth explaining." And then he explained anyway, telling how Kass punched Amber in the gut in had her thrown out of the Celestial Lamb.
Kitty's eyes bulged in surprise, but she didn't laugh. Instead she asked, "Do you mean little Kass, the dancer?"
"Yes."
"I didn't know she's gay," Kitty said.
"Well, don't tell anyone. I guess Amber outed her, but I don't how out she is."
"Okay. Mum's the word."
After a short silence, I asked Max, "What about the wedding?"
"What about it?" he challenged.
"Are you still going to try to find a date?"
"Sure," he said. "I guess."
So I ventured, "Kitty, why don't *you* go with Max?"
"To Nessa's wedding? I can't, you ninny. I'm invited, and I'm going with Claus." She shook her head, then, a little irritated, challenged me: "Elliot, why don't you go with Max?"
"If I was a girl, I would," I retorted. "Of if we were bi or gay, I'd go, but we're not."
That pretty much shut down the conversation, and Kitty left soon after.
Max fell into sullen silence. I again offered to move out. The property-management company had an empty apartment I was working on. It wasn't couldn't legally be rented yet, but I was sure I could use it, at least temporarily.
"If you want to do that, fine," Max said. "But you don't have to."
"I think it's best," I said. "It will be easier for this to blow over if I'm not living with you."
"I guess," he said. "But listen, wait until Saturday, and I'll help you. I don't want you disappearing the way Amber did."
"Does it both you, people thinking this about us — about you?"
"Does it bother you?" He reflected the question back at me.
I shrugged. "I don't think people think about me much. I honestly don't care if they think I'm gay. I'm not, just for the record. But what about you?"
"I'm not gay either," he replied.
"No, I meant — does it bother you?"
"Well yes, it bothers me, but mainly because it keeps me from having someone. I mean, before this, I never knew how lonely I feel. I know this is sounds weird, but I'm lonely all the time. I want a woman to be with. You know? Someone to have and to hold?"
"You mean you want to get married?"
"No, I'm just talking about having and holding. It's nice to have someone in your arms, and for someone to wrap their arms around you. There's nothing like it. And there is nothing colder than waking up in an empty bed."
"I guess," I responded. I didn't want to say that waking up in an empty bed was my daily experience, and had been for years. "I didn't know you were such a romantic."
"I'm not," Max countered. "It's just a physical thing."
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
Friday evening, over dinner, out of the blue, and quite bluntly, Max told me, "The move is off. You're staying."
"I am?" I replied, a little put out by his peremptory tone.
"No, you're not. I mean, yes, you're not moving. This whole thing totally pisses me off. The only reason you would move out — the only reason that I would let you move out — is because of Amber: because she's manipulated everything. And I mean everything — you, me, every woman in town..." He shook his head.
"You're just worried you won't find a replacement cook," I quipped.
"Well, you have gotten pretty good," he admitted. "To be honest, you've had a couple clunkers, but a few times you really amazed me. Which reminds me: my mother wants to come over." He blushed.
"So I can cook for her? Or so we can cook together?"
"I don't know. I didn't think to ask. Both? Either?"
"Either is fine," I told him, although I did have a moment of what have I gotten myself into?
"You know," Max began, "Changing subject — you told me that you get offers of work from headhunters and corporate recruiters — programming jobs. Is that still true?"
"Oh, yeah," I replied. "Every day!"
"How come you don't take them?"
"Well... at first I was so burned out by my experience at the startup..." I paused. "The idea of sitting all day, long days, doing nothing but writing code, almost made me physically ill. Now... well, now I guess I like my life the way it is. It's peaceful. I'm sort of off the grid. Not really, but I hardly use my computer or phone nowadays." I gestured lamely, and repeated, "I really like the way my life is now."
"Cooking? Taking care of apartments?"
"Yeah. I like what I'm doing."
"So what, then? You've given up your professional life? You'll never go back to programming?"
"I wouldn't say never. I think it's just a break. Eventually I'll probably fall in love with coding again, and then it will be different."
"Fall in love?" he repeated, his eyebrows dancing with amusement. "I had no idea you were such a romantic!"
I rolled my eyes.
It turned out that Max had another reason for not wanting me to go — a bit far-fetched and slightly paranoid, but I understood. Naturally, it had to do with Amber. As we were cleaning up after dinner, Max told me that Amber had been leaving him messages. Notes, specifically. Dropped outside our door, left with the receptionist at Max's office, stuck in the windshield of his car. After the first few, he began discarding them unread.
"They're bizarre, psychotic things," he said. "She says all kinds of crazy stuff and tries to get into my head. Hinting that she could come back and forgive me, if you can believe that."
"Forgive you? Forgive you for what?"
"For you, obviously." He growled in frustration. "She also makes hints about Nessa's wedding. And this really pisses me off. She was going to come as my plus-one. Obviously there's no way that's going to happen... but get this: she said she'd still be willing, but only if I kicked you out and swore I'd never see you again."
"Jesus!"
"I know. Sorry. Anyway, somehow she's gotten to be great friends with Nessa, and not only Nessa, but also Nessa's mother, who is my aunt, AND the groom's sister and mother!"
"My God, she never stops, does she? She's insidious!"
"Now, as it turns out, that's how Amber weaseled her own invitation, AND she is bringing her own plus-one!"
"And her plus-one is—?"
"I don't know and I don't care. It isn't me, and that's all that counts. But now I'm determined — come hell or high water, I am going to find a date for the wedding, and not just a date, but a HOT date. I don't care if I have to pay someone, but I am not going alone."
"Why not go alone? You can brave it out. Would it really be so bad?"
"No — if I'm alone, Amber will try to get in there. She'll stick her arm through mine. She'll be in every picture by my side. She won't just try to get back together with me; she'll do her best to make it seem that we ARE back together. I can't let that happen. I need somebody to occupy that space, so that Amber can't step into it."
"You really think Amber would try to get back together with you?"
"She IS trying. She's already trying! Haven't you been listening?"
"Oh!" I exclaimed. Suddenly a light came on in my head. "And if *I* move out, you're afraid that Amber will move in! Aren't you!"
"Yes," he said. "I'm not ashamed to admit it. I mean, if you're not here, I'm certain she'll find a way to move all her crap back in, the same way she snuck everything out. I wouldn't put it past her. She's nuts, and I want her out of my life. Definitively. I've got to close every opening, nail up every window and door, and not give her even the smallest toehold."
From that point, Max began to really scrape the bottom of the barrel of his desperation, although his attempts to find a date were stealthy. He briefly tried a dating app, concentrating on women from out of town. He again went through his college and high-school yearbooks, this time googling nearly every woman, trying to find someone who looked good but lived outside of Amber's baleful influence. Once again, he didn't call any of them.
"This is hopeless!" he exclaimed. "It's too complicated!" He was also finding that many of his old crushes and flames were married.
"You know," he confided one night, when he was more than a little tipsy, "I do have a kind of date of last resort. In case of emergency, break glass, right?"
He had the air of a man with a dirty little secret, so his confidential whispering made me uneasy. "Who is she?"
He put his finger to his lips and made the shhh sound. I shook my head. "Max, you are so drunk."
He sighed heavily. "Just take it as my coping mechanism, okay? It's not like I drink all the time."
"You're right," I admitted. "So who is this girl of last resort? And what makes her so out of the ordinary?"
He leaned close and in a stage whisper, hissed, "She's my cousin."
"Oh, come on, Max! You can't be serious."
"I'm not serious," he objected. "I'm drunk. Anyway, she is a DISTANT cousin — I'm not even sure if we're related at all. Probably by marriage or whatnot. Not consagui— constabulary, whatever. Anyway, this girl is hot as hell, believe me. I'm seriously thinking of calling her. I'm pretty sure she'd say yes. She's a wild little devil, and she'd do it for a laugh."
"Okay," I said, in a dubious tone, stretching out my okay to make it clear that I only meant, I hear the sounds you're making, but I am not implying agreement or approval. I was about to suggest that he at least wait until he's sober to call, but he wasn't finished talking.
"The problem is," Max continued, "Nessa knows her, too. She'd know who she was, and I would never live it down. Never."
I only tell that anecdote to show how far he'd fallen; how low he'd sunk; how desperate he'd become.
The turning point came when Max's mother — I mean Melissa — came over to bake with me. I hadn't yet ventured into that part of the cooking world, so this was my baptism with flour. We made extensive use of the big kitchen island, creating breads, focaccia, and a killer apple pie. There was flour everywhere. As we worked, I brought Melissa up to date on Max's state of affairs. I even told her about the distant cousin, and it nearly broke her heart.
"He is right," she admitted. "She is very pretty, and very, very wild. And it's true that she's only related by marriage, so technically it wouldn't be a problem, but he'd be making a fool of himself if he brought her. She's such a crazy little thing, she'd probably say yes, just for a laugh. And for whatever trouble she could cause." She shook her head sadly. "It could backfire for any number of reasons, aside from the stigma of dating his cousin."
When Max came in, Melissa ran to him and hugged him and hugged him and wouldn't let go. She cooed, "My poor baby! My poor baby!" over and over.
"What did you tell her?" he asked me over her shoulder. I shrugged in what I hoped was an innocent way.
"You know," Melissa told him, wiping her nose and getting flour on her cheek, "I'll bet your Aunt Viv could help you."
At the mention of that name, Max's face went white. "How?" he asked.
"I don't know," Melissa admitted, "but she knows more people than God, and she's the wisest woman I know."
"And the scariest," Max added.
"That, too," Melissa admitted. "But I bet she could find a date for you."
To make a long story short, Melissa called her sister-in-law, Max's Aunt Vivianne. She went into another room to make the call and she closed the door, so I didn't hear any of the conversation. It lasted twenty-five minutes. Melissa emerged and declared that Vivianne would stop over on Wednesday after dinner. Melissa had already told her the whole story, as she understood it, but Vivianne wanted to hear it from Max and me, from start to finish.
Wednesday arrived. Max's nerves were on edge from anticipation; he had a hard time eating dinner. "I've got such a knot in my stomach," he complained.
"Is she really so bad?" I asked. "I mean, if she's so scary, why would your mother want her to come?"
"I don't think she scares everyone," Max admitted, "but she's always frightened me."
When Viv arrived, she shook our hands in a businesslike way. She was dressed in a conservatively cut white tailleur. Her hair was a caramel-blonde bob that seemed to radiate control. She was in her late forties, I judged, with a good figure and a nice face. She did have an air of command and was clearly used to having her own way. I could see why Max felt so intimidated.
She had less of that effect on me, I suppose because I didn't have any childhood memories of her as my scary aunt. I won't say I wasn't intimidated, but I didn't experience the same fear and anxiety as Max.
To my surprise, she wanted to hear the story from my point of view first. She asked a lot of questions, and prompted me to talk about my family, the death of my mother, my father's move to Florida, and a brief overview of my dating history — which didn't take long to tell. I didn't understand why she needed to know all of that, and in retrospect I'm surprised that I spilled my guts so readily.
She was particularly interested in my conversations with Kitty. She had some very detailed questions about who said what, and the sequence of remarks. It was odd, yes, but I was already in a momentum of confession; whatever she asked, I answered.
Then she turned her attention to Max and asked him whether anything was missing from my account. He took a deep breath and soon found himself recounting the story of his relationship with Amber. At one point I couldn't contain myself, and I blurted out the question, "Max! What on earth attracted you to her in the first place?"
Vivianne glanced at me with an expression that read I'll allow the question, and she turned her gaze expectantly to Max.
"Well," he mused. "The thing is, Amber is pretty hot. That's what struck me at first. Initially, it was physical. The first time I saw her, she was wearing this tight bathing suit, and I..." His attention drifted off into his memory and held there momentarily. "Then, as I got to know her, it was her clarity. She is so sure about everything! No doubts, no questions. I mean, to me, life is a big mystery. Why are we here? What are doing with our lives? Other people — other people can be hard to read. But Amber was always absolutely positive she knew what everyone was up to. For her, the world is black and white, with hard edges. She's like Judge Dredd in a more attractive package."
Viv didn't comment until after Max had unburdened himself. At that point, Viv offered only one observation, "For a woman... honestly for any person to vanish the way she did... is simply not normal. To say that her whisper campaign is vile and manipulative, is to say too little."
Then she nodded, rose to her feet, and instructed Max to come see her on Friday after work.
"Be ready to stay the weekend," she warned him. There was something in her manner that made you feel you had to obey, and in fact, Max acquiesced with a nod.
"What are you going to do?" I asked her. Something in her manner, in her tone, got my hackles up. Frankly, I was worried about Max; worried about his safety. I don't know why, but the feeling was strong.
"I'm going to show Max a possible solution," she told me. "There is what seems to me a fairly obvious and even elegant solution, but it does come with a certain cost. And I need to know that Max understands that cost."
"I hope he will," I told her, "because I sure as hell don't."
Her only response was to smile and squeeze my hand. I'm sure it was meant to be reassuring, but it wasn't. My question remained unanswered.
Dutifully, Max packed his bag Thursday night and took it to work with him Friday morning.
"What do you think is going to happen?" I asked before he left.
"I'm expecting a kind of Dating Game," he said, smiling nervously. "Remember that show? You know, she'll introduce me to a couple of women and see who I hit it off with."
"Sounds promising," I said. "But I don't remember her saying anything like that."
"No, she didn't, but what else could it be? How else could she possibly help me?"
"I don't know, but I didn't like it when she mentioned a cost. Didn't that creep you out? Maybe you have to sell your soul to her, or to her demon master."
Max didn't laugh. "Aunt Viv has always creeped me out. She's one scary lady." He paused for a moment, reflecting. "You know, though, there have always been whispers about her, that she's into some kinky stuff. Maybe she's going to introduce me to a domme or to a trans girl or to someone woman who's fallen under her spell."
"I hadn't thought of that," I admitted. "How would you feel about that?"
"As long as the woman is good looking and has a decent personality, I'm game." He smiled, a little ruefully. "Whoever she is, whatever she is, she'd be doing me a huge favor. Anyway, let's face it: at this point, I've got nothing to lose."
Or so he thought.
I spent Friday night alone. I was a little nervous, but nothing like the nights when I was here by myself after Christmas. I slept in my own bed, I didn't worry about Amber breaking in, and I didn't wake up once.
Early Saturday morning I was in the kitchen. It was my first attempt at making popovers, and I was anxious. Partly because I was afraid the popovers wouldn't come out right, but mainly because I was worried about Max.
Max came in the back door just as I was pouring the popover batter into the tins. It was only 7:30 in the morning, but he looked like a wreck. He was visibly shaken, pale, clearly unnerved. I was shocked and even frightened to see the state he was in.
"Max!" I cried, "You look like you've seen a ghost! Were you in a car accident or something?"
He looked at me with hollow eyes and cried, "Worse! Much worse!"
He opened a cabinet, and clumsily took out a short tumbler. With some difficulty he clumsily set the glass on the counter and tried to still his shaky hands. He picked up a bottle of whiskey, but it seemed to come alive in his hand. The neck was pointing in every direction as he tried to unscrew the cap. I had no doubt that if he succeeded in opening the bottle, more whiskey would land on the counter and the floor than in his glass. I took the bottle away from him, saying, "Hang on, let me." I twisted off the cap. "Are you sure you want this?" I managed to smell his breath but didn't catch any whiff of alcohol.
"I need it," he rasped in a throaty whisper. "If you saw what I've seen..."
I poured an ounce. He gestured more. I poured another ounce. He gestured more. I poured half a cup, and he drank it off all at once with a shudder. He looked a little better.
"One more," he croaked.
"Max!" I protested.
"One more!" So I poured another half cup and put the cap back on the bottle. He threw the whiskey down his throat, and to my surprise, he stopped shaking.
"Better," he said. "Much better."
"What happened to you?" I asked, full of concern.
"Oh, my God," he said. "You don't want to know. And I can't tell you, so don't ever ask me. It's insane, completely insane. You wouldn't believe me, anyway." He looked down and shook his head, as if trying to wake up. "In fact, I don't believe it myself." He cleared his throat, straightened up, and squared his shoulders. "Now, I'm going to get changed, then I'm going to go for a run, a long run, and then—" he spread his hands, palms forward, as though he gently pushed open a pair of doors. "—and then, I'm going back to being normal again. How about that?"
"Yeah," I said. "How about it?" I had no idea what he was talking about.
I finished portioning out the popover batter and set the pan in the oven. He came downstairs in his jogging clothes, and went out the front door.
I called Melissa and asked for Vivianne's phone number. I made a lame excuse about Max having forgotten something.
Then I called Vivianne and demanded an explanation. "Ah," she said. "You're very protective of your friend. That's good. I noticed that when we spoke."
"Yes, I am," I told her. "And I want to know: What did you do to him? He looks terrible, like he's been through some kind of trauma."
"Yes," she admitted. "He reacted badly. I tried to prepare him, but honestly, I didn't expect that sort of reaction. How is he coping?" I told her about the two whiskeys and the jogging, and she said, "Well, he'll be alright, then. If he gets really distressed or upset, please call me. I'll come right over."
"But what did you do to him?" I repeated.
"It's difficult to explain. It's better if I show you."
"And *will* you show me?"
"Of course," she replied. "Could you come by this evening after five, and be ready to stay for a couple of days? Otherwise, you could come next Friday."
"No, screw it!" I shouted. "I'm coming over right now, and I want some straight answers."
She didn't react to my strong language or my shouting. She answered me as though we were both speaking calmly, in a friendly way. "Believe me, you will have your answers. You'll understand everything," she said. "But can I ask you one more question? Do you remember what you told me about your conversation with Kitty? You said that you'd go to the wedding with Max if you were a girl. Would you really? Are your feelings that strong?"
"Feelings!?" I shouted. "He's my best friend!"
"But would you do that, if you could? If you were a girl?"
"What kind of question is that?" I asked, taken aback, and more than a little offended.
"It's a yes/no question," she replied. "Would you?"
"Sure!" I shouted. "Of course I would! And if I had wings, I'd fly! Anything else?"
"No," she acknowledged in a smooth tone. "I'm sorry that you're so upset, but once you're here, you'll understand."
"I hope so."
I almost hung up, but she stopped me, asking, "Do you have my address?" I didn't. She dictated it to me, and then I caught a whiff of my popovers.
"Excuse me," I told her. "I'll be over after I take my popovers out of the oven."
"How lovely," she commented.
And THEN I hung up on her.
I didn't tell Max where I was going, but when I said I might be gone for a few days, he looked distinctly uncomfortable. So I told him, "You can call me if you need me."
"I'll be fine," he answered, but he didn't sound fine.
It was a short walk to my car. Along the way I was very aware of the heat from my popovers, which were wrapped in a kitchen towel in a small paper bag. I left some for Max on the kitchen island.
Vivianne Errison, Max's aunt, lived in the rich part of town. Her house — like the woman — was beautiful, imposing, stately, intimidating.
She received me in a small sitting room, and had tea waiting. "I know it's a bit late for tea," she said, "but it's a good small thing in socially awkward situations. Do I smell popovers?"
"Yes, you do. And I'm sorry for shouting and swearing at you, but I'm worried about Max. I want to know what you did to him."
"Right you are," she said. "Then let's take care of that first, shall we? Afterward, we'll have tea and popovers." Then, leaping directly into it, she asked, "Tell me: have you ever heard of the Medallion of Zulo?"
"No."
"It's a strange sort of token, and it happened to come into my possession. There's a lot that I could tell you about it, but to keep this as brief an explanation as possible, I'll simply say that it's a device that turns one person into another."
"Oh, what a load of pure BS!" I exclaimed. My feelings were still hot.
"I don't expect you to believe it—"
"That's good, because I don't."
"Fine. Now, if you don't believe it, you won't mind trying it, will you? Then, when it doesn't work, you can heap all the mockery you like on me, and I will dutifully listen until you're done. Will you try it?"
"Sure," I said.
"I'll do to you exactly what I did to Max, which is to turn you into a little girl."
"A little— what? Oh, jeez. Why?"
"We can go into the why of it afterward, but let's start the demonstration first."
She opened a necklace case and lifted out a small medallion on a chain. She carefully, gingerly set it around my neck, then picked up a young girl's dress that was draped over a nearby chair. It was a sleeveless dress with a flared skirt in bright royal blue with a white band across the waist. She touched the dress to the medallion and smiled a little smile. Nothing happened. I didn't feel anything, and I didn't change. As she draped the dress back over the chair, I reached for the chain, to take the medallion off.
"Wait!" she said. "Leave it!"
"Nothing happened," I pointed out. "Are we supposed to pretend?"
"No," she said, "We wait for half an hour. That's how long the transformation takes. I suggest that in the next few moments, we might sample your popovers."
"What is the point of this?" I asked her.
"You said that you'd go with Max to the wedding if you were a girl. This will allow you to be that girl. If — of course — if and only if you honestly meant it."
"A little girl?" I laughed. "He's not going to take a little girl to the wedding, even if this crazy thing could do that."
She stood, picked up the dress again, and led me through a doorway into a smaller room. It had a small platform a few inches high and about five feet square. The platform occupied the space in front of a full-sized, three-way mirror. In the far corner of the room stood a privacy screen. Near the door we entered were two small armchairs and a tiny occasional table. "This is my fitting room," Vivianne explained. "Why don't you step up there, on the platform, so you can watch yourself in the mirror." I stepped up. She stood nearby, looking up at me. To my surprise, my eye level began to lower, and Vivianne correspondingly lowered her gaze. Now I could see changes. They slowly developed, but they were quite definitely happening. My arms and legs grew thinner. Vivianne's eyes grew closer in level to mine as I shrank in size. My hair streamed out of my scalp and spilled down to my shoulders. At the same time, my head became narrower and more childlike, both in size and aspect.
"How can this be happening?" I exclaimed. I was now on the same eye level as Vivianne. "Did you hypnotize me? Was there something in the tea?"
"No, I didn't hypnotize you, and no you didn't have any tea. Not that there's anything in it anyway. Here," she said, handing me the dress, "Why don't you go behind that screen before your clothes fall off? There's some underwear back there, along with socks and shoes. Obviously you'll need to put on the dress, as soon as you're small enough that it fits you."
I gathered up my pants legs and awkwardly shuffled my way behind the privacy screen. When I lifted my feet, my shoes fell off. I let my pants and underwear fall to the ground, and shoved my massively large shirt off over my head. My body was now slim, small, and hairless. There on a chair was a pair of pink underwear with lace trim and a little bow in front. I slid them on. They fit perfectly. Then I got into the socks, which also fit my tiny feet perfectly. I looked at the dress. It seemed totally foreign. I hardly knew where to begin. I took the obvious first step of undoing the buttons. "Which end of the dress goes on first?" I called.
Vivianne answered, "Step into the dress. Don't pull it over your head. If you can't do up the back, come out and let me help you."
I got the dress on. I stepped into the shoes, which were black, shiny, and round-toed. I picked up the clothes I'd worn in, my pants, shirt, underwear, and socks, and arranged them neatly on the chair. I tucked my wallet and keys into one of my shoes and set my shoes underneath the chair.
Stepping out from behind the screen, I told her, "I can't reach the buttons." (To tell the truth, I didn't really try.)
"That's fine," she said. "Come over here." She placed me in front of the mirror, gently turned me to face it, and began buttoning me in. When I saw myself as a little girl, my jaw fell open.
"You didn't wear your hair band!" she chided gently, and went behind the screen to fetch it. It was a red plastic band that she placed on my head. "It will keep your hair off your forehead," she explained.
I studied my image in the mirror. "This is crazy," I exclaimed. "How can this even happen?"
"Magic," she replied simply.
"There's no such thing," I said by reflex.
"Oh, well then!" she laughed. "You've got me!"
I studied my face up close: my eyes, my teeth, my cheekbones... "Who am I now?" I asked her.
"Who are you? You're you, Elliot. You're you. The you you'd be if you were born a girl."
"And what am I... ten?"
"About that."
"But what does this accomplish?" I asked her. I stepped back a little from the mirror, turning my hips back and forth to make the dress swish. I twisted around so I could see myself from different angles.
"Several things. First of all, it shows you that it's true; that the medallion actually works. Now you believe me, don't you?" I nodded. "Good! Now let's try those popovers and hope they aren't too cold."
The popovers were pretty good, considering how they'd cooled off and that it was my first attempt.
Vivianne chatted with me. I dangled and swung my legs — which no longer reached the floor. She told me more about the medallion and its rules. It all seemed impossible — and not just impossible, but ridiculously impossible — and yet here I was, a ten-year-old girl in a bright blue dress. I turned my head this way and that, just to feel my hair trail across my neck and shoulders. My hair. Can you believe it?
"You make a quite pretty little girl," Vivianne told me. I couldn't help but blush.
"So, this is what you did to Max?" I asked.
"Yes, do you understand why?"
I sighed. "I think so. Your idea was to change me into a girl so I could be his date. I'm not sure that that's the greatest idea, by the way."
"We'll see. In any case, I did this to Max because I wanted him to understand that it was possible for me to transform you, but that it would come at a cost."
"What cost is that?" I asked.
"The cost to you," she explained, frowning. "How can you not see that? You don't feel that this costs you anything?"
I shrugged. "Not particularly. I don't think so. I mean, it's just a part to play."
"No," she said. "No, it's not. You won't be playing a part. You'll BE someone else. A different person."
"But always me."
"Yes and no. Are you still you, right now?"
"Ahhh..." I paused, awkwardly. Then I sighed, acquiescing. "Okay, I see your point."
"You will feel differently. You'll see yourself differently. You'll have different needs and desires. Also, and perhaps more importantly, everyone else will see you differently and treat you differently."
I thought about it for a moment. Then, "So, when you did this to Max—"
"—he freaked out. He demanded that I change him back immediately. He was angry, frightened... almost hysterical."
"Then why did he only come back this morning?"
"Because I couldn't return him to his own form right away. Your body needs at least twelve hours to recover before you can change again. The instant Max's twelve hours were up, I changed him back."
"Poor guy!" I exclaimed.
"Hmmm," was Vivianne's only comment.
"But why a little girl?" I asked. Vivianne let out an exasperated sigh.
"Well, this has nothing to do with either you or Max, but in the past... well, it's because there were two young men who were transformed into women, and they both went hog-wild sexually, which -- and it *should* be needless to say -- was not a good thing. One got herself pregnant almost immediately, and had to remain a woman forever. The other... well. It's a long story."
She reached out and gave my hand a squeeze. "This way, you can have some experience as a girl — in fact, you'll gain some memories of life as a little girl — leaving the whole sexual aspect of womanhood completely out of the picture. As an introduction to the medallion, it's much less complicated this way."
"I see." I swung my legs a bit more, then looked around the room, and happened to see a clock. "Oh! So what time will I change back?"
"It's not automatic," she answered. "You need to use the medallion and your own clothes to change back. You won't be able to do that before 8:30 tonight."
"What will we do in the meantime?"
"I want you to experience some aspects of life as a girl, and if you don't mind, I'd like to change you back on Monday morning."
"Okay, I guess," I replied, after a few moment's thought. "Can I call Max to tell him I'm going to be away?"
"Ah... you could call him, but it might not be a good idea. He won't recognize your voice, for one thing, and knowing you're a little girl might trigger him."
"Mmm."
"Why not send him a text?"
"Good idea!"
After a little more discussion, we went for a walk outside. But not before Vivianne gave me some instructions on how to use the bathroom while wearing a dress. Talk about complicated!
We walked slowly, leisurely, through Vivianne's neighborhood. She instructed me to call her "Aunt Viv" (the way Max does), and told me, "Now, as to what we call you: how do you like the name Lorelei?"
"It's a bit much," I said.
"Fine. Then Darcy."
"Okay," I agreed.
"Darcy Meriset."
"What?"
"It's just a made-up name. Go with it. And remember: you're ten years old. So what grade are you in?"
"Fifth grade."
"Good girl."
"And where do you live?"
We worked our way through my personal info — what they'd call my legend if I were a spy.
It was interesting, exciting, and fun to experience the sensations that come with wearing a dress, the way it shifts over the body. I loved the sensation of the air and the occasional breeze on my bare legs. I kept tilting my head back and forth, to feel my hair sway.
"You're liking this, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am," I replied, smiling. "Shouldn't I?"
"No, it's fine! Although you ought to expect some negative reactions, fear, shock, and disbelief, at some point."
"Maybe," I acknowledged.
"Still, if you like being a little girl this much, you'll probably enjoy being a grown-up girl as well. We can give that a try before the weekend is up, if all goes well."
I shrugged, then tipped my head back and waggled it, so I could feel my hair dangling past my shoulder blades.
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
"Aunt Viv" brought me to a park. Vivianne was holding my hand, and she stopped me at the gate. "Let's let these people pass." It was a young mother with a boy about my age. He was carrying a skateboard. When he saw me, he stuck out his tongue and made all sorts of aggressive faces at me.
"What was all that about?" I asked when they'd moved out of earshot.
"Oh, I guess you couldn't see over the hedge," Viv replied. "The boy was trying to use his skateboard, and he fell on his butt and cried. He must have thought you'd seen and he felt embarrassed."
A group of little children were climbing in and around a sort of log structure and rocking madly on some plastic animals mounted on huge springs. There were two boys who were around my age, or slightly older — which is to say somewhere between ten and twelve years old. They ran everywhere, up and down the slides, over and under all the climbing rigs, shouting and making noises meant to represent explosions, rockets, guns, ricochets and so on. As soon as they saw me walk into the park enclosure, holding Viv's hand, they stopped dead, mouths open, staring.
"What's with those two mooks?" I asked in a quiet voice.
"They're little boys. You're a little girl. To them, you're a great enigma."
"Hmmph. What are we doing here?"
"You're here to play," she explained.
"But I'll get this dress dirty!"
"Brava!" Viv complimented me with a smile and a pat on the head. "Good girl. What I want you to do is to swing on one of those swings without getting your dress dirty and without showing your underwear. Can you do that?"
She sat on a bench and smiled at me. I slowly walked over the swings. There were two. One was cleaner than the other, but I gave it an experimental brush with my hand regardless.Then I gathered my skirt tight across the front of my legs, held the gathered fabric under my butt with one hand, clutched one of the chains that held up the swing with my other hand, took a little jump, and managed to land square on the seat with my skirt secured beneath me. Success! I couldn't reach the ground, though, so it took a bit of rocking, kicking, and swaying before I had the swing swinging the way it was meant to swing.
The boys studied my movements intently. After half a minute, they came cautiously over. When they were a two or three feet away, the two of them made a mad dash for the other swing, each trying to claim it for his own. They struggled and grunted, repeating, "It's *my* turn!" over and over. At last, the larger of the two left off and stood apart on the other side, where he could look at me.
"What's your name?"
"I'm Darcy," I told him.
"Why?"
"Because that's what my mother called me. What's your name?"
"Is that your mother?" the other asked.
"No, she's my aunt. What are your names?"
"How old are you?" the first asked.
"Ten."
"I'm ten and a half!" he shouted. "That means I'm older and you have to do what I say!"
"Oh, okay. Then tell me to do something."
"Stop swinging and pretend you're a dog."
"No."
"Why not?"
"I don't want to."
"You're mean!"
I sighed. "I want to stop swinging now," I told them.
"Will you pretend to be a dog?"
"No, but will you help me stop? My feet don't reach the ground."
He held the chain so that the swing stopped moving. I slowly slid off the seat, hanging onto my hem to keep my dress from creeping up. The two of them had their eyes glued to my legs, and watched my progress, inch by inch.
"Thanks," I said with a dry irony I knew I was wasted on them, and ran back to Vivianne.
"Did you have fun?" she asked. I responded with a growl.
"Give me a hug," she told me.
"Everybody wants to tell me what to do!" I said, half-protesting, half-joking.
"You're a little girl," she explained, and gave me a motherly hug. "Let's go get some lunch."
As we walked, Viv kept looking at my face. At last she asked, "You look anxious. Are you? Are you worried about something?"
"Yes," I admitted. "I'm worried that I could get stuck like this."
"You're not going to be stuck like that," she assured me. "How could you be? I'm going to change you back. If you're really that uneasy, I'll change you back tonight, the instant twelve hours have passed."
"No, I mean, no, that's not it. I'll admit, I'm liking this — it's fun. I'm sorry that Max didn't. But the thing is, what if something happens to you?"
"Oh, you mean, what if I get hit by a bus?" she laughed.
"Yes, seriously! Or what if you have a stroke or a heart attack? Anything could happen."
She was quiet for a few moments. "Yes, I suppose anything could happen." She thought some more. "Tell you what: when we get back to the house, I'll show you where the medallion is, and how to use it. I'll give you a key to the house that you can wear around your neck, and I'll tell my husband and staff that if something happens to me, that you'll need to get into my room by yourself. Okay?"
"Yes, that sounds okay."
Viv brought me to a pizzeria. It was a little loud and a little dark, but it was obviously a family restaurant. There were children at nearly every table. There was a lot of back-and-forth at the entrance, where we were, of people getting take-out. Viv pulled me close and held me to her side with one arm. I didn't resist.
Our waiter grabbed a booster seat on the way to our table, and set it on my chair. "Do you need a lift?" he asked.
"I can do it," I assured him, but Viv nodded saying, "She needs a lift."
The waiter quickly, efficiently took me under my arms and lifted me into my seat. Viv seated herself. He returned a moment later with a menu, which he placed in front of Viv, and a kid's menu, which he placed in front of me, along with a small glass filled with crayons.
"Oh, joy," I said drily. Viv snorted with laughter.
"Oh!" the waiter cried, seeing my reaction. He asked Viv, "Is she too big for the kid's menu?"
"No, it's fine," she laughed. "Unless you have a copy of the Financial Times for her, I think it will have to do."
I rolled my eyes and looked it over. "How big is the kid's pizza?" I asked.
"Six inches," he replied.
"Huh!" I scoffed. "I usually put away a fourteen-inch pie by myself."
The waiter's eyes widened and he glanced at Viv, who smiled and shook her head.
"Why don't I let you discuss that with your mother," he said, "In the meantime, can I get you ladies something to drink?"
"I'd like a glass of your chianti," she told him.
I turned my menu over several times. One side had a picture to color, featuring clowns and balloons. The other side had simple puzzles and jokes, along with the kids' menu. I didn't see a wine list.
"For white wines, what do you have?" I asked, frowning at the paper in my hand. "House wines, I mean."
His eyebrows went up even higher, and he said, "For you, miss, our white selections are milk or apple juice. In red, we have grape juice or cranberry."
I looked up, startled, and realized. "I'm sorry," I told them. "I just forgot myself."
"It's fine," he said, grinning. "You've made my day."
"I'll have apple juice," I told him, slightly embarrassed.
"Very good," he replied, "I'll ask our sommelier to be sure the apple juice is a good vintage, but I'm pretty confident you'll approve."
After he left, Viv said, "Can I recommend the chicken fingers? If you get tomato sauce on your dress, everyone will see it."
"Fine," I said, pouting a little in spite of myself.
"Why don't you be a good girl and color for a while?" she suggested. "And see what you can do with those puzzles."
I sighed, picked up a green crayon, and got to work.
Vivianne's driver picked us up at the pizzeria and drove us to the Outlerland Mall. "There are two things we need to do here," she explained, taking my hand as we walked. "Because of the way the medallion works, we'll need clothes for the grown-up female you. You understand that in order for you to become a girl that Max could bring to the wedding, we need to find the clothes that will define that girl."
"Um, we could get those any time," I pointed out. Even if I was (temporarily) female, I did NOT relish the idea of shopping.
"You don't understand," she told me. "The medallion uses clothes to determine your form. If we buy a dress for a tall skinny girl with huge breasts, then that is what you'll become. If we buy a dress for a girl with a less striking, but more visually appealing, figure, then THAT's what you'll become. Clear?"
"Clear."
"So keep your eyes open, and look for the girl with the body you'd like to have. Not the face; the face will be your own. But the figure, the height and weight, the curves, will come from the clothes we choose."
"Got it." Viv gave my hand a conspiratorial squeeze, and I smiled.
As we walked, I scanned the shoppers. There were plenty of good-looking women, but most of them were older; women in their forties or fifties. The young ones were far too young. There were plenty of precocious teenagers, some with amazing curves, but we needed a template that was 25 or older.
"Also, if you see a store with clothes that appeal to you, we'll stop and have a look."
"Will we just guess at the sizes?" I asked uncertainly.
"No, we can probably find a helpful salesgirl in the right size. We'll say it's for your big sister, okay?"
As we made our way slowly down the concourse, I was aware of being looked at. Parents with children smiled at me. Little children waved to me. I smiled and waved back. Even so, even with that unaccustomed attention, and in spite of my small stature and the fact that I was holding Viv's hand for security, I began to forget that I wasn't myself... that I wasn't the person I'm used to being.
So when I spotted Kitty ahead of us, dropping her phone into her purse, without thinking I called out, "Kitty! Kitty, hey!" Kitty stopped and looked over. Naturally, she didn't recognize Vivianne or me.
"Now you've done it," Viv told me. She sounded amused. Kitty, frowning slightly, trying to remember do I know you? approached us. "She's very friendly and open," Viv commented. "I can see why you boys like her." Then, more directly to me: "You are Elliot's cousin Darcy. Remember?"
"I'll remember," I said.
Kitty offered her hand apologetically to Viv, and looking from her to me and back again, said, "Have we met? Do I know you? I'm sorry, but I can't place your faces, although you—" she smiled and gazed pointedly at me "—you look VERY familiar."
"I'm sorry," I told her. "My name is Darcy. Elliot Beekman is my cousin." I could feel my face turning red. "He always talks about you, and I've seen your picture. Sorry!"
"Don't be sorry," she answered in a soft tone. Then she introduced herself to Vivianne. On hearing Viv's last name, Errison, she asked, "Are you related to Max Errison?"
"He's my nephew," she replied with a smile. "My favorite nephew."
"He's a favorite of mine as well," Kitty quipped with a little laugh. Then to me she said, ruffling my hair as she spoke, "Elliot's my other fave." She grinned. "So he always talks about me?"
I grew even redder. "Well, not always. It's just that... I just have a really good memory for faces. I'm sorry."
"Quit apologizing!" Kitty told me. She crouched down to my eye-level and gave me a hug. "You're just adorable! You don't need to be sorry for anything!"
"Okay," I said. "Thanks."
She stood and looked down at me. "You are the spit and image of Elliot, Darcy! It's like... if he turned into a little girl, he'd look just like you!" She paused, then said, "I hope you don't mind that comparison."
"No," I said. "I get that a lot."
"Well, now, he'll get that a lot!" Then she gave me another quick hug, shook Viv's hand again, and was making her goodbyes, when she was struck by a thought.
"Hey, Darcy — do you mind if we take a selfie? Me and you?" Then, glancing at Viv, "oh, and you of course! The three of us."
"No, it's fine," Viv assured her. "Just you girls — it's better."
Kitty crouched down next to me, put one arm around me, pulling me close, and extended her other arm. "Smile!" We smiled and she reeled off five or six pictures in a series of rapid-fire clicks. She straightened up, checked them, and asked, "Can I airdrop them to you?"
"I don't have a phone," I told her. "Could you send them to Elliot instead?"
"Sure!" she said, and fiddled with her phone. "I sent them to Max as well — I hope that's okay."
She was turning away as she spoke, and after turning away she said a distracted goodbye and was gone. It was good that she looked away; my face had a horrified expression that would have been difficult to explain.
"Well!" Viv exclaimed. "I'm afraid you've let the cat out of the bag. Kitty is a lovely young woman, but she may have left us with some damage control to do."
Viv and I sat on a bench at the edge of the concourse. She took my phone from her bag and turned it on. It seemed to take forever to boot up, When it did, I went straight to my messages and found Kitty's selfie, along with the comment, "This little girl looks JUST LIKE Elliot!!!."
"She only sent one picture," I observed. "I guess that's good, cause she took a half dozen." I verified that she'd sent the picture to both me and Max. Max hadn't yet replied. I pushed the green phone button, to call him.
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Viv asked.
"No, but even a messed-up conversation is better than no conversation at all, at this point." Viv nodded.
The line rang briefly, then Max responded. "Elliot?"
"Um, hi, Max," I said. "Did you see the picture that Kitty just sent?"
"Kitty?" he repeated. "No, but— Elliot! Your voice! What the hell— did she change you—" his voice dropped to a whisper "—did she turn you into a little girl?"
"Yes, she did, and it's fine," I said. "It's all good. I just wanted to call you so you wouldn't freak out when you saw the picture."
"The picture? Let me take a look..." I heard him fumble with his phone. Then he swore. "Kitty..." he said. He swore profusely. "Does she know who you are? What did you tell her? Do you realize how crazy this makes both of us look?"
"No, how could she possibly know who I am? She thinks I'm Elliot's cousin Darcy."
"I see. Well, okay. So... are you going to stay a little girl forever?"
"No, of course not! I'll be back to normal on Monday morning."
Max fell silent. I glanced at Viv, who was patiently waiting. She didn't seem in any hurry for me to finish.
"Max, are you there?"
"Yes, I'm here," he said. "I'm just... this really throws me. Doesn't it bother you? Being a girl? Being a little girl?"
"No," I answered. "It's kind of fun. It's different."
"How can you-- Elliot, did you always want to be a girl?" he asked. "How could I not know this about you?"
"No, I never wanted to be a girl. I don't think I'm a girl now -- not really. I just have a different body."
He laughed. "Believe me, dude, having a different body makes you a girl. If you have to sit down to pee, that's a big clue, right there."
"Okay," I admitted. "At the moment, I'm a girl. Obviously, it's only temporary."
"Is it? Is it obvious? Is it temporary?"
"You changed back, didn't you?"
He let out a huge sigh, but gave no other response.
So I told him, "Okay, whatever — The only reason I called is because I don't want you to worry--"
"What, me worry? What do *I* have to worry about?"
"--or freak out."
"Me? Freak out? I'm not three feet tall and running around in a little dress! You're the one we should worry about. You're the one who should be freaking out. Why aren't you?"
"I'm fine! That's why I'm calling! I want you to know that *I* am fine, and I want to make sure that you're fine, too."
"I'm fine, you're fine, we're all fine," he recited in a flat tone.
"Oh, Max!" I groaned. "I give up! Take care of yourself this weekend. Maybe you should go stay with your parents."
"That's not a bad idea," he replied, "but I don't want to leave the house unguarded."
I grunted in acknowledgment.
"Okay," he said. "I"m going to hang up, because talking to you like this, with you... that way, is weird as hell."
"Fine," I replied, "but call me if you need me."
He was silent for a few seconds, then said, "Listen. Just... just... If you're really having fun, then just have fun on your little sleepover, okay? You don't need to worry about me."
At that, he broke the connection.
I handed the phone back to Viv. Before she put it away, she asked, "Shall I leave it on, in case he calls back?"
"Yes, please," I said. "Though I doubt he will."
We sat there side by side for a minute or so, not speaking. At last I asked her, "Aren't you going to tell me it's going to be all right?"
"Will you feel better if I do?" she asked.
"I don't know," I answered, glum.
"I won't say that, but I can do this," she told me, and pulled me close into a motherly hug. I rested my head against her, and she gently stroked my hair, long gentle strokes from the top of my head to my neck.
"Does this help?" she asked.
"Not really," I sighed. "It feels nice, but I'm still worried about Max."
"I understand," she told me.
We stayed that way for a minute or so, until she said, "Okay, Darcy. We need to look at clothes." The two of us stood up, brushed out our dresses, held hands and walked down the concourse.
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
In spite of the strange and awkward moments, I enjoyed the day. Spending time with Vivianne was such a new experience, even apart from my being in the guise of a ten-year-old. Being treated like a child, being treated as a girl, was all new — it gave me much food for thought. At times I felt embarrassed or a little confused. I found myself repeatedly wishing I could re-do some of my conversations; the ones where I forgot myself and spoke as an adult -- making me seem like a foolish child. It was comical in a way -- it would have been more comical if it happened to someone else, but even so, all in all, it was a good day.
It was a good day, that is, until my conversation with Max. Previous to the call, I wasn't exactly flying, but Max's reactions and comments brought me crashing to earth.
"Does it make you want to quit?" Vivianne asked me. "Forget entirely about Max's need for a plus-one?"
"Uh..." I consulted my thoughts and feelings for a moment — a very brief moment — and told her, "No, I still want to continue."
She nodded. "I have to confess, I'm having a difficult time understanding my nephew," Viv confided. "This is all for him, and yet he acts as if it's a tremendous intrusion. Why isn't he simply grateful?" She turned to me as spoke, her brow contracted with concern and incomprehension, her lips tight in a frown of frustration.
I couldn't help but chuckle. "Seriously?" I asked her. "You have to be kidding!" Viv stiffened in surprise at my reaction.
"First of all," I told her, "You come out of left field with a magic necklace that turns grown men into little girls. Already we're off to the races! Then you use the thing on him, much to his surprise and horror. To round it all off, after he feels he's narrowly escaped, he finds out that you've done the same thing to me! All in the space of twenty-hour hours! This is not your normal weekend!"
Viv was quiet for a moment. I couldn't tell whether she was processing what I'd said or ignoring it and waiting to see if I had more.
At last she said, "Yes, I've already admitted that I miscalculated his reaction. I've apologized to him. I changed him back. That said, there is no way that I can turn back the clock and make it un-happen. It *did* happen, and he'll have to get over it."
It was my turn to reflect in silence for a few moments.
Then she added, "While we're sharing blame, I'd like you keep in mind that it was *you* who spilled the beans here, by calling your friend Kitty into the situation."
A few objections came to mind, principally the fact that Max would have found out in any case: I would have told him. And yet, in that case, he wouldn't have seen the photo, and probably wouldn't have been so strongly triggered. As I considered these points, I saw that I didn't have a very strong line of defense.
She paused for a moment, then added, "There's one final point I'd like to make: I believe that *you* will come to feel grateful for the fact that Max had this experience — and even for the fact that he disliked it so intensely — because it will help him understand the sacrifice that you are making for him."
Viv reached out and put her hand over mine. I didn't resist. In spite of her stiff resistance to what I said, and in spite of her strict apportioning of blame (some to her, some to me), I felt a odd feeling of silent communion, a moment of we're all in this together. Then Viv gave my hand a squeeze. She smiled, and asked me whether I'd found a woman's body to emulate. I told her I'd forgotten.
"Unfortunately, so have I," she confessed, and she led me to a display window featuring a selection of expensive-looking clothes. "Let's just go by styles and sizes," she said. "But first I have to make a phone call. Can you stay right here and window-shop? I'm going to take a few steps that way, over by that plant. I'll only be a minute. I'll have my eyes on you the entire time, so don't worry."
"I'm not worried," I told her. She didn't like that response: she gave a mild disapproving shake of her head, but didn't say anything. I'm not a stupid child, I objected silently.
She moved away a few yards to make her call. I studied the window display for a few minutes. Nothing jumped out at me. The clothes were attractive, but how on earth was I supposed to make an informed decision? Sighing, I turned my back to the fashion and leaned against a bit of wall. I could see Viv talking on her phone, her eyes glued on me. I scanned the shoppers as they passed. It seemed the demographic was different in this part of the mall; more along the lines of what we were looking for. Earlier, all the women I saw were good looking, but older than I needed to be. Now, all the women looked in their late twenties or early thirties; all of them lovely. Any of them would be perfect. I was hard-pressed to chose one above the others. Was I supposed to pick a woman who was attractive to me? Or one who'd be attractive to Max? Was there such a thing as objectively attractive? Maybe I should aim for a body like Kitty's. She seemed to be universally desired. At least, she was when we were in high school.
... or... another possibility occurred to me; one that seemed almost blasphemous. Should I look for a body like Amber's? After all, Max did say that what first attracted him was her body. I tried to picture her physique, her build, her curves, but the thoughts and pictures were so disagreeable that I shook my head until all the Amber was gone from my inner screen.
Viv returned to me and said, "I had a little talk with Max's mother, Melissa. She's going to stop in and visit Max and make sure he's all right. She'll give me a call when she can."
I was glad of that, but it brought up an obvious question. "Does Melissa — Max's mother — does she know about the whole little-girl thing?"
For the first time, Viv looked uncomfortable. "Now she does. She didn't before. She's known about the Medallion of Zulo for some time, but she's never seen it work. Consequently, she doesn't quite believe it." She took a breath and looked me in the eyes. "I told her exactly what happened, but I got the impression that she thinks I hypnotized Max — the same thought you had, initially." She thought for a moment. "In the end, it may not make any difference. If they're both angry at me, it will make it easier for Max to get over his trauma."
"How do you figure that?"
She seemed surprised at my question. "Feeling angry is a step in the right direction. It focuses your energies."
I filed her answer away. I'd have to think about it later. Right now I told her, "Whatever he's feeling now, I hope he can get over his aversion to me as a girl. I get the feeling that *my* being female freaks him out. Not as much as *his* being female, but still..." I looked her in the face, and somewhat apologetically confided, "I can see why you saw this as a solution, but if he's uncomfortable with me in a woman's body, it's not going to solve his problem. It could even give us a new one."
"A new problem? What would that be?"
"It might ruin our friendship," I said. "He might not be able to see me in the same way, ever again."
Viv was silent, pondering.
"You didn't think of that, did you?" I asked.
Clearly irritated, she snapped, "Frankly, honestly, no, I didn't. You two seemed so perfectly matched as friends, I couldn't imagine a few transformations getting in your way." She looked past the items in the shop window, turning her head this way and that so she could see the merchandise inside. Then she continued speaking.
"I have to say, in my experience, that people don't, as a rule, react negatively to the medallion's changes. Most of them are surprised, many are shocked, but after the initial reaction, they give it a go. A small number never want to change back — and I ought to tell you for your own sake, that sometimes it's not even possible."
"Not possible?" I repeated with some alarm. "Not possible to change back? Why wouldn't it be possible?"
"There was one young man who — voluntarily, I might add — was changed into a young woman, and pretty quickly got herself pregnant."
"So... if a transformed person gets pregnant, they can't change back?"
"No — pregnant women can't change at all. Neither can a woman on her period, although that's a condition that passes."
"So does pregnancy. It passes after nine months."
"That's true. But do you really think a mother could abandon her child that easily? She'd have to go through nine months of pregnancy, and then some additional time beyond that, until her hormones return more or less to normal." She gave a half-nod, half-shrug. "I'm sure it could happen. I mean, certainly the mother of an infant can transform. It's happened. It's probably happened that someone transformed for the purpose of abandoning their family, but it hasn't happened on my watch. And, to be honest, I am aware of anecdotes in which the medallion was used vindictively or cruelly — I'm talking specifically about conflicts between husbands and wives or children and parents — but I've never used it that way."
She looked at me. I guess she was waiting for a reaction, but I just stood there big-eyed, listening. So she smiled and said, "Let's go in here and get this done. We'll go for slim build — slender body, nice curves, good breasts and butt, but nothing extreme."
"Okay," I said. "Sounds good."
"You're an easy sell," she laughed.
We bought what was to me a jaw-droppingly expensive black sleeveless mesh bodycon minidress. I know; it's a mouthful. Viv explained that we needed clothes that really define the shape we wanted.
"We can also tweak the look, once the changes are set," she told me. "You'll see what I mean."
The dress was a size four, like one of the salesgirls. Viv also picked up a pair of size eight shoes ("Small feet are attractive"). She then took some time choosing the right underwear and bra. After that, her last purchase was a very sexy one-piece bathing suit. "This will define you like nothing else," she remarked.
"Are we done buying clothes?" I asked.
"For now, yes. If you're going to be Max's date, you'll need a more extensive wardrobe, but that's for another day, *if* you decide to go through with the whole scheme."
"I can pay you back," I told her. "For all this. I've got a fair amount of money in the bank."
"It's good of you to offer," she said, "but it isn't necessary. I'm doing this to help my nephew."
"So am I," I said, and she gave me a smile.
We wandered the mall aimlessly after that. My energy was fading.
"We need a little snack, a little pick-me-up," Viv said. "But first, there's a gift I need to buy you. Follow me."
She walked into a toy store, a long, narrow store that reminded me of a railroad car. The aisles were constricted, high, and packed with merchandise. Viv kept going, deeper into the store, until she arrived at a section full of teddy bears. "We need to get you a teddy bear."
"Oh, come on!" I scoffed.
"You're a little girl, you need a teddy bear," she insisted, with a little smile.
"Honestly, I don't—"
"Humor me," Viv said. "We're not leaving until you choose a teddy bear."
At that, I reached out and grabbed the nearest bear. "Done!"
"No," she said. "You need to choose one. You need to find a bear that's special to you."
Sighing, I put the first bear back. I pretended to look for a few moments, then grabbed another. "Found it!" I declared, smiling.
"Nice try," she observed, in a dry tone. "Now do it for real. Show some sincerity."
I looked through the bears, scanning slowly along the rows, looking into their faces, when suddenly... it seemed as though one of the bears looked back at me. I know it didn't really, but the face of the bear was so vivid and lively that it stood out from all the others. Its face wasn't funny or goofy. It was like a puppy's — open, expectant, looking to you to define the mood. It was small, smaller than the others, and incredibly soft. I picked it up, felt its softness, and pressed it against my cheek.
"This is the one," I told Viv. She didn't say anything. She just nodded and led me to the cashier.
From there we went to the food court. "You pick," she told me. I pointed to the Chinese place, which is my usual choice. You can get a lot of food for very little money. I had them load my plate with fried rice, beef with oyster sauce, and chicken with black bean sauce. "That's a lot of food for a little girl!" the cashier exclaimed. "If you really eat it all, you and your mother eat for free!"
"It's a deal!" I laughed.
Of course, I couldn't even get halfway through before I was thoroughly full.
"I just meant to get a snack," Viv said. "But if you want, we could get you one of those fourteen-inch pizzas you were talking about earlier."
I groaned. "I actually feel the lump of food in my tummy."
Viv cocked her head. "Interesting," she observed. "You said tummy — that's a little-girl word."
"I guess," I sighed, "Anyway, I'm full to the brim." An inelegant burp! escaped my lips.
Viv's driver came to pick us up. On the way back to her house, she called Melissa, to find out how Max was doing.
"He's fine," she told me after. "Both his parents went to visit him. Melissa's making him dinner. Some favorite of his."
"That's good."
"He'll go over to their house tomorrow morning for breakfast, and then they'll take a drive together."
"That sounds really nice. I'm glad he won't be alone."
I thought Vivianne was going to change me into a grown-up woman as soon as we got home, but no. "As it happens, I have one more young-girl experience planned for you tomorrow, and once you're finished, we can change you to a grown-up girl, somewhere around dinner time."
The evening wasn't remarkable, aside from the fact that I was inhabiting a different body. One of the experiences Viv wanted me to have was that of falling asleep and waking up as someone else. She was right: waking up in an unfamiliar body is as strange and momentarily bewildering as you can imagine. There's this disorientation — the disconnect between who I'm used to being (Elliot) and who I temporarily am (Darcy).
When I woke, I was clutching the teddy bear, which shocked me at first, but it did serve to show me that my memories of yesterday were real. I considered for a moment naming the bear Corroboration, but (aside from being something of a tongue-twisting mouthful) it was far too heady and un-cute.
The night before, Viv had laid out my clothes for today: a pair of khaki-colored cuffed shorts, a light blue t-shirt, and a pair of red sneakers. Again, everything fit me perfectly.
She'd arranged for me to spend the day with the daughter of a friend, a girl my age named Isabella, and the two of us were dropped off at the amusement park just beyond the Outlerland Mall. The story she told her friend and Isabella was that my father was being transferred to China for his job in the diplomatic service, and that today was one of my last days in the States. The story seemed an over-elaborate, obvious lie, but I understood that the intention was to explain to Isabella why we'd never see each other again.
(This activity was actually planned for Max; it didn't happen for him because he'd short-circuited Vivianne's plans by rejecting the transformation at the very outset.)
Isabella and I really hit it off. She was active, funny, and full of ideas. As we approached the first of the rollercoasters, she asked me whether I knew how to scream.
"I guess so," I said.
"Hmm," she replied. "Guess so isn't good enough. I think we need to practice." She led me around behind one of the rides to a spot where there were no people, and said, "Listen." She took a deep breath, then emptied her lungs with a high-pitched, ear-splitting shriek that would have done a banshee proud.
"Now you," she said, grinning broadly.
Not to be outdone, I too took a deep breath and hit the highest, loudest, longest note I could manage. I shocked myself with the quality and force of that howl, and Isabella was pleased.
"Now together! Ready?"
The two of us nodded one, two, three, pulled deep deep breaths, and screamed our lungs out. After which we burst into laughter, laughing until our stomachs hurt.
An older man, a park employee, came cautiously peeking around the corner at us, his eyes large as saucers. "What in tarnation's going on back here?" he asked. "I thought somebody was getting murdered, by the sound you girls were making! I was ready to call the cops!"
"We're just practicing for the rollercoaster," Isabella explained.
"I don't think you need any more practice! Now, spare my heart and save it all for the rides! Please!"
We apologized, laughing. He winked at us and went away. We took our screams to the rollercoasters, of which there were five. Isabella sorted them by level of fright. She chose well: on the last two, screaming wasn't an effort — the rides were truly I-think-I-might-die terrifying. We sat in front so we wouldn't blow out anyone's eardrums.
After lunch, we went on the water slides, screaming there as well, though it wasn't as satisfying — the slides were covered, so the sound didn't carry anywhere.
Isabella also introduced me to churros, which I'd never heard of before, but went mad for. She had to stop me from going back for thirds.
Viv came to pick us up, all too soon, and I was genuinely disappointed. To tell the truth, it's not as though I got to know Isabella at all, but we had a lot of fun, and I knew that I'd miss her — at the same time knowing that I'd never turn back into Darcy ever again. She gave me her email address and asked me to write and send pictures of China. I told her I would, knowing it was a lie.
We hugged and laughed as Viv dropped her home.
Viv drove. I sat in the back seat in a funk.
"What's wrong?" Vivianne asked. "Didn't you have a good time? I thought that you'd like to have another childhood memory for when you're a grown woman. Also, you've had more experience living in another body, this time apart from me."
"That's all well and good," I admitted, "and I appreciate your having gone to the trouble, but—"
"But what?"
I struggled to put it into words.
"That little girl, Isabella — I just lied to her face. it was wrong to deceive her."
Viv looked at me in the rear-view mirror. "What alternative did we have?"
"I didn't have to go with her at all. That would have been better. Now she'll always wonder why Darcy never wrote, after the fun they had together."
Viv didn't look at me and didn't respond.
"Where did you get that thing, anyway?"
"What thing? The medallion?"
"Yes. Where does it come from?"
"I don't think anyone knows where it comes from, or how it really works."
"But how did *you* get it?"
"Hmm," she said. "I'll tell you the story, even though there are some elements that put me in a bad light. For now, let's just say that someone I knew used it to escape the consequences of a crime, and left the medallion with me."
"Sounds intriguing."
"It is. I think it's an interesting story," she admitted.
"Aren't you going to tell it to me?"
"Not at your present age, no. Apart from the criminal element, there are some parts of the story that are very... strong, sexually, and none of it is appropriate for a girl your age to hear."
"But I'm NOT a girl my age!" I protested. "I'm grown man! You know this!"
Vivianne, incensed, pulled over to the side of the road and killed the engine. She turned to look at me. "You are NOT a grown man, regardless of your memories and experience! You are a ten-year-old girl! If you get out of this car, would you be able to convince anyone to give you a job as a software developer? Would you be able to drive your own car? I don't think your feet would even reach the pedals!"
"What are you talking about?" I shouted back. "This is not who I am! This is only temporary!"
Vivianne calmed herself, holding up her outstretched palms in a gesture of let's slow this down.
"Listen, Elliot-slash-Darcy: I'm sorry that I got upset a moment ago, but I find it highly frustrating that you continue to not understand. You take this—" she gestured at my current physical makeup "—as temporary, as if you're only wearing a costume, playing a part. What you're doing is a form of denial. You're using this idea of temporary to pretend that this isn't real."
"I think you're making a big deal out of nothing," I told her.
"Max understood," she told me. "He understood viscerally."
"And he hated it," I pointed out.
"That's because he understood," she repeated slowly. In a normal tone, she went on. "What I would like you to think about is this: if I don't change you back, you will be Darcy forever. Do you realize that?"
My brow darkened. "Is that a threat?"
"No, of course it's not a threat. I want you to think about that AFTER I change you back, when you're Elliot once again." She looked me in the face, looking for some kind of recognition of what she'd said. Not seeing it, she added, "I'm trying to make you see that you are trading fates, so to speak; you actually become someone else."
She waited a moment, and when I didn't reply, she turned to face front, started the engine, and continued to her home.
"So, did you and Isabella have a good time?" she asked.
"Yes, we really hit it off. That's what makes it so sad."
"Still, you both had fun, didn't you?"
"Yes, but under false pretenses."
Viv didn't answer. I found myself saying this: "It bothers me the way you play with other people's lives."
"I don't play," she contested. "I don't change people on a whim. They've either asked for it, or I've made a considered determination on their behalf."
"What gives you the right?"
"I don't think of it that way. It's not a right. I have the medallion. I can use it — and hopefully I *do* use it — to make people's lives better."
I didn't answer.
"You're thinking about Max, aren't you. I've told you: I regret that deeply," Viv confessed. "I tried to tell him what would happen, but you know yourself that it's hard to explain."
"You could have turned him into a little boy — THAT might have been less shocking."
Startled by the idea, she admitted, "It never occurred to me!" She smiled and told me, "You should tell Max that you told me that."
I looked out the window, watching the houses go by. After a pause, Vivianne spoke again. "Right now, I possess the medallion. I don't know whether it's the only one in the world. I don't know where it comes from, how it was made, or how it actually works. I DO know that it's extremely powerful, and because of that, I often wish I could pass it on to someone else. It's more responsibility than I sometimes care to carry."
"Who would you give it to?"
"That's the million-dollar question! Who, indeed? I honestly believe that Max is the first and only person that I've harmed with the medallion, and I will try to somehow make it up to him, or at least help him get over it. If I possibly can.
"There's another thing I'm sure of: in the hands of someone else, someone less careful, someone with bad intentions, the medallion could easily do untold harm. Preventing that is part of my responsibility."
"Have you considered destroying it?"
"How?"
"I don't know."
"It might break into pieces that are more dangerous than the whole. And wherever I could hide it, someone could find it."
I was silent, but I did have the thought, What about the bottom of the ocean? I pictured Viv on an ocean liner, in the middle of the Atlantic, dropping the medallion over the side.
Then she said, "I have one last consideration that I'll share with you. It's possible that someone, somewhere, is trapped in a bad transformation, and the medallion is their only hope of returning to normal life. I wouldn't want to be the one who destroyed a person's last, most desperate hope."
When we arrived at her house and parked in her garage, Viv told me, "Wait a moment before you get out of the car. Do you still want to be transformed into a grown woman? We can do that now, but only if you want it. If you'd rather return right away to being Elliot, I'll understand."
"I'll admit I'm in a strange mood at the moment," I observed.
"Yes," she admitted, "and before you decide, there's something else you need to know — I invited Max's mother here."
"Melissa?" I exclaimed.
"She doesn't know why I've asked her at this point, and she's not here yet. My reason for inviting her was that if you are going to be Max's plus-one at the wedding, I reasoned that you'll need someone like Melissa to help you learn to play the part. Now, if any of that is going to be a problem—"
I didn't hesitate. "No, that's fine. It's... thoughtful of you. Thanks. I would like her here."
"Also, she's never seen a transformation, so she doesn't really believe it."
I laughed.
"So, to be perfectly clear, I'm asking for your informed consent: Are you ready to be transformed into a grown woman in the presence of Max's mother Melissa, and for her to know that you are really Elliot Beekman?"
"Yes," I said. "Yes, to all that."
"Good!" she exclaimed, and opened her door. Then turning to me, she smiled and said, "You are the most serious little girl I've ever met." I laughed.
When Melissa saw me, her eyes nearly popped out of her head. Then she squealed like a teenager and hugged me like her favorite ragdoll, lifting my feet off the ground and rocking me back and forth. I tried to go along with it; I wanted her to enjoy whatever it was she imagined this to be, but she was squeezing the life out of me! At last Vivianne gently told her, "Let the girl take a breath, Melissa."
At that, Melissa backed off from the hug, and took me by the shoulders, staring me in the face. "Oh my God!" she cried. "Look at that little face! Look at that adorable face!" She scrunched up my cheeks in her hand and very nearly grabbed me in another death hug. Vivianne waved her off.
"There's plenty more to see, Mel," she reminded her.
"Wait! Wait!" Melissa exclaimed excitedly. "I need a selfie with me and— with— with Darcy!"
"I'll send you a photo," I told her, and showed her the one with Kitty.
"Oh, Kitty," she said in a disappointed voice. "I never liked that girl. Will I be able to crop her out? Can you?"
"You don't like Kitty?" I asked, surprised.
"Oh, I know you boys love her," she scoffed, "but there was always something about her that never convinced me." Still, she said she'd accept the photo and let it go at that.
The three of us gathered in Vivianne's fitting room. Viv gave me a silk kimono-style robe to wear so that I'd have "room to grow."
"This process is going to have two steps," Viv explained. "First the transformation, which will take a half an hour. Then the tweaks, which take less."
She put the medallion around my neck, then touched it with the dress we'd bought. In a few moments, the changes began. This time I wanted to watch Melissa's face instead of my own changes in the mirror. Melissa's face is very expressive, and sometimes I had a hard time not laughing at the succession of her expressions of astonishment, awe, and glee. I checked on my own progress in the mirror as well. I grew taller inch by inch until I was five-eight or five-nine. My mouth fell open when my breasts and hips appeared... and swelled to their full sizes.
"Oh, dear God!" Melissa exclaimed. "You're gorgeous!"
In all honesty, I have to say that gorgeous is a bit of a stretch. My body was amazing; I'll admit that. My face and hair were nice enough; I was attractive... enough. I could see Max wanting to take me to the wedding. I was attractive, but I was no movie star.
"This was my dream," Melissa sighed. I smiled. Then something occurred to me.
"Melissa," I asked, "When you said that Vivianne could help Max with his problem, is this what you had in mind?"
"No," she laughed. "Of course not! I figured that Viv has so many young people in her orbit, that she'd probably know someone suitable."
"Oh!" Vivianne exclaimed. "Is that what you wanted? You should have said so!"
"What else could I possibly mean?" Melissa asked.
"All this!" Viv exclaimed, gesturing at me. "The way you described Max and Elliot, I felt that you were asking exactly for THIS, but you didn't want to say the words. If all you wanted was a date for Max, you didn't need to mention Elliot at all!"
The two looked at each other, and laughed.
"If only you'd said what you wanted," Viv chided, "We could have avoided a lot of trouble."
"No, actually, this is better!" Melissa enthused. "Much, much better! This is the dream!"
Viv's thirty-minute timer chimed. The transformation was complete.
"Now for the tweaks," Viv said. "Try one of the shoes. We may have to do some Cinderella work here." The shoe was too small, so Viv held one shoe against the medallion until my feet shrank enough to make the shoes fit exactly. Then she had me hold the bathing suit against the medallion until my body stopped changing: my breasts and butt became firmer, perkier, higher. In a word, I had a killer body.
I ran behind the privacy screen and squeezed into the bathing suit. It was bright blue with slashes of red. When I put it on, I felt like a superhero. Melissa's jaw dropped. She had no words.
She wanted to snap some pictures, so I made sure she only used MY phone. After my experience with Kitty, I didn't want Max receiving any more photos of me as a girl.
Then I changed into the black dress. Naturally, it fit like a glove. After I'd modeled it for Viv and Melissa, posing this way and that, Melissa clapped her hands and said, "More! More!"
"That's all there is," I told her.
"Really? You don't have any other clothes?"
"No, we just needed some for the transformation."
"Well, then! Let's go out and get some! Clothes! More clothes! I mean, that's a beautiful dress, but you're not going to wear it around the house, or when you're cooking dinner! Is that what you're planning on wearing when you go home?" She thought for a moment, then said, "It might be a good idea."
"Home? Back to Max's house?"
"Yes. Where else would you go?" she asked, puzzled.
"Oh, I'm not going home like this. Viv is going to change me back to Elliot tomorrow morning."
Melissa's face fell. Clearly disappointed, she asked, "Why?"
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
"Why?" Melissa cried. She sounded like a child whose favorite toy had been taken from her. "Why would you ever change her back? She's beautiful! She's perfect!"
I sighed involuntarily.
"If you change her back," Melissa insisted, "How will Max see her? How will he meet her? How will they fall in love?" She may have realized that she'd said more than she meant to, because she froze for a moment, her shoulders hunched, her eyes wide. Even so, she continued in a faint undertone: "How will they get married and have grand-babies?"
"Grand-babies?" I repeated, shocked. Melissa didn't blush. She just shrugged.
Viv opened her mouth to answer, but Melissa cut her short. "Isn't this—" she gestured to me, sweeping motions to take in my whole body "—isn't this the exact point? Max needs a date! Here is his date!"
"Take a breath, Melissa," Vivianne told her. "There are more than two months until the wedding. There's plenty of time for everything you said." Her mouth twisted into a side-smile. "Except for the grand-babies, of course."
"Can I even have babies?" I asked, rather stupidly.
"Of course you can! Why wouldn't you?" Viv asked me. I shrugged. "This is what I've been trying to tell you. You're not just putting on a costume or playing a part. You become someone else."
Melissa shook her head, insisting, "As Darcy, she's perfect."
Vivianne, charmed by Melissa's enthusiasm, moved to her side and hugged her. Then she pointed out, "We can't call her Darcy. Darcy is the little girl. Kitty would have to wonder if Max showed up with a grown Darcy a few weeks after meeting Darcy as a little girl."
"That's right!" I breathed, seeing it.
"This is Lorelei," Viv explained.
"Why?" I demanded.
"We'll discuss the name later," she told me. "For now, you are Lorelei."
"Do I have a last name?"
Viv, looking a little peeved, admitted, "Yes, it's Gight. I was saving that for later."
I frowned. "That's my mother's maiden name."
"I know. You're supposed to be Elliot's cousin, aren't you?"
As Vivianne talked, Melissa fussed over me, sweeping imaginary dust from my shoulders, picking up my hand to examine my skin, playing with my hair... "Lorelei," she repeated. "What a lovely name." Then, exasperated, she turned to Viv and demanded, "Why must you turn her back? What's the point?"
"The point is that — before I work this change on Elliot — I want a truly informed consent."
"Consent?" Melissa repeated. Turning to me, intense, focused, she asked, "You consent, don't you?"
"Well, yes, but—" I began, then stopped, seeing the distress my less-than-wholehearted agreement was causing Melissa. Her face contracted in worry.
"You really have a lot invested in this, don't you?" Viv asked her.
"Am I being silly?" Melissa asked. "I don't think so. Ever since they were little, I've been wishing for exactly this — knowing all the time that it was impossible." She shook her head. "But now it's NOT impossible! Look at her!" She looked from Viv to me and back again. "I'm a mother. I'm Max's mother." She pressed her palms together, as if praying. "I can see that— that Lorelei is perfect for him. Perfect. You might not see it, but I do."
Viv gave Melissa an indulgent, but not unkind smile. "My concern is that Elliot might agree to remain Lorelei in the heat of a moment, or in the pleasure of a new experience. Second thoughts are inevitable, and it's my feeling that it's better for Elliot to return to being Elliot and consider what's being asked of him."
Melissa turned her eyes on me. I told her, "I think that's a good idea."
Melissa's shoulders dropped, and she let herself fall into an armchair. "Fine," she muttered. "I just hope you make the right decision."
The three of us had a light dinner together. Melissa kept returning to the idea of taking me to buy more clothes. "You don't have anything to sleep in, do you!" she challenged. To which Viv responded, "I have a pair of shorts and a t-shirt she could wear."
"Hmmph!" scoffed Melissa. "Well, at the very least, I hope that when you decide to be Lorelei, you'll let me help you shop for clothes!"
"I'll be glad to," I confessed. "I'm sure I need a lot of help."
At one point, Viv told us, "In the beginning I thought this was going to be a very simple thing: Max needed a date, Elliot was willing if only he were a girl, and hey presto!" She broke off a tiny bit of bread and chewed it. "Instead, in spite of his desperation, he might have a problem accepting a transformed Elliot."
"He'll get over it," Melissa assured us. She put her hand on mine. "And, darling, if things get... weird or uncomfortable at Max's, you can always come stay with me."
I woke with the sun on Monday. My head was clear. I didn't have any of the disoriented feeling like the day before. I knew who I was: Lorelei. Lorelei Gight, to be precise, Elliot's cousin. I laughed to myself. Then I wiggled around in the bed for a bit so I could feel the smooth sheets against the soft skin of my legs, and experience the sensation of Viv's comfy gray shorts and matching t-shirt. They were cotton, but a much smoother, silkier cotton that I'd ever experienced before.
I knew that my dress hung in the closet, close at hand, but I didn't see the point of getting dressed. After all, in less than an hour my entire body was due to change, so what was the point of dressing?
Padding barefoot down the stairs, I ran into Mr Errison, Vivianne's husband, as he walked through the front hall. He looked a bit older than Viv, had eyeglasses and white hair, and was wearing a pale blue shirt with a dark red tie. Until that moment, I hadn't given him a thought. I wasn't sure he even existed.
"Well, hello!" he exclaimed, "What a pleasant surprise! I assume you're joining us for breakfast?" His glance swiftly passed over my entire body, lingering only for a moment on my bare legs.
Vivianne peeked out from a doorway and waved me to her. "I could go put my dress on," I offered in a whisper.
"Naw," she whispered back with a wicked grin, "Let the old reprobate have a little thrill. It's good for his heart."
Breakfast was laid at a small table. There were only three places, so I had no choice but to sit between them. I should say that Mr Errison was a perfect gentleman, but I also felt pretty sure that he didn't usually smile this much at breakfast.
Afterward, we went to Vivianne's fitting room. I put on the kimono and the medallion, and she touched it with my shirt. I mean Elliot's shirt. Soon I was back to the old me, clothes and all.
"How do you feel?" Viv asked.
"Prosaic," I replied.
"Awww," she cooed with an encouraging smile. "That feeling will fade. Don't worry. Come, let me give you a hug."
She held me a long time. I felt like I needed it.
Then she told me, "Whenever — if ever — you're ready to turn back into Lorelei, give me a call, and we'll make it happen. Okay?"
"Yes, thanks."
"Even if nothing pans out as far as the wedding or with Max, you're always welcome to come see me--"
I thought she was done, so I said, "Thank you" as she continued, "--if you decide you want to live your life as Lorelei."
"Oh!"
"Give it a good think," she said. "Remember, you're unlikely to ever feel 100% sure, so when you're sure enough, call me."
"I will," I said. "Thanks for an amazing weekend."
She favored me with a sunny smile and showed me to the door.
Viv's driver dropped me off at Max's house. Max was in the driveway, hauling the trash bins out to the curb. His eye caught the teddy bear in my hand and stayed there for a few seconds.
In a neutral voice, with a neutral face, he asked me, "Did you have a good time?"
"Yes, I did," I told him. "Uh— are you going to be home for dinner tonight?"
"Yeah." He was almost expressionless; a poker face.
"Okay, good," I said.
"Gotta get to work," he told me, and turned toward the garage.
"Yeah," I acknowledged, and added, "Hey — one thing. I told your Aunt Viv that she made a mistake: she should have turned you into a little boy."
Max stopped and considered it a moment. I don't know why I said it in that moment, but when Max looked me in the face and smiled, I was glad that I did.
I stood in the driveway, holding my little bear, until Max drove away. Then for some reason I walked into the garage and up the stairs, to my old domicile. After a quick look inside the bathroom, it only took a glance to take in the rest of it. Now, after a space of months, I could see the place more objectively. The bathroom was pretty nice. If you were inside with the door closed, you might not feel you were in a garage, although your nose would tell you that you were.
And that was the main sensory impression: anyone could see that a lot of work had been done, but it still smelled of cars and oil and whatever musty fust goes with being inside a garage. It was sad. So why did I come here? Was I trying to make myself feel sad? Or was I sad already and looking for a way to pull it out of me?
In the refrigerator, there was a can of Old Milwaukee beer, room temperature. It made me laugh. I couldn't remember ever buying it, and who would ever give it to me?
I picked it up and brought it into the house. I'd heard that beer made a good shampoo; here was a chance to give it a try. Not right now, but later. Sure.
It was only quarter to nine in the morning. Too early to do almost anything. I called the property management office, but they didn't have any work that needed doing. So I carried my beer and my bear down to the mother-in-law suite. The beer I set in my shower, and the bear I placed on my bed.
"You need a name," I told him, and immediately it came to me: I called him Camembear. "I'm sure it's not original," I told the bear apologetically, "but neither is Elliot, when it comes right down to it."
"Or Lorelei," I added a moment later.
I played with my bear for a few minutes, talking with him, giving him a voice to talk to me. Then I asked myself, If I become a girl, can I play with dolls? I think I'd like to. Of course, not when Max could see! Still, something about it was appealing. Coloring books? I might give that a quick try. What other things do girls do? Field hockey? Soccer? Badminton? Archery? None of them seemed feasible at my age. There was tennis, and there was jogging, or even running races. I'd have to deal with my breasts bouncing all over. I'd need a sports bra. Melissa could help with that.
Of course, there was the entire world of clothes and cosmetics. And hair! I'd have to get used to doing my hair every morning. And depilation. What fun that would be. And periods! Well, other women survive them.
And babies? Strangely, that thought didn't frighten me, although if I knew more about it, it probably would have.
As I thought about all these things and others, it became clear to me that I fully intended to do it: I was going to become Lorelei. That name, though: I'd have to find something better, and I'd have to find it before the next time I talked to Vivianne.
But still, to have some credibility with her, I ought to wait a couple of days — also to give myself time to see the scheme from different sides, in different moods. At the moment, I felt as though I was coming down from a high: Lorelei was the high, and now Elliot was the low: drab and dull by comparison. Lorelei was alive; Lorelei was life. Elliot was simply existence.
I lay on my bed and looked through the pictures on my phone. I had the one of Darcy with Kitty, and six of Lorelei, alone: three in the bathing suit and two in the dress. I flipped through the seven pictures, zooming in and out, studying them. I kept asking myself, watching myself to see how those pictures made me feel, but I as far as I could see, they didn't make me feel anything in particular. I liked the pictures. I liked them a lot. Lorelei was nice to look at. She looked open, approachable, friendly, kind... all of the attributes I associate to Kitty. She was very Kitty-like, although the face was more or less mine and the body was hotter than Kitty's. She was slender, like Gal Gadot. Not thin, slender. Although, of course, broader than Gadot, with more meat on the bones. Her body was more like Sophie Tucker's.
After rolling back and forth through those few photos, I choose my favorite Lorelei photo, and in an unguarded moment, I sent it to my Dad. Don't ask me why. It was an impulse that I kicked myself for afterward, but I did it.
I thought about Max. I tried to divine his emotional state. Unfortunately, thinking about it didn't get me anywhere. Max was a fairly sanguine type, though: positive, forward-looking, generally happy and helpful. Even when he was in that deep funk at the start of the year — after Amber abandoned him — he didn't stay down for long. Whatever trauma he experienced at the hands of his Aunt Viv, I felt confident he'd get over it.
In fact, he sounded normal, like his old self, when he called at about one. "Hey, how's it going? Listen, would you mind if Kitty and Claus came over for dinner tomorrow?"
"No, of course not! I like them a lot."
"Good, yeah, me too. Do you mind making something nice? You know, like that salmon in pouches?"
"Salmon in parchment."
"Yeah! That. And what goes with that?"
"I could make a mushroom rice pilaf or roasted baby potatoes..."
"Pilaf!"
"And, um, I could pan-fry some asparagus if I find some at the store."
"Sounds good."
"And salad. Can we ask them to bring dessert?"
"Yes, I'll do that. Great, thanks!"
"My pleasure," I told him.
After that phone call, I thought, I'm his wife in everything but sex. It was a strange thought to think, and it would have been meaningless and weird, if it weren't for the Medallion of Zulo.
So, Kitty and Claus tomorrow. Tonight, me and Max. I figured comfort food was the way to go, and settled on meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and sauteed green beans. I did a quick run to the store for the few ingredients I was missing. Inevitably, I ran into Kitty.
"Don't you ever work?" I teased.
"I could say the same to you!" she retorted.
"Touché," I replied.
"Oh, hey," she said. "Claus just told me we're coming for dinner tomorrow at Chez Max. I hear they have an amazing new chef."
"Amazing is going a bit far," I told her. "I think I'm sandlot level."
"Sandlot? What's that mean?"
"Oh, I mean, sandlot like in baseball. It means pretty good for an amateur."
"Okay — well, I'm looking forward to it." She waved and turned to go.
"So — wait — if Claus told you, then... did Claus call Max, or Max call Claus?"
"Claus called Max, but not about dinner. He wanted to ask Max some silly thing about Nessa's wedding, about American Marriage Customs, as he puts it. He gets oddly formal sometimes. Then, while they were talking, Max invited him over. Why? It's not a problem, is it?"
"No, actually — the opposite! It'll be nice to have company. I'm glad you guys are coming. It'll give me a chance to get to know Claus a little."
"Come on — you've known him since high school."
"Not really! You have known him since high school."
"Okay, fair enough. Anyway, it'll be fun. And you'll like Claus; he's a great guy."
When Max got home from work, he was very enthusiastic when he heard the menu. "I've got a nice Shiraz from the Rhone Valley that will pair perfectly!" he said.
"If you say so."
Of course, he was right. "Pairing wines is like matching colors," I observed.
"If you say so," he quipped.
I'd forgotten about dessert, but Max waved that problem away. "I've got some nice cigars I picked up today," he boasted. "We should probably smoke them out back, though, not in the house."
I declined the cigar, but did accept a snifter of Flor de Caña, a Nicaraguan rum, that he claimed was "another perfect pairing."
Max leaned back in his chair, his legs crossed in a wide figure-four, as he blew smoke rings up into the trees.
I tried to relax, but it was difficult. I sat up straight in my chair, looking for a way to broach the topic of my transformation. Luckily, Max did it for me.
"So...," he began, firing one tiny smoke ring through the center of a larger, slower-moving ring. "Did you spend the entire weekend as a little girl?"
"No, on Sunday night she turned me into a full-grown woman, a little younger than us — than me."
He nodded. "And did you like that?"
"Yeah, I liked it a lot, actually."
"Did you want to stay that way?"
"Um, maybe. I mean, I didn't know it was a possibility until three days ago, and I didn't experience the reality of it until yesterday. So it's a little hard to think how it would be for days or weeks on end."
"That's a whole lot of words," he observed. "I'm not clear on what you're trying to say."
"Viv wants me to spend some time as Elliot and think about what I want to do."
"What do you want to do? You must know already, right?"
"I want to do it," I confided nervously. "I just have to take a few days to make sure I don't change my mind."
Max didn't say anything in response. He just reclined there, looking up at the sky. He wasn't puffing on the cigar any more and he wasn't sipping his rum.
"What do you think about it, Max?"
He turned his head to look at me. "I don't know, Elliot. It sounds simple, but it's not. I mean, think about all the things that could go wrong."
"Like what?"
"What if you turn into a girl, and I don't like you?"
That stopped me for a moment. But I said, "I don't think that would happen. What else?"
"Suppose I *do* like you, and we have sex together and we like it. Then what?"
"I don't know — we enjoy it? I don't see that as a problem."
"The problem comes when you turn back to being Elliot. What do we do then? I'm not going to have sex with a man. And while we're on the subject, how do I know that I'll be able to get past the fact that you ARE a man, even if you have boobs and a butt and all the rest?"
He took a perfunctory pull on the cigar, then the rum. Then he said, "Or what about you? What if YOU can't get over the fact that you'd be having sex with a man?"
"Maybe we don't need to have sex," I pointed out. "This is really about the wedding, right?"
"Yes, but we'd need to be believable as a couple. We'd have to be affectionate. Neither of us can recoil at the other's touch. I mean, right now I wouldn't be able to squeeze up next to you on a couch and put my arm around you. Could you?"
"Not at the moment," I admitted. "But the only way we can know for real is to try."
"Yeah," Max said, and shook his head. "I don't know if I'm up for trying."
Another puff, another sip, and then he straightened up, feet on the ground, and looked me in the face.
"There's one really big consideration. Have you thought about this? What if this ruins our friendship? This switcheroo could bring us to a point where we wouldn't be unable to look each other in the face."
"I've thought about that," I told him, "but again, we wouldn't know until we try."
"And what about this: I don't understand why changing into a girl didn't freak you out from the get-go, but maybe for you it'll happen later. It could be like a time bomb inside you. One day you might just flip out. It could mess you up forever."
"Yeah, I don't see that happening."
Max sighed. "You're going to do this, I can tell." He shook his head. "The thing is, I don't want you to get hurt! You're my friend, Elliot. My best friend. I don't want to lose you for the sake of some stupid one-upmanship game with Amber. I can go to the wedding alone. I'm a big boy."
His cigar had gone out. It took three tries to relight it. He puffed a few puffs. He held it out to me, offering a puff. I shook my head. He cleared his throat.
"One more thing: it bothers me that you're so willing to do this for me. If you wanted to be a girl for your own reasons, that would be one thing. But what is it really about? Finding a date for Max, so he won't be alone at Nessa's wedding? Come on, Elliot! You'd be paying an enormous price for such a small payoff."
"It doesn't seem that way to me."
Max sighed again, and told me, "Maybe you ought to hold off making the change until you DO see it that way."
I shrugged and took a healthy sip of rum.
"Look, man," Max said. "No matter what, we have to be sure we stay best friends forever, right?"
I clinked my snifter against his, and echoed his words, "Best friends forever!"
He swore. "Oh, shit — that's what teenage girls say, isn't it. We need a different toast."
I laughed.
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
Monday night, the night after Max and I spoke, was the worst night of my life. It was as though I fell into an abyss of uncertainty.
On the one hand, everything seemed simple. It was as if we could flip a switch and instantly I'd be Max's date for the wedding. Then click! we'd throw the switch back, and I'd be Elliot again. What could be simpler?
Instead, I was fearfully confused. What made it worse was that it was Max who'd confused me. I hoped that talking with him would clear the air; I figured that if we spoke, it would help move things along. Instead, Max loaded me up with doubts and inner conflict. If I hadn't gone into it with Max tonight, I might be more confident in what was ahead.
My goal last night was simple: I wanted Max to see that the transformations hadn't hurt me, the way they'd hurt him. I imagined he was suffering — suffering from something like PTSD, as though his aunt had used the medallion to do violence to his inner world and then done the same thing to me. I wanted him to see that I was fine, and then, by extension, by application, that he, too, was fine.
I didn't expect him to have already processed the experience, rejected it, tossed it over his shoulder like a piece of trash, and walked away from it.
And yet...
I ran over and over our conversation, replaying it in my memory, and I noticed something interesting. He never came right out and told me not to do it. He gave me downsides, potential issues, dangers, but he didn't come right out and say, Don't do it, Elliot.
What did that mean? It meant that he wasn't sure. Maybe it even meant that he wanted me to do it? Could I go that far, in my inferences? I mean, if I put myself in Max's place... let's say that I was Max and I loved the idea. Would I be able to tell myself (tell Elliot, that is), "Yes, Elliot, go do it. It will be like Cinderella at the ball, more or less."
I laughed. It would be like Cinderella at the ball, wouldn't it. No one would know who I was ("You should have heard the oohs and ahhs / Everyone wondering who she was"), and afterward, I'd disappear. More effectively than Cinderella, though — I wouldn't be leaving a glass slipper behind, and Max wouldn't have to search the town to find me.
I laughed as though Max was in on the joke, but of course he wasn't. I had no idea how Max really felt — and clearly I couldn't simply ask him. Even in that, it's like I said: The only way we can know is to try.
Max wouldn't be able to bring himself to the point of telling me to do it. He knows that if he asked me, I would. And then, if it all went wrong, if it fucked me up, if either or both of us were hurt, or if our friendship was blown to pieces, Max would feel the blame. He'd think it was all his fault, all on him.
This way, it was all on me: the decision, the trying — well, no, the trying would be on both of us. But I'd have to be Lorelei before we could even look at each other.
The worst part of this being my decision is that I wasn't sure how I felt. Or did I? Was I simply afraid of making a bad decision? a wrong decision?
Sure, the physical change could be undone. I could always go back to being Elliot, but any emotional damage, any reputational damage... well, that could last forever. Turning back into Elliot wouldn't necessarily heal all wounds.
Should I become Lorelei? Would I be making a mistake? Would I be making a fool of myself? Would everyone at the wedding — or worse, before the wedding — guess that I was really Elliot? Was that even possible?
A dozen times I got up in the night to make a list of pros and cons, but I didn't have any paper or anything to write with. In spite of knowing I'd find nothing, I wandered around, looking again in the same cabinets and drawers. I debated going up to the kitchen to find what I needed, but I didn't want to wake Max. I needed to be alone, so I could hash this out with myself.
In spite of it being a warm night, I wrapped myself in a blanket and sat on the floor, shivering.
What was the problem? I tried to calm myself, to sort out my feelings. To see... what did my uncertainty boil down to? Fear, obviously. Fear of making a wrong decision, fearing of making a fool of myself, and fear of alienating Max.
All of Max's objections echoed in my head, including his mention of the possibility of sex, and its aftermath. Did I want to have sex with Max? No. Was I in love with Max? No. Did I want to be Max's girlfriend?
That last question was a puzzler. Max has always been my best friend. I've always been happy to be with him, to do things with him, but it was never sexual. I never felt a desire to sleep with him, or cuddle with him, or kiss him, or anything like that. It never entered my mind — until now. The medallion opened up possibilities that didn't exist before.
I tried whittling down the question to its smallest size: Could I be Max's date for the wedding? That's what this was all about, right? The answer was, yes, I think I could be Max's date. I could be affectionate and attentive. Mainly, I'd have to be there, on his arm. Showing up was most of it. The rest was playing the part. We could try. If it didn't work, if it wasn't believable, I'd simply pay another visit to Vivianne and have her change me back to Elliot. That was the worst-case scenario, right? And as a worst-case, it wasn't so bad. Max would go alone to the wedding. He might be embarrassed or feel stupid. He might get teased, but he wouldn't die. It wouldn't ruin his life. He'd handle it like a man.
Okay. With that consideration, I felt that I'd settled the question. I'd ask Vivianne to change me into Lorelei, and then we'd see whether I made a viable candidate for Max's plus-one. It was simple. If I failed to mesh with Max, to be believable, I'd change back right away. Otherwise, I'd turn back after the wedding.
The time on my phone was 2:30. It was dark, but I didn't want to turn on the light. For a moment I wondered whether Amber was lurking in the shadows, circling the house, creeping through the shrubbery, peeking through the windows. I tried to laugh at the idea, but it wasn't really funny.
With the feeling that I'd accomplished all the thinking and made all the decisions that needed to be done, I crawled into bed, shifted around a bit to get comfortable, and closed my eyes.
All was peaceful, without and within, until something Max said echoed in my memory:
"It bothers me that you're so willing to do this for me. If you wanted to be a girl for your own reasons, that would be one thing. But what is it really about? Finding a date for Max, so he won't be alone at Nessa's wedding? Come on, Elliot! You'd be paying an enormous price for such a small payoff."
THAT question opened an entirely new can of worms. Did I want to be a girl? If Max was not in the picture, would I take advantage of the medallion, and turn into Lorelei, for a little over two months? Or even — did I dare to think it? — forever and ever? I mean, if I was willing to be a woman for weeks and weeks, did that imply that I wanted to be a girl? If I was alone in the world, what choice would I make, now that the choice was being offered?
My brain spun, turning back on itself, asking questions about questions, and getting no answers.
It came down to this, or so I thought: Have I ever made a decision simply and solely for myself? Thinking back to the pivotal moments in my life, I couldn't come up with an example of a decision that was all about me. In retrospect, in the light of this crazy night, it looked like all my big decisions were based on someone else.
Going backward from today, there was the move here, into the mother-in-law apartment. *That* was Max's decision, pure and simple. Max unilaterally moved me in. He didn't ask whether I wanted to. I *did* want to, but the impetus, the decision, was his.
Before that, the move above the garage. That was Amber's call: she decided, and I went along with it.
Before that, I moved in with my Dad and worked on the renovation. That was Dad's plan. I was along for the ride.
And before that, the startup. Sure, that was my decision, and I did have to make efforts to get in there, but there's a bigger principle at work. In this case, it's about what I didn't do.
I'm supposedly a highly-sought, highly-valued software developer. I know a couple of programming languages well, and I've worked on a couple of well-known projects as well as gigs at a prestigious company and a top-notch university.
And so, one would think — *I* would think — that I could take all my experience and expertise and strike out on my own. What I intended to do, before I joined the startup, was to create something on my own. I wanted to develop my own product, start my own company. I didn't want to join a startup, I wanted to be a startup. I wanted to be able to call myself a Founder.
The problem was, I didn't have any ideas. What did people want or need that didn't already exist?
In the end, it came down to earning money, which I was unable to do on my own. When the startup offered me a job, it was exciting at first. All the romance of being in on the ground floor, and the supposedly imminent big payoff. It was great, yeah, until they worked the life out of me. All right — I don't want to air my beef with the startup. Not right now. My point in mentioning it is this: I was along for the ride. As usual, I wasn't driving. Did I ever drive? Did I ever act on my own ideas?
I sighed. Even so, I didn't have cause to complain. My life has been good. I've always been healthy. I've never gone hungry or homeless. I've always had friends. So what if I was destined to be a second fiddle, or a sidekick, or a follower? We can't all be leaders.
So, okay, yes: my life has been good. Better than the lives of most people in this world.
Still, now that I have a choice, do I like being Elliot? How do I feel about my life right now?
Honestly, apart from my confusion and fear, my main, overriding emotion, the backdrop to my life, was sadness. Just in this moment, in these few days, I mean. Why was I sad? Because I missed being Lorelei, or even Darcy. I missed being a girl, even if I'd only had a little taste of that life.
Was that enough to go on? Could I decide, just based on that? On my feeling that I was sad about not being Lorelei? Did that make any sense at all?
Was I making too much of a brief, exciting experience?
I very nearly asked myself, Who could I ask? — absurdly, ironically, I wanted someone else to validate my choice; to tell me whether my desires and feelings were enough, when it came to making a decision for myself.
That said, there was someone I wanted to talk to. My Dad. Not to talk about Lorelei, of course! All I wanted was to touch base, to ground myself, to hear his voice. It couldn't hurt. It would probably help.
Morning found me in the kitchen, making tea and toast. Max came bounding down the stairs. "You're full of energy today," I observed.
"Yeah!" he agreed. "I feel good. I slept like a log! But what about you? You look like you've been up all night!"
"Yeah. I didn't sleep much."
"Are you going to be alright for tonight? The dinner with Kitty and Claus?"
"Oh, yeah. I'll take a nap at some point. I'll be fine."
He grabbed a couple of energy bars and some fruit. "You look stressed out, man. You're stressed about the girl thing, aren't you."
"Yeah," I confessed.
"Make it easy on yourself," he suggested. "Don't do it. It's the simplest thing."
"Oh, hey," I said, "Not to change the subject, but — changing the subject — about Kitty."
"What about Kitty?"
"Your mother mentioned that she doesn't trust her."
Max groaned. "Oh, I know! She's been telling me that for years!"
"Really?"
"Yes, really! And when I ask her why, she has no reasons. It's just a feeling." Max shrugged.
"Well, how about this for a reason: Kitty is friends with Amber."
"And?"
"What if Kitty is coming tonight to spy for Amber?"
"What if she is?"
I gestured mutely, a little frantically, as if to say Don't you get it?
Max considered a moment, then asked, "Let's say she *is* spying for Amber. What would you want to do about it?"
"I don't know. Maybe we need some kind of plan. We don't want to give any more ammunition to Amber. She doesn't need more material for her lies."
Max took a long breath and looked steadily at me. He cleared his throat and said, "No. Just no. I am not going to nurture a sense of paranoia and I am NOT going to change anything in my life because of that woman." He shook his head. "If Kitty comes as a spy, let her come and spy. I don't care. There's nothing about this house or about me that Amber doesn't already know. And listen: Kitty's not just Amber's friend; she's our friend, and I am not going to cut her off because she likes that crazy woman. Amber wants to isolate us. I'm not going along with it." I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut me off. "If she's going to report to Amber, she's perfectly free to waste her time doing that — as far as I'm concerned."
"Okay," I conceded. "I guess you're right."
"Amber wants to play her idiotic game, but it takes two, and I'm not playing."
He stopped talking and took time to peel a banana. He took a bite, watching me the whole time.
"My God, bro — you look miserable. You're letting this crazy BS get to you. You need to quit thinking about Amber. And forget about my aunt and my mother, while you're at it!" He made a smoothing motion with his hands. "Just chill out. Just... you do you. Screw everybody else."
"Okay," I said. "I just need a nap. Or maybe a long walk."
He smiled. Then his smile broadened. "Hey, I know what might cheer you up! You look like you could use a present! A Christmas present!" He chuckled and walked into the kitchen pantry. On the highest shelf were five Christmas presents, the same ones that were under the tree on Christmas Eve. They were still perfectly wrapped in gold paper with red ribbons. Max got a step-stool and reached down the biggest one. He set on the kitchen island, next to my tea and toast.
"Merry Christmas!" he said, laughing. "I'm off to work. See you tonight!" Before he went out the back door, he stopped and joked, "I sure hope I picked the right box! Otherwise, this could be pretty embarrassing!"
I watched his car back out of the driveway as the garage door automatically closed. Once he was out of sight I picked up the box and shook it. It was a little heavy, and it didn't make any noise when shaken. I lifted the tag on top. It read, "To Amber, From Max."
"Hmmph," I said to myself. "Fuck you, Amber!" I rubbed the tag between my fingers, ready to tear it off. Then, after a little reflection, I noted, "At least it doesn't say Love, Max!" I took that as a little victory, and folded the wrapping paper over, hiding the tag from sight.
I tugged on the red ribbon, but it didn't give. Instead, my phone rang. It was Melissa.
"Good morning, Elliot!" she gushed, spilling over with enthusiasm. "Or should I say, Lorelei?"
"No, Melissa, I'm still Elliot. Also, I'm still waking up."
"Do you want me to come pick you up? We could have breakfast together on the way to Vivianne's house."
"Melissa, I'm not ready," I told her, gently.
"Why not?" she whined.
"Are you kidding? Come on, it's a big decision!"
"No, *you* come on! Time's a-wastin'! The clock is tickling!"
"Melissa, Melissa—" I interrupted "—the clock is ticking, not tickling."
"Yes, and that's why we need to strike! Strike while the iron is hot! What are you doing now, anyway, that's so important?"
"Um, Max just gave me a Christmas present."
"Why?"
"To cheer me up, I guess."
"Oh, really! What is it?"
To make a long dialog shorter, she pestered me until I opened the package. When she learned that it was an All-in-One Cooker, she was wildly disappointed. Then, struck by a thought, she asked, "Do you think it's some kind of message?"
"No," I said. "It's just practical. No message. In fact, he told me this morning that he doesn't think I should change into Lorelei."
"Oh, did he? Didn't he like the pictures? How did he react when he saw the swimsuit photos?"
"He didn't see the photos. He doesn't want to see the photos."
"Oh, my God!" she cried. "I don't think my heart can take this! What do I have to do to convince you two?"
"Just give me time, Melissa. Please. It's a big decision."
I tried to call my Dad, but his voicemail said that he was "probably sailing or maybe golfing, but in any case, not at home."
"It's your cell phone, Dad! You don't need to be at home!" I exclaimed at his recording, but I didn't leave a message.
I couldn't find a tablecloth, and I had to look on the internet to see whether the wine glass or the water glass was on the inside, but in the end I set a pretty nice table. We had no flowers or candles, but I said, "I'm not a girl, so I don't care!"
When Max arrived, he ran upstairs to shower and change. When he came down, I set out an antipasto platter.
"You made this?" he asked, popping an olive in his mouth. "I'm impressed."
"Don't be," I told him. "It's from the delicatessen in Town Center."
"Still, impressive," he said, taking a few slices of cheese.
Kitty and Claus arrived soon after. Claus called out, "Hello, all together!" Kitty punched his arm and gave him a reproving look.
"Ow!" he said. "'Hello, all together' is a perfectly acceptable greeting!"
"In Germany, maybe," she said. "Not here."
"Okay," he conceded. "Howdy, y'all!"
"Howdy, pardner," I replied, laughing. I kissed Kitty's cheek. After Melissa's warning, Kitty didn't seem to radiate her usual magical aura, but I was determined to keep an open mind and judge for myself.
Max handed around glasses of white wine. He asked Claus, "So, are we clear? No smoking at the wedding."
"No smoking?" I asked.
"Germans call tuxedos smoking," Kitty explained. "Claus thought he'd have to wear a tuxedo at Nessa's wedding. That's why he called Max yesterday."
Claus protested, "In my defense, I figured destination wedding, smoking! Sorry, tuxedo! Newport mansion, tuxedo! Am I wrong?"
"If the invitation said black tie, which it does't," Max answered.
"And do we need separate clothes for the ceremony and the— uh— der Hochzeitsempfang?"
"Whoa, that's a mouthful," Max chuckled.
"The, um, reception?" I hazarded.
"Yes!" Claus cried. "Exactly! Do you speak German?" I shook my head.
I began to feel that Claus was playing up the "helpless foreigner" bit. He moved here when he was seventeen years old, so the "how-do-you-say-in-English" act seemed put-on. Still, I was determined to keep an open mind.
Kitty gave a sideward glance at Claus and asked, "If that word for 'reception' was so long—"
"Der Hochzeitsempfang."
"—what do the bride and groom say in German instead of I do?"
"They say Ja," Claus replied.
"Seriously?"
"Yes, of course! Why not?"
"It's so prosaic," I said. Claus shrugged.
"Speaking of weddings," Kitty said, "Specifically, Nessa's wedding—" she turned to me with a teasing look "—you're coming, aren't you, Elliot?"
Max's face remained impassive.
"No, I'm not invited," I replied..
"Not yet," she breathed in a quick whisper. Then to Max, "Do you have a date yet? Have you found your plus-one?" Clearly, Kitty was in the mood to tease.
"No," he told her. "The current plan is for me to go alone."
"No!" Kitty exclaimed, "You can't!" She leaned forward with a sly, wicked smile, "I found a girl who'd be a PERFECT date for you — if only she was ten years older! Look!"
She held her phone out for Max to see. He was nonplussed. She showed it to Claus, who frowned.
"Do I get a look?" I asked. She showed me her selfie with Darcy.
"I don't understand," Claus said. "This is a little girl. Where is the joke?"
Kitty scoffed. "Can't you see? This girl looks just like Elliot! Isn't it freaky?"
"What's her name?" I asked.
"Darcy. I didn't get her last name."
"It could be Darcy Gight," I told her. "I have a cousin with that name."
"If she's your cousin, why don't you recognize her?"
"I've never met her. Her father and my mother were estranged when I was little." As a lie, it was coming out pretty well. I actually *do* have an uncle who cut ties with the family while I was still a baby.
"Really! So where does she live?"
"I don't know," I insisted. "For my whole life, my uncle's had nothing to do with my family. I've never met him or Darcy."
Claus interjected, "But, Kitty, look — Does the little girl have an older sister? I thought *that* was the punchline here."
Kitty ignored him. Not having gotten the reaction from Max that she was looking for, she tried a different tack. She turned to Max and gestured at her phone. "Darcy was with your Aunt Vivian." Max shrugged. Kitty turned to me. "How does Max's aunt know your cousin Darcy?"
"I don't know," I repeated. "Again: Darcy's family and mine are estranged. It means we don't have any contact." That much was true.
"You know," Claus said, "This situation — of Max and the wedding — is a typical rom-com pattern, you know? Like in a Lifetime movie?"
"You watch Lifetime?" Max asked. "Isn't that 'Television for women'?"
Claus blushed slightly, but he defended himself, "I watch it so I can share Kitty's interests. Besides those films are often funny and cute." After a pause, he added, "And you — how do you know their slogan? You must have watched it as well."
Max side-stepped that question. He asked, "How is this in any way like a rom-com? Aren't rom-com's supposed to be funny?"
"Well," Claus said, expansively, "Of course there is conflict, frustration, problems. It wouldn't be a good story if everything was smooth as butter. But, see — the frustrations and complications can be funny in themselves, but the attempts at resolution go comically awry.
"Also, there can be other elements, such as outlandish coincidences, well-intentioned relatives who try to help, but only make things worse, simple misunderstandings that balloon into heated conflicts... Secrets! Secrets aren't told, but are discovered at the worst time. And occasionally, by a huge stretch of the imagination, something magical. For instance, if this girl Darcy became older, and you meet, and—"
"It's getting more than a little creepy," Max objected.
"You're right, you're right, not a good example at all. Cancel all that. More typically, it's much simpler. There is a man, like you — good looking, well off, but for some reason he cannot get a date for this family wedding! Perhaps he is afraid of commitment, ja? So, what does he do? His car breaks down outside a funny little bookstore, or a quaint, quirky cafe, and there he meets an attractive woman. They hit it off, and on impulse, he invites her to be his date — but only pretending."
"Why only pretending?"
"Because it isn't real!" Claus warms to his subject. "See — she, for some reason, is willing to cover his embarrassment, and she plays along. At the wedding, he sleeps on the sofa; she in the bed."
"Uh... sleeping at the wedding?"
"It's a destination wedding! Like Nessa's! More than one day is spent at this gorgeous destination."
"Again I ask: how is any of this funny?"
"Well, they are pretending to be in a relationship, but in actual fact they know nothing about each other. Everyone wants to know how they met, what they do together, who she is, and so on. There are many contradictions, and much comedy ensues."
"And then?"
"Well, and then! Inevitably they fight. They have a tremendous knocking of heads — a huge scene, at the wedding. Perhaps someone falls into the wedding cake, for example, or knocks the bride, still in her wedding dress, into the pool. Of course, purely by accident."
Claus laughed inordinately. The rest of us smiled politely.
"The joke, you see, is that the relationship is completely fake. But then, inevitably, there is a denoument. In the end, they fall in love, and possibly get married themselves." He cleared his throat, seeing he'd let himself get carried away. "In any case, this is the pattern."
"Okay!" I said. "And on that note, why don't we come sit at the table? The food is ready."
Max turned to Kitty and talked to her as they ambled over to the dining room. Claus scampered after me to help serve the food.
"This food is beautiful, Ell!" he exclaimed. "You certainly have a knack for cooking!"
"What did you call me?" I asked.
"Ell. That's what Kitty calls you. I thought everyone calls you that."
"I never heard her call me that. And I've never heard 'Ell' as a nickname for Elliot. It sounds kind of feminine." I was irritated, mildly offended.
"Oh, no," contradicted Claus. "Think of el Cid! More manly than he, there is no other."
"I don't know that name."
"Oh, but you must! Everyone knows el Cid! Eleventh century soldier, I don't know a lot of details, but he was a brilliant strategist. He fought against both Christians and Muslims."
"Sounds like he didn't get along with anyone," I joked. Claus shrugged.
"My God, Ell!" he exclaimed, "Everything smells so wonderful! I can see that you are quite the Hausfrau."
Hausfrau? "Ah... Claus, I don't know that word."
"Ach! I should say hausfraulein, really."
"Fraulein?" I repeated, "Doesn't that mean girl?"
"I don't mean that literally," he protested. "Don't be offended! But you do play the female part in the relationship, don't you?"
"Yes," I said drily, "Like el Cid."
He gave an embarrassed laugh. I think he meant to tease, the way that Kitty teases, but he'd gone too far. He gave a quick bow of the head, said "Sorry!"
"Don't worry," I said. "But don't call me 'Ell', okay?"
"Fine," he agreed.
The rest of the dinner was unremarkable. Claus remained on his best behavior, and turned out to be a good dinner companion. Kitty chatted about various friends we all knew, and refrained from making any more of her little insinuations.
For dessert, they brought three flavors of flan: the classic flan, coconut flan, and pina colada flan. All perfectly delicious.
After dessert, we went out back so Max and Claus could smoke cigars. Max, Claus, and I had snifters of rum. Kitty drank tea. ("I need to be able to drive," she explained.)
They left after ten, close to ten-thirty. Max and I took a first pass at clean-up, putting the food away, loading the dishwasher.
"I had a really good time," I confessed. "I didn't expect to enjoy it as much as I did."
"There were a few brief awkward moments at the start," Max agreed, nodding.
"But it didn't spoil the evening," I said.
"I still like Kitty."
"Me, too," I said. "Claus can be a bit much, though."
"I think that he tries too hard to be funny. He plays the buffoon, but he doesn't need to."
I nodded.
All that remained were the pots and the pans, and the general putting-things-back-in-order. "I'll get the rest tomorrow," I told Max. He saluted me, said "thanks," and shuffled upstairs to bed.
It was almost eleven when I went downstairs to my room. My phone, which I'd left down there the entire time, was vibrating. I had a text message.
It was from my Dad. He sent a comment on the photo I'd sent him — the photo of me as Lorelei. My heart was in my throat.
The text from Dad read, "Am I crazy, or is this Lorelei? Call me!"
Then another text: "I bought a sailboat!"
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
After seeing Lorelei's name in my father's text message, I expected another sleepless night. Instead, I slept like a log, and didn't wake up until nine o'clock. It was a day of bright, almost intense sunlight. Surprisingly, I felt great!
The business about that name, Lorelei Gight, bothered me, but it bothered me a lot less than I feared it might. Obviously Vivianne had done some checking into my life and background. The night we met, I recalled, she asked me a lot of questions about my family. At the time I wondered why I felt compelled to answer — why I succumbed to Vivianne's air of command. Her questions seemed odd and out of place at the time, but in retrospect they were very forward-looking; it was part of Vivianne's thorough planning. Clearly, I wasn't Viv's first science project. She mentioned others... if I remembered correctly, she told me there were at least two men that she'd turned into women. It was in reaction to their excesses that Viv initially changed Max and me into little girls at first, rather than women closer to our own age. She was trying to teach us something, to give the experience of being someone else, minus one big danger — the lure, the temptation of sex. Or better, of uncontrolled, impulsive sex. I didn't think I'd be making that same mistake as those two.
I didn't intend to remain a woman for the rest of my life, the way that those two men had. Even so, I got the impression that Viv was preparing the groundwork in case I did decide to turn female forever. When the other two men transitioned, or transformed, there must have been some paperwork involved in their change of persona. I mean, everyone's identity needs to be documented. At the very least, we all need a birth certificate. How far ahead has Viv gone in creating for me what spies and undercover cops would call my "legend": At minimum, that meant name, date and place of birth. I doubted that Viv chose the name Lorelei Gight out of thin air. Did I have a cousin Lorelei? Was there an easy way to fabricate documents for a fictitious cousin Lorelei Gight?
Knowing, as I did, that Viv had already poked around in my life, it wasn't a complete bolt from the blue, when my father said that name. Sure, I didn't expect it, but it was more a surprise than a shock.
These considerations led me to a fairly obvious and immediate question: Did Lorelei Gight already exist? Would I be assuming the identity of a person I might actually bump into?
But again, the question was little more than a mild irritation, not a major, nagging issue. I felt confident that a couple of questions to Dad and/or Vivianne would quickly clear things up.
But first, breakfast!
When I ascended the stairs to the kitchen, I was greeted by the pleasant discovery that Max had already washed the pots, pans, and glasses that we'd left the night before: the remnants of our dinner preparations were stacked, racked, and dry or draining. Nice! Less work for me. I pushed some bread into the toaster and set some water on the stove for tea.
Now, who to call first? I gazed slantwise into the toaster, checking whether the bread was beginning to brown. While I waited, I mulled over that other name, Darcy. Viv told me at the time that Darcy had a made-up last name. I scratched my head. It seemed, then, that "Darcy" was a single-use, throwaway name, a one-off, but that Lorelei was chosen with the possibility of permanence. If I opted not to remain Lorelei, no loss, but I'd have a more solid identity as long as I continued to be her.
After I'd poured hot water over my tea, while I was buttering my toast, Melissa called. I put her on speaker so I could finish buttering. I didn't want the toast to cool!
Her pent-up excitement was almost palpable. Her anticipation coursed over the phone like electricity. At the same time, I could feel that she was sitting on her enthusiasm, trying her best to tamp it down.
"Just checking in, no pressure," she said. "Are you ready yet?"
"Melissa, you will be the first to know, I promise."
She sighed. I could hear her deflate, disappointed. "Do you promise?"
"Yes. I swear."
"Can you at least tell me: will it be soon?"
Kicking myself as I said it, I answered truthfully. "Yes, it'll be soon. For sure I'm going to do it, but I'm not ready to pull the trigger yet. And don't ask me what soon means."
Melissa whooped the first time I said soon, then groaned the second time I said it. In the end, she sighed and apologized. Recovering her composure, she assured me, "Okay, okay! No pressure! No pressure! Okay? I just want you to know that I'm here."
"I know you are," I told her. "I appreciate it."
"I'm here day or night. Alright? Day or night. But no pressure!"
"No pressure," I repeated. "Bye for now, Melissa. I'll call you." With that, I broke the connection.
I put the pots, pans, and glasses back into their respective cabinets. I set my breakfast plate and mug in the dishwasher. Then I tried to call my Dad.
After listening to his sailing/golfing message, I said, "Dad? It's, um, Elliot. Could you call me when you get a chance? Thanks."
The clock hadn't moved since I last looked at it. I groaned and drummed my fingers on the kitchen island. Uncomfortable at being at such loose ends, I called Vivianne.
Her line rang five times before it was answered... by Mr Errison!
"Hello, Mr. Errison. This is Elliot Beekman. I was looking for Vivianne. Did I call the wrong number? I thought this was her cell."
"Oh, yes," he replied jovially. "Vivianne is out and about; location unknown. This is her cell phone, but she's left it at home. Whether on purpose or by design, I can't tell."
I laughed, though I wasn't sure whether he was joking. Honestly, he sounded a little tipsy — and so early in the day! "Aren't those two the same, Mr Errison? Purpose and design?"
"Oh, yes, ha! You've got me there! What I mean to say is that old Viv forgot her phone, although I don't know whether to put air-quotes around the word forgot."
"I understand."
"Good. Well, listen, Elliot, I'm sure she'll be glad to speak with you. When she reappears, would you like her to call?"
"Yes, please."
"I'll give her that message. Over and out!"
"Over and out," I repeated, wondering whether I could depend on Mr Errison to pass on the message. I'd have to call back, if I didn't hear from Viv by lunch. Or say, around one? One-thirty?
What to do with myself? I called the property management office, but they didn't need me.
Maybe I could take a look at the all-in-one cooker Max gave me? I might get inspired and use it for tonight's dinner. I pulled it down from the high shelf in the pantry, still nestled in its gold wrapping paper and bits of red ribbon. I set it on the kitchen island and freed it from its festive wrapping. I pulled the top of the box open, and the doorbell rang.
It was Kitty, of all people. "Hi," she said, kissing me on both cheeks. "Sorry to burst in on you, but I think I left my bracelet here last night. Have you seen it? It's a chunky silver chain."
"No, I'm sure I haven't," I replied after a moment's thought. "But come on in, we'll look for it together." Honestly, I didn't remember seeing a chunky silver bracelet at all, on her wrist or off. I gazed back into my memory. To the best of my recollection, her wrists were bare when she arrived last night. Oh, well.
Kitty wandered into the living room, chatting as she did about the great time she and Claus had last night, and how impressed they both were at my cooking. She sat down at one end of the couch and dug her hand along the sides of the cushions and in between the cushions and the back. After working her way halfway down the couch, she pulled out a rather obvious chunky silver bracelet.
"What a relief!" she breathed, smiling.
"Nice," I commented. "I wish all problems were that easy!"
She asked for a drink of water, so we went into the kitchen. "Somebody's birthday?" she asked, toying with the golden wrapping paper.
"No, it's from Christmas," I told her with a laugh, and poked the all-in-one cooker. Kitty frowned, puzzled. "It's a leftover present from Christmas," I explained. "Now that I'm learning to cook, Max thought I might try it out."
"Huh," Kitty said, her focus still on the wrapping paper. Her exploring fingers kept probing, turning the wrapping and looking underneath it. At last, she found the tag: To Amber, From Max. "It's for Amber!" she exclaimed.
"It was for Amber," I contradicted. "Amber left it behind when she disappeared on Christmas Eve."
Kitty looked puzzled. "Disappeared?" she repeated.
"Yes, she slipped away on Christmas Eve. Secretly, silently, stealthily. She left without saying a word. No note, no goodbye, no scene." Kitty was clearly baffled, so I asked her, "Don't you remember? I told you."
"Oh, that!" she replied, waving her hand. "I've talked to Amber, and she has a very different version of events. You have to admit -- that story you told me is pretty far-fetched!"
"I know it sounds crazy, Kitty, but that's what happened."
She stuck her tongue in her cheek, and grinning, challenged me: "You really believe that Amber magically transported all of her things out of her in one night -- on Christmas Eve, of all nights? Did she have help from Santa Claus?"
"It wasn't one night. In the days or weeks before Christmas, Amber secretly moved out all her stuff. She even took away the Christmas presents she'd put under the tree for Max. By the time Christmas Eve arrived, there was nothing of hers left in the house!"
Kitty, smiling, shook her head. "That's not how Amber tells it."
"Kitty, you know how it went. Max had no idea she was leaving. On Christmas Eve she told him, I'll be right back, and she was gone. Max was taken completely by surprise."
"Is that what he told you? That's what Max told you?"
"That's what I saw, Kitty. I was here. Max was mystified. He was devastated. She didn't give the slightest clue or hint. One minute she was here; the next minute she was gone."
"No," Kitty said, shaking her head. "That's not what I heard."
I scoffed and shrugged.
"Do you want to hear Amber's side of the story?" she asked in a challenging tone. "Do you want to know what she says happened?"
"No, I don't. I'm sorry, Kitty, but I don't want to hear it at all. After all the lies and stories she's told about me, I am done with Amber. I don't want to hear anything Amber's got to say." I looked Kitty directly in the face as I spoke. I tried to not be negative. I did my best to keep an even, neutral tone. I didn't want to dump onto Kitty any of the anger and hostility I felt for Amber. That anger, that fire, was building up inside me, and it was moments from bursting out of me. The best way to put a lid on it was for me to stop talking. So I did.
Kitty seemed genuinely confused: both by my insistent sticking to what I'd seen and heard, and by my disinterest in Amber's version.
I like Kitty. I've always liked Kitty. She's my friend, and Max's friend. But she's also Amber's friend. Maybe at some point she'll have to choose between Amber and us, but I saw no need to push her to that point. I wanted to stay friends; I knew that Max did as well. Maybe Kitty has a divided allegiance. Sometimes she's on Amber's side, and sometimes she's on ours? Whatever Kitty's relation to Amber, Max was right: I could live with it. Even so, there were lines that could be drawn.
"Kitty, can I ask you something? When you come here, is it — at least in part — to spy on us for Amber?"
"Spy for Amber..." she scoffed. "It isn't like that. I come here because you guys are my friends."
"I know that," I assured her. "Never mind — I'm sorry I asked."
She gave a little impatient huff. "Look — it's not like I spy — that's not what it's like."
"So, what's it like, then?"
"Amber is concerned about Max. She really cares about him and wants to know what's going on in his life. She wants what's best for him."
I couldn't help it. I laughed out loud. I stopped when I saw the irritation on Kitty's face. I shrugged, but I wasn't going to apologize.
"What I hope," Kitty says, "Is that everyone involved will be able to make peace and move forward with their best lives."
"Amen to that," I replied.
"I have to go," she said after glancing at the clock.
"Don't go away angry," I told her.
"I'm not angry."
"—or offended."
She stopped frowning and gave what seemed a genuine smile. She gave me a kind of half-hug, pressing her cheek against mine.
"Seriously, I have to run, Ell. I'm meeting Nessa for lunch." She glanced again at the clock. "This stupid bracelet is going to make me late. Bye!"
She waved, the chunky bracelet dangling from her hand, and scooted to the front door. I looked down at the kitchen island and saw that she'd taken the gift tag (To Amber, From Max). Struck by a sudden thought, I ran after her and caught her on the walkway out front.
"Kitty! Kitty — hey! Wait a sec!"
She turned.
"Is Amber going to be at this lunch with Nessa?"
Kitty stopped in her tracks. She hesitated, looking me in the face. Then she admitted, "Yes, Amber will be there. Amber wants to get to know Nessa better, so I set it up this little lunch."
I nodded. Then I decided to push a little more. "Did you introduce them to each other?"
She hesitated again, studying my face. Again, she answered. "Yes. Amber was looking forward to the wedding, and she felt left out when Max— when she and Max broke up. So I introduced them. Any other questions?"
"No," I said. "Thanks."
"You're welcome," she said in an irritated tone. "Happy now?" she asked as she fished her car keys out of her bag. "See? Now I'm spying for you, too!" She blew me a somewhat angry kiss, and made a beeline for her car.
I pushed the gold wrapping paper into the recycling trash, and fished out the instruction manual for the all-in-one cooker. I got lost in reading, when my father called me back. He dove right into the conversation.
"Elliot, son, you have to tell me — what's this about you buying a sailboat?"
"A sailboat?" I repeated, a little thrown off balance. "I'm not buying a sailboat!"
"Oh that's right," he replied, laughing at his own joke. "That was me! Thanks for asking about it!"
"Dad..."
"It's a sailing dinghy," he said. "It's actually made for kids, and I think I got taken for a ride, but hey — I've never sailed. I've got to start somewhere, and slow and small sounds just about my speed. I don't want some skippy little boat that goes flying out from underneath me — and leaves me stranded in the middle of the ocean."
"What do you mean, it's made for kids? Is it really small?"
"No, it's more the shape and all... it's like a bathtub with a sail on it. I don't have to worry about it going too fast, because... well, it can't go fast. But at least it gets me out on the water. Honestly, I might have to hire the kid who sold it to me to show me the ropes."
I let him go on for a bit about the boat, saying uh-huh and asking obvious questions. It was good to hear him, regardless of the topic. Hearing him so happy made me happy as well.
"Moving down here was one of the best decisions I ever made," he enthused. "I love it. Elliot, your old Dad is getting brown as a berry!"
"Great!"
"So... this girl," he said, abruptly changing gears and slowing the conversational pace down considerably. "Who is she?"
"Well, Dad — you tell me first: who is Lorelei?"
"Oh, Lorelei," he groaned apologetically. "I'm sorry I was so flippant. All I can say in my own defense is that I'd had a few. I was a little tipsy."
At least you were tipsy at the right time of day, I thought. Unlike Mr Errison.
"What do you mean flippant?" I asked. "Did something bad happen to her?"
"Oh," he exclaimed softly. "I forgot — you have no idea who she was, do you?"
"No, Dad. Will you tell me?"
He sighed. "Yeah. Well," he said, stalling a bit. "Lorelei. Well, Lorelei — she'd be your cousin. On your mother's side. Do you remember your Uncle Alex and Aunt Peg?"
"I can't say I ever met them."
"No, you wouldn't have." I had the feeling he was gathering his thoughts, looking for the best way to tell the story.
"Alright," he said, after a thoughtful pause. "Probably best place to start is at the beginning. Your uncle Alex, he is/was your mother's brother. They used to get along pretty well, apart from the usual sibling guff they hadn't grown out of, but, you know, nothing bad. Alex's wife Peg, on the other hand — she and your mother got on like gangbusters. They were besties, like teen girls say. BFFs. Inseparable, joined at the hip, always laughing, always fun.
"They both got pregnant around the same time. This was before you. Round about the third month, your mother miscarried. It was sad. Your mother kind of broke down for a while, but the effect on Peg was out of all proportion. She was spooked. To the core. Peg was scared to death. She had the idea that because your mother miscarried, well, then she was going to lose her baby as well. She had this fixed, fatalistic idea, and nobody could talk her out of it. In fact, a month after your mother, Peg miscarried as well.
"Your mom, on the one hand, soon enough got back on the horse, and long about a year later, she was pregnant with you. Peg, on the other hand, was so demoralized... well, to make a long story short, you were already two years old before Peg got pregnant again. Lorelei was born a a month or two after your third birthday. Your mother would know the exact date; I never had a head for birthdays."
After a momentary silence Dad continued, "Lorelei died before she turned one. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. That what's they called it, and that was the end of everything. Alex took a job in Huron, South Dakota. A few years later, he moved again and again and again. Your mother tried to keep in touch, but it was all one-sided. Eventually Alex and Peg fell off the map. No Christmas card, no birthday cards, no nothing. We didn't know whether they were alive or dead."
I took it in. I wondered how much of this was known to Vivianne. "Is that the whole story?" I asked.
"No, unfortunately, there's a little more. After your mother died, I hired an investigator to find Alex."
"And did he?"
"Yes, he did. He gave me Alex's address and phone number. I gave old Alex a call. Told him that his sister had passed away. He thanked me for letting him know, wished me his condolences, and then he told me that he wasn't interested in keeping in touch... after all this time, he said, as though it was *my* fault!
"I asked him about Peggy, and he told me that last he heard, she was living in Omaha." He took a drink of something, then said, "So... I looked her up, I called her up, and she was fine. She sounded happy. She had remarried, had a healthy, happy child by her new husband; didn't say whether the child was a boy or girl. Told me that she wasn't interested in stirring up the past, so I left it at that."
He sighed. "It was pretty unsatisfying, I have to say."
"Okay," I said. It sounded stupid, but I had no other words.
"This is kind of a depressing topic," Dad observed. "So let's leave it aside for now. If you want to know any more, you'll have to come down here."
"Come down to Florida? Why?"
"Because if we're going to talk about sad things, I want to do it out on the water."
"You have to tell me the story out on the water? Dad? Why?"
"Because when you're out there, with nothing but sea and sky, and you and me in a little cockleshell, it's big nature, little us. In that setting, it's easier to keep things in perspective."
"Okay," I said. "I can come down in June or July or after. There's a big wedding coming in May. Max's cousin, Nessa."
"Oh, nice. Weddings are fun. I always like a good wedding. So, hey! Who is that girl in the picture? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called her Lorelei. In my defense, it was after I had a few."
"I know, Dad, you told me. It's fine."
"So... this girl? Who is she?"
"I don't know who she is," I lied. "My friend Kitty sent me the picture — she thought the woman's face resembled mine."
"Oh, Kitty! She's the one with the furniture and all that! I always liked that girl! Something unique about her... She could be a great detective, you know. I always wondered why you didn't go after her."
"The furniture?"
"Yes, she did the whatchamacallit when we sold my house."
"Oh, the staging!"
"Right, right. So how come you never asked her out?"
"She paired up with another guy when we were all still in high school. They're still together."
"Hmmph. Even so. But this girl, the one in the picture, you know — let's call her Lorelei — her face, yeah, she kind of looks like you, but you know who she really looks like? She's the exact image of your mother, back when your mother was a young, red-hot hottie."
"Dad!"
"Sorry, but she was! God rest her soul. But that woman... your mother... oh, Elliot! I loved that woman with every every fiber of my soul!"
"I know, Dad."
"Oh, Elliot — all these emotions! Stirring up the past, making me remember..."
"I'm sorry, Dad."
"No, don't be sorry! It's fine! It's fine. But come down and see me. I don't want to wade into all this deep water over the phone."
"I will, Dad. Once the wedding is out of the way."
"Good. Okay, Elliot, I'm going to hang up this phone, and when I do, the very minute I hang up, I want you to do something. I want you to call your friend Kitty and find out who that girl is. And — just to be on the safe side, make sure she's not your cousin!" He laughed. "Just kidding — I can't imagine how she possibly could be. Elliot, you find that girl, and you never let her go, do you hear me? I mean, of course, unless there's something mean or hard about her. But that face! Don't let her slip through your fingers, son. A woman with a face like that — she must have a beautiful heart. A beautiful heart, Elliot. A heart like yours." He snuffled and coughed. "Now look at me — all maudlin and soft. Jeez. Anyway, don't let her get away. Keep me posted. Goodbye, son."
With that he hung up.
And *that* settled it.
I called Melissa. She picked up on the first ring.
"Melissa," I told her, choking a little on my emotions, "It's go time."
"Go time?" she repeated. "Does that mean— oh! Oh! OH! I'm on my way! I'll be right over!"
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
Melissa arrived in a matter of minutes. She was glowing, brimming over with excitement, like a child on Christmas morning.
Speaking of Christmas, her eyes lit up when she happened to glance at the recycling trash and spotted the gold wrapping paper. "The present from Max?" she asked. Her eagerness kicked up a notch.
Her spirits fell abruptly when I showed her the all-in-one cooker. "I was hoping for something more... significant," she pouted.
"I told you what it was when we spoke on the phone," I reminded her. Her expression resembled nothing so much as a cute, disappointed child. It was hard to hold down the smile that kept playing on my lips.
"Okay," she acknowledged. "Enough of that. Let's get going! We're burning daylight!"
"Hold on, Melissa. We can't go yet. I haven't been able to get in touch with Vivianne."
In an instant, Melissa snatched her phone from her bag and hit Vivianne's contact. After a series of rings, I heard Mr Errison's jovial voice on the other end, giving Melissa the same information he'd given me, along with the same silly jokes. She broke the connection and frowned, frustrated.
"I heard," I told her. "He said the same thing to me when I called. But you know, I still need to pack."
"Pack what?" she demanded. "What could you possibly have to pack? You're going to need everything new! You can throw away all of your Elliot clothes!"
I wasn't about to burn my clothing bridge. My clothes were my only way back to being Elliot, as far as I knew. I've got to keep at least one set of clean "Elliot" clothes, I told myself, for after the wedding. I wasn't going to tell her that, though! Aloud I told her, "Toothbrush, toothpaste, laptop, phone charger... and one or two sentimental items, things from my parents."
"Oh, right. Sorry." After a moment she added, "I got you a new toothbrush. And a hairbrush. And a few other necessaries."
"Oh, thanks," I said. "I also need to leave a note for Max."
Her eyes lit up at that.
"Why not send a text?" Her eyes opened even wider. "Why not send a video — of you, changing into Lorelei!"
"No," I said, decisive as stone. "That could freak him out — maybe even permanently. I'm going to stick a simple note on the fridge that says, I went to see your aunt."
She huffed impatiently. "You could at least send a photo. Not a before photo — he knows what Elliot looks like. You need to send an after photo. Of Lorelei."
"No photos," I said. "No texts. No warnings or teases. If I let Max know what's up, he might try to stop me. He could call me and talk me out of it. He might call Vivianne and somehow convince her not to change me."
"So, you tell him after," Melissa said. "That's what I've been saying."
"I think we need to move very slowly," I cautioned her. "I don't want to throw this in his face. Let's let it develop naturally."
Melissa sighed. "No, you're wrong! All he has to do is see you, and then bam!"
"Bam?"
Melissa made an isn't it obvious? gesture and said, "He'll fall in love!"
I groaned and shook my head. Struck by a sudden burst of enthusiasm, she grabbed me and squeezed me like a lemon while she squealed like a little girl.
I managed to hit on an activity that kept Melissa both distracted and occupied at the same time: we prepared tonight's dinner for Max. She showed me her recipe for sausage, peppers, and onions (one of Max's favorites). We also prepared zucchini noodles with pesto, and oven-roasted vegetables.
After we'd sampled our work, Vivianne called. She said she could see us at four.
"Before you come, I suggest that you call your credit-card company and have them send you a card for Lorelei Gight on your account. Also, add that name to your bank account."
"Isn't that illegal?" I asked.
"Certainly not. You could add Herbert Hoover to your bank account if you wanted, as long as it wasn't for purposes of fraud. The bank will prepare a signature card that you can sign once you're Lorelei."
We spoke briefly about my getting a social security number and a state ID — "You won't have time to get a driver's license, unless you intend on remaining Lorelei long term."
"Long term," I repeated.
"I mean, forever," Viv clarified.
"Uh," was all I could say, but Melissa, who could hear everything, squeezed my arm with every ounce of her strength.
After I hung up, I told her, "You're going to have to lighten up on the squeezing, or I'll be black and blue all over."
"Sorry!" she exclaimed. "I'm just so EXCITED!"
I called my credit-card company, and stopped in at my bank. Neither expressed any surprise at my request to add Lorelei; it was all very matter-of-fact for them, and both transactions were very brief.
The visit with Vivianne was also brief; her mind was clearly elsewhere. She didn't rush things, and nothing was forgotten, but you could see that, for her, this wasn't the once-in-a-lifetime experience that it was for Melissa and me.
I've already described the transformation process, so I won't repeat myself. It was, of course, less shocking and surprising than the first time — although equally astonishing. It's amazing that such a thing can happen at all. The three of us had already seen the endpoint of the process; when I emerged at the end as Lorelei, it was like seeing the return of an old friend. At the same time, I felt an enormous sense of relief, as though a weight had fallen from my shoulders. Why did I feel relieved? I guess that now, when I'd finally made up my mind, finally taken the step, I was able to quit agonizing over it. It was done; I was at peace.
It reminded me in a flash of the moment in Pilgrim's Progress where the burden that Christian had been lugging everywhere, and complaining about to everyone, finally lets go, rolls off, and drops into a hole, never to be seen again.
Melissa managed to contain herself, and squeezed her left hand with her right, rather than squeezing me.
Vivianne picked up all the "Lorelei" clothes, one by one, as if taking inventory. "We've done everything, haven't we? Dress, shoes, bathing suit... there's nothing else, is there?"
"Nothing," I confirmed, turning this way and that in the mirror.
She opened a drawer and pulled out a manila envelope. "Here is your birth certificate," she said. "With this you can get a social-security card and a state ID, and eventually a drivers license and passport, if you want one."
I looked it over. "So, I'm twenty-seven," I observed.
"It's a nice age to be," Viv observed. "Make sure you memorize your birthdate." She placed the medallion back in its case, and dropped the necklace case in her bag. "My apologies," she said, "I'm needed elsewhere, but I think you two can get along without me, at this point."
I thanked her, I thought profusely, but Melissa outdid me.
"Just one thing," Vivianne warned, "Don't go hog-wild with your sexual experiences! If you really and truly want to turn back to your old self after the wedding, you must NOT get pregnant. Remember that."
"I'll remember," I promised, but Melissa whispered, "Fingers crossed!" and grinned. I could see grand-babies written all over her face.
The next few hours were interesting and fun to me, but I'm not going to bore you with the blow-by-blow. A few details will do:
To keep herself from climbing the walls in anticipation, Melissa had already bought a few necessaries for Lorelei: she'd already told me about a hairbrush and other toiletries, but her preparations went well beyond that. She picked up a cute peach-colored t-shirt dress and some low-heeled sandals, pale green pajamas, a set of oversized shorts and a tank top ("for lounging"), and lipstick and mascara. She assured me that it was a "super effort" to not buy more, "but we need to ease into this, don't we?"
She'd also prepared a guest room at her house for me to stay. We agreed that it would be easier for Max to accept Lorelei if she wasn't just dumped on him. He had to choose Lorelei, or at least feel that he had. ("Men often don't know what's best for them," was Melissa's comment. "You'll see!")
She surprised me by NOT wanting to shop for clothes and such right away. I didn't realize until later that she'd already been studying, shopping both online and in person, and above all deciding what looks would work best for me.
She introduced me to Max's father, Paul. Of course, I'd met him many times as Elliot, growing up, but he seemed a different person meeting him now as Lorelei. I could see the family resemblance between him and his sister (Vivianne), but unlike her, he was not intimidating. Paul was fatherly, kind, strong, good-looking. He noticed the resemblance between me (Lorelei) and Elliot, and over the time I spent at their house, Paul regaled me with stories about Max and me (Elliot me). I knew all the incidents, but it was curious, hearing them from the perspective of an observant adult.
The three of us had dinner at a small white cast-iron table on their patio, a spot that featured a panoramic view of their pool and their deep back yard. A massive oak stood in a far corner, and dogwoods in a line in the distance. It was peaceful and lovely. It was all familiar to me, but I'd never taken in their beauty before.
My eye kept drifting toward the pool. I spent a lot time there as a kid — Max and I would pass entire days, it seemed, floating, swimming, goofing, in that pool.
Paul, who'd been explaining and describing the virtues and issues of their various trees, finally noticed where my eye was going.
"Do you like to swim, Lorelei?" he asked. "While you're here, please feel free to avail yourself of the pool! Any time. It'll be nice to see someone putting it to use; getting some enjoyment out of it." He turned to face me, and smiled the same charming smile I've seen on Max's face. I couldn't help but smile in reply. Then he asked me, "Did you bring a bathing suit?"
Melissa sat up a little straighter during this part of Paul's exposition, and she gave him a subtle cautionary glance.
"Yes, um, I do have a bathing suit."
"Excellent," he acknowledged, speaking more into his wine glass than to me.
The next morning I woke early. Not spontaneously. I wasn't woken by the sun. It was Paul, making an incredible racket. All he did was get dressed and ready for work, but for him that involved a lot of banging and walking up and down stairs in his big, loud shoes.
Once the noise subsided, ending with the bang of the front door and the roar of his car leaving, I came out of my room and padded barefoot into the kitchen, I found Melissa, her hair tossed and tousled. She smiled at me. "Oh, did he wake you up, too? Paul is a dear, but he can't get ready in the morning without making enough noise to wake the dead!"
I stretched and yawned, nodding my head. Melissa's smile widened. "You're just adorable! Do you realize that?"
"Okay," I said. She must have told me two dozen times or more. "I'm adorable," I repeated, and yawned again.
"Awww!" Melissa cooed. "Come here! Come here, you little thing," and she hugged me. A normal hug, thank God. Not one of her squeeze-all-the-air-out hugs like before.
"Are you hungry?" she asked, playing with my hair. I was beginning to feel like Melissa's doll. My cheeks reddened slightly.
"Not yet. I still need to wake up."
"Tell you what," Melissa offered. "Why don't you jump in the pool and get in a nice morning swim? While you do that, I'll prepare us a lovely breakfast. We can eat it on the patio and plan our day. I'll call you when it's ready."
"Okay," I said, smiling. "Sounds great."
"Go! Get your suit on, then. Go! Off you scamper!"
I didn't exactly scamper, but I was pretty quick in getting out of my pajamas and pulling my bathing suit on.
The moment of seeing that gap between my legs — I wondered how long it would take me to get used to that gone-ness, to having nothing there. Well, not nothing, but not the gear I was used to have hanging there. I have to admit, I did like the change. It seemed a vast improvement. What sense did it make to have one's testicles hanging so inconveniently, so vulnerably there?
Then the new feeling of pulling that tight, stretchy fabric over my new curves, over my butt and breasts. I wondered, as I threaded my arms though the openings, whether this suit was too tight — impossible, considering how the medallion worked — but still... once I had it on, though, the tightness became its virtue. The suit became a second skin, a cool, flashy second skin. I felt like Wonder Woman, once I had it on.
I thought to run the hairbrush quickly through my hair, but right away hit a tangle. I tried a different spot, and hit another tangle. Oh well! Tangles later! Pool now!
A few minutes later I dove into the cool, clean water. The sensation of the flow coursing over my brand-new body was beyond amazing. It was a dream. The world was not awake yet; the sun had yet to rise above the trees. The only sounds were the chirps and tweets of birds, and the swish of the breeze in the trees.
As it turned out, I still knew how to swim, in spite of changing bodies, And I still loved it. I took some laps, studying, feeling, evaluating the differences I felt in my new physique. I wasn't as strong, but I didn't seem any slower. I certainly felt more buoyant; I didn't need to kick as much to keep my hips up. I propelled myself to the bottom in the deep end, and pushed off with my toes. That feeling, when your face breaks free of the water, into the air — there's nothing like it. There are so many wonderful sensations you can only achieve in the water. Another is pushing off the wall and gliding. I went back and forth, side to side, twisting like a slow corkscrew. I was in my element.
To finish off, I dove in at the far end, the end away from the house, and swam underwater. Could I reach the other end without coming up for air? I managed that trick in the past, but that was Elliot — and I made it! I came up with a gasp, clutching the ladder, panting, my chest heaving, my head down. I took a few deep breaths. As I climbed the ladder, I saw a pair of black dress shoes, toes pointing in my direction. Above them, gray pants with a crisp vertical crease running up the front of each leg. Had Max's dad come back? But no, not his dad. I tilted my head back and saw, above the belt buckle, above the light blue shirt and red and gray striped tie, was Max's face. His mouth hung open. He blinked several times.
"Hi, Max," I said, still panting. Seeing him so fully dressed made me feel naked, and very conscious of my lack of clothes. I felt awkward and clumsy, but that was likely more in my head than in reality. I didn't stumble, thank goodness.
"What are you doing here?" I asked him. Stupid question, I know. Obviously, Melissa invited him. For breakfast. For breakfast with me in a bathing suit. She wanted her bam! and she wanted it now. (In case you forgot, in Melissa's mind, bam! is the sound of Max falling in love. With me.)
"I, uh — Mom, um — Elliot? Is that you?"
"It's Lorelei," I said in a quiet voice, not wanting to be overheard. "But, yes, I'm in here."
"My God! I didn't know you were here... at all... much less, like this."
"Yeah," I replied. "I went for your Aunt's big makeover." I could see his surprise — or rather, he was holding my towel in front of him, to hide his surprise. "Max, could I have my towel, please? It's a little cold in the air."
"Oh, sure, of course." He turned his body awkwardly sideways and handed it to me. I dried my face first, then hung the towel over my head to dry my hair — I wanted to give him time to arrange himself.
In fact, when I was done rubbing my hair, I saw him sitting at the little white cast-iron table. It was set for breakfast. Max took one of the big white cloth napkins, opened it up, and spread it across his lap. I pretended not to notice, to not show that I knew what he was doing, but a faint blush spread across my face. I sat down next to him, facing him, a three-quarters view.
"I didn't know you were coming," I told him. He shrugged and nodded.
"You still like to swim, I see," he said.
"Yes, some things haven't changed." As I spoke, I stretched my shoulders, pressing some little kinks out. They were small movements, but enough to move my breasts around. Max's eyes fell to my chest. I looked toward the house, as if I hadn't seen. I wasn't sure at all whether women had a standard protocol for this.
"You look... incredible," he said.
"Thanks. Your Aunt Viv literally did her magic."
"And you don't... mind?" He asked, as if he couldn't conceive of such a thing. I shook my head. Max followed up with "It doesn't freak you out?"
"No, not at all. Honestly, it's kind of fun."
"Tell me that when you're on your period," he said, somewhere between a tease and a scoff.
"Yeah, I guess," I replied. "I'm not sure that's something I'll want to talk to *you* about." I meant to say, Hopefully I won't be female long enough for that, but apparently my mouth had ideas of its own..
I leaned my elbows on the table. There wasn't any food yet. I glanced again toward the kitchen. From the corner of my eye, I saw Max's eyes discretely swept over my entire body, from my face to my toes. Then he, too, turned toward the kitchen.
"My mother invited me for breakfast, but if it doesn't start soon, I'm going to have to take off. Sometimes it seems like she doesn't believe I have a real job."
I laughed. Max smiled as I did. I have a nice laugh! I discovered. I smiled back. Then, remembering my posture, I sat up straight, and feeling my hair trailing on my upper back, I reached up with both hands, and running my fingers through my hair to comb it, I twisted around the excess into a kind of tail and draped it over my right shoulder.
Max shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and checked the placement of his napkin. "Will you quit doing that?" he muttered.
"Doing what?"
"It's like you're trying to torture me," he confided in a low, tense voice. "You're making all these little movements to make your breasts bob and sway. It's really... distracting. Can you quit it?"
"I'm not doing anything, I swear!" I looked down at my breasts, which made them quiver and wobble. Max groaned.
"Look," I told him. "I'm not doing it on purpose. I'm really not! It just happens. I'm not used to having..." I turned red "...extensions like this. They move on their own. I don't have any fine control over which way they sway."
"Okay," he conceded, "but it's maddening. It's provoking, and you're not even trying to provoke me. I mean, you're not, are you?"
"No," I protested, but I was having a hard time keeping from laughing. "I'll do my best to sit absolutely still."
I planted my feet on the ground, put my hands on my thighs, and sat up straight. Max looked at the sky. "Maybe I should go get dressed," I offered.
"No, it's fine." He looked at his watch and sighed. "I'm running out of time."
"I'll go see what's keeping your mother," I told him, and stood.
"Wait," he said. "While we're alone... tell me one thing: Did you do all this—" he gestured at my breasts and legs "—did you do all this just for me? Please tell me you didn't."
"No, I didn't," I said. "I mean, it's partly for you, but I like being Lorelei. I feel a lot more alive than I do as Elliot."
"Okay," he said, nodding. He seemed to relax a bit at my response, and his gaze rolled down and rested on my crotch. He stared like he was hypnotized.
Up till that point, it was all cute, funny, and embarrassing — I mean, the way he kept sneaking looks at my breasts and legs. This stare, and what he was staring at, changed everything. In that moment, I understood that I was now on the other side of the equation. Up till then, I'd been playing this like a game, laughing at Melissa's intense matchmaking, minimizing Vivianne's warnings, but now I saw it. I felt it in my body. I was a woman, and Max was looking at me with a heat and hunger that I couldn't help but react to.
Even so, this wasn't the bam! that Melissa was looking for. This was something else, something more animal.
A line from the movie Happy, Texas came to mind, where one woman says to another, "He looked at you the way a fat man looks at a plate of eggs."
I was shocked. To be seen that way, as an object of desire, like meat. It was my turn to stand there, stupidly, awkwardly, white-faced, jaw hanging open, eyes blinking.
Max raised his eyes and met mine, and he knew that I'd seen what he was looking at and how he was looking at it.
The two of us sat there, frozen, eyes locked.
If we were two animals, something would have happened right then. Something physical, something strong. The iron, as the saying goes, the iron was hot. But we didn't strike. We were civilized humans, so we simply stared at each other.
Let's be honest, it wasn't love. It was lust. It was pure animal desire.
I melted, I liquified, I burned. I radiated heat from the core of me, directly to his core. It was strong. I'd never felt such a thing before.
And then I said it. I told you, it seemed like my mouth had ideas of its own. Seems that my body had some ideas it had to express as well.
I put words to a thought that I swear I never had in my head before that moment, but it was there now, and I found myself saying it.
"Max," I whispered, "I'm never changing back to Elliot."
"Never?" he repeated, whispering as well. "Never is a long, long time."
And then we blinked and the spell was broken. He cleared his throat a half a dozen times, and I dried myself uselessly with my towel.
"Well! I better go see what's keeping your mother," I declared, taking a step back and turning.
"Okay," he said, "It was, uh, nice seeing you." I guess he couldn't find anything better to say, so he fell back on a standard, polite phrase. For my part, I couldn't do any better.
"You, too," was my response.
I smiled, awkwardly, and he smiled an awkward smile back. Clearly we were both awash in awkwardness.
I turned and walked away, wondering the entire way if I was walking at a normal pace. Was I going too fast? too slow? I tried to not think about what my derriere was doing, whether it swayed or rocked. Was I walking the way other women walk? Was this something I'd have to learn and practice? Could I even ask Melissa about it? I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Could I feel his eyes on my ass? Was that a real thing?
I sighed with relief when I slid open the glass door and entered the kitchen. Melissa was there, hiding, smiling conspiratorially. She stepped in front of me, so my back was still facing Max. I could see his reflection in the microwave over Melissa's shoulder.
"How did it go?" she asked in a stage whisper.
"Um... can I tell you later? He's got to get to work, and he's wondering where the breakfast is."
"I'll bring the breakfast out in a second, don't worry."
"Melissa, he's staring at us."
"He's staring at *you*, hon." She gave an impish grin. "Listen, do a heel bounce."
"What?"
"Lift up both heels and then let yourself drop."
I knew what she wanted, and I did it, I'm not sure my butt jiggled as much as it should have. The little image of Max reflected in the microwave arched his back and looked at the sky. I'm sure he groaned, though I couldn't hear it.
"Poor guy," I said. "I'm going to run and put some clothes on."
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
As quickly as I could, I dashed upstairs, stripped off the bathing suit, and pulled the t-shirt dress over my still-wet body. I was fast, as fast as I could manage, but not fast enough. When I bounced back downstairs and into the kitchen, Melissa was alone. I looked out the window to the patio. The little white table was empty.
"He's gone," Melissa told me. "He said he had to get to work."
I glanced at the clock. "He is usually gone by this time."
"Hmmph." Melissa grunted and, distracted, squeezed her fingers together. "I was hoping for a little more electricity," she complained.
I scoffed and told her, "Believe me, there was electricity," but she didn't seem to hear me.
Her eyes scanned me up and down. "Did you put that on while you were still wet? Wet with pool water?" Shaking her head, she added, "Don't do that again. And do NOT wear that dress without underwear."
"Okay."
She looked around the room, as if looking for a clue. "Right. Now what?"
"Could we have breakfast?" I asked.
"Yes," she agreed, but as she spoke her eyes traveled up to my head, and with a look of distress she said, "But first — that hair! Oh my saints, girl! It's full of tangles! You've got a rat's nest on your head!"
"I'm hungry!" I cried.
She huffed impatiently and shoved a muffin in my direction. I grabbed it before she could change her mind, and peeled off the paper. "Is there any coffee?"
After a hastily consumed muffin and coffee, Melissa sent me to shower, pointing out which products to use. She gave me a rough-textured cloth for my body ("but not for your face!"). Lastly, she pointed out a big-toothed comb hanging in the shower: "Use that to comb the conditioner through your hair. Comb GENTLY until all the tangles are out. Do you understand?"
It was easier said than done. The first day of my war against tangles.
After my shower, Melissa had me trying on clothes, the ones she bought while she impatiently waited for me to decide to transform. The pile of skirts, tops, dresses, and pants intimidated me, but Melissa scoffed at my trepidation. "All you have to do is try them on. See how they fit, see how they make you feel, see whether the look suits you." After taking a deep breath to steel myself, I picked up two of the items. I lifted them up, looked at them, turned them so I could see the back, and set them back down on the bed. "Melissa, what if I don't like — something. What if they don't fit? What if I don't like any of them?"
She laughed. "We'll take them back! That's half the fun, girl! Now let's get cracking! Are you afraid you're going to hurt my feelings? Don't! I want you to look good and to like what you're wearing."
It took us over ninety minutes to get through the outfits. About half of the items didn't fit right, and others didn't look right. In the end we kept only three pieces.
"I'm sorry," I told her.
She gave me a strange look. "You're sorry the clothes don't fit you or suit you? Listen, Lorelei, you've got to get used to the process! Sometimes you have to try dozens of clothes to find the one or two or three that you really like and want to wear. If you keep something out of guilt for not wanting it, it's a waste, because you'll never wear it. If you're in doubt, toss it out."
One dress, a black, black halter dress with a floral motif that seemed painted over one thigh, really appealed to me. I loved that dress. I didn't want to take it off, I liked it so much. When I finally *did* take it off, my fingers sought out the price tag. Melissa swatted my hand away, then gave me a quick smack on the butt.
"Ow!" I yelped.
"No looking at the price tag! Bad girl! Bad!"
"But—"
"No buts! This is my treat. You'll have plenty of clothes and things to buy on your own."
"But— I mean, still, all of this must cost a lot of money! I can pay you back, you know. I *want* to pay you back."
"You don't have to pay me back," Melissa replied with a grin. "And I don't want you to pay me back. At least not with money!" She laughed and hugged me, saying, "This is an investment in my future!"
"Huh?"
"Grand-babies!" she whispered.
"Melissa — Melissa — come on, can we tap the brakes on that grand-baby business? Let's take it slow. Max isn't even on board for taking me to the wedding yet. He hasn't even asked me for a date."
"You've been a girl for what— all of one day? Patience!"
"What I'm saying is that we have to let this develop slowly, naturally. You know, often when you push too hard, all it does is make people dig their heels in."
"Hmmph," Melissa said, as she folded the clothes on the bed. "Lori, you can tap those brakes all you want, but I am 100% full-steam ahead."
"Anyway," she added after she'd folded the last piece of clothing in the "returns" pile, "I'm going to be in the background. Max won't see me or hear me or feel me pushing. But I'll be there, pushing as hard as I can."
I bit my tongue to keep from responding.
We sorted the return items into the bags for their various stores. Once that was done, Melissa and I prepared lunch for ourselves and dinner for Max.
We served generous portions into microwaveable containers and sealed them tight. Melissa said, "We'll leave this in his fridge, and you will send him a text so that he knows it's there." She tapped one of the plastic lids with a dark red fingernail, tap-tap-tap. "You know, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach."
"Is that true?" I asked. "I've heard people say that, but is it really true?"
"I don't know," she confessed, "but I do know that men are happier after they eat. If we feed him every night, he's going to associate that happy feeling with you. And that's a good thing. So don't mention that we prepared his meals together, you and me. In his mind, it's has to be you, only you, understand?"
"Even so... won't he feel like we're meddling?"
"Look: if the food is there, will he eat it?"
"Yes."
"Okay, then! Case closed!"
After our mission to Max's house, we went and got my hair cut and my ears pierced. "Tomorrow we'll do makeup and nails," Melissa told me. "Right now it's time for more clothes. And shoes."
I mentioned the Outerland Mall earlier — Vivianne brought me there when I was Darcy. Back then, the other children, and parents with children, smiled at me. It was like being part of a club, just by virtue of being small and cute. Now I got a lot of looks as well, but they were quite different in character. Males, from teenagers to old men, visually assessed me. I felt as though I was being mentally undressed over and over. I don't think I would have minded if all they did was stare at my breasts, but they took their time looking me over, as if I were a doll they might buy and play with. Some of the men were fairly discreet in their scrutiny — especially if they were accompanied by a woman. Others, and not only the younger ones, openly leered and ogled. They didn't literally have their tongues hanging out, but they weren't far from it.
"It's like they've never seen a woman before," I groused sotto voce to Melissa.
"Ignore it as well as you can," she advised. "You never get used to it. Unfortunately, you have to learn how to deal with it."
The women, on the other hand, gave me more cold, clinical appraisals — though more of my clothes and hair, it seemed. I got the mental picture of a stern, fault-finding sergeant inspecting a rookie soldier. "Women size up the competition," Melissa explained. "It's fine as long they don't say anything."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, women can be so catty," she explained, "and some of them are experts in cutting you down, no matter how good you look or feel." She flushed red at some memory, and said, "That damn Amber is one like that. You know how some people don't have a mean bone in their body? Well, Amber — all she has are mean bones. She's got nothing but mean bones in her body. I've never heard a single compliment — to anyone — or any kind word come out of her mouth. Ever."
I chuckled, but Melissa didn't.
Anyway, we looked at clothes. I tried on clothes. We put clothes back. I tried on others. We bought some. I stuck my feet into dozens of shoes, usually because Melissa observed that a certain pair would go with something else I had at home or in a bag.
Shopping for clothes was interesting for a while, but after more than two hours, I ran out of gas. Melissa didn't catch on at first, but when I began grunting in response to her repeated question "isn't this SO cute?" and then flatly refused to try on a pair of shiny black boots, she looked at my dull eyes and tight jaw. "Oh, no — Paul gets that face when he's had too much shopping. You need a break. You need a little snack, and I know just the thing."
Melissa stood to my right, and she turned away from me, so as to face the Mecca of our snack break. I took a step forward. At the same moment, she stopped and made a half-step backward, which caused the two of us to softly collide. She turned slowly to the left, reaching at the same time for a pair of leggings on the rack next to us. She picked up a pair of white yoga pants, which were veined like marble, and feigning interest, she gave me an intent, low-voiced command. "Look at these pants," she said. "Don't look up. I said, don't look up! Look here—" and she shook the leggings to draw my attention.
"What's going on?" I murmured, carefully keeping the radius of my attention small and focused on the white yoga pants.
"Your friend Kitty is here," Melissa whispered. "Listen, now: you need to remember that you don't know her. You never met her, alright? You have no idea who she is. Do not talk to her. Don't open your mouth at all unless I prompt you, okay?"
"Why?" I asked.
She huffed impatiently. "Because we want some control over the situation. You're so open and friendly, you'd end up telling her everything, including the medallion."
"I would not!"
"Hush, will you now? Please?" She glared at me with eyes wide open. Honestly, she looked a little crazy, but I grudgingly agreed to keep quiet.
... but I added, "I'm done here. If we don't want to see her, can we just leave?"
"No, wait. At least here, I can see her coming. Better to do this now. I don't want to be taken by surprise."
Of course I wanted to know what this was, and why it needed to be done at all, but Kitty rolled up quickly and quietly on Melissa's left, so I glued my lips shut and examined the offerings in the leggings rack.
Kitty cleared her throat, but Melissa pretended not to notice. A few seconds passed, so Kitty gave another ahem; also ignored by Melissa. So Kitty resorted to speaking first. She said, "Hi, Mrs Errison — I thought that was you! How are you doing?"
Melissa looked up slowly and gave a polite smile. "Well, look who's here! If it isn't Hello Kitty." She knew quite well that Kitty hated that nickname. Of course, none of her friends ever used it.
Kitty frowned out of reflex, then fought her frown back into a smile. Watching the curve of her mouth drop, then spasmodically rise again was like watching a boat nearly capsize, then right itself.
Melissa spoke again. "Kitty, would you mind not calling me Mrs Errison? It makes me feel a thousand years old! Please call me Melissa."
"Okay, Melissa," she replied, and I could see And don't call me Hello Kitty written across her face. But she didn't say it.
Kitty tilted her head right and left, trying to see past Melissa and get a good look at my face. When she opened her mouth to address me, Melissa cut her off, asking, "What brings you to the mall in the middle of the day, Kitty? Don't you have a job?"
Kitty, a little discomfited, replied, "Yes, I have a job. I run a staging business. I'm actually here to buy supplies. I need knickknacks, lamps, and table coverings."
"Oh, I see."
Again, Kitty tried the direct approach. She asked, "Who is this with you? I don't think we've met." The question was addressed as much to me as to Melissa, and ordinarily I would have responded by telling my name. Kitty tried to extend her arm to shake hands with me, but Melissa blocked her by leaning forward slightly. She made it look unintentional, but Kitty's face reddened with frustration. Melissa didn't make eye contact with me, but I could feel her radiating the command to keep quiet, so I did.
"Okay," Kitty said, as if accepting her defeat. But she held up her phone. "Could I take a selfie with you two?" and she began to arrange herself and hold the phone at arm's length.
"Oh, no, of course not!" Melissa replied in a haughty tone. "I'm not one of your little high-school friends. No thank you!"
She slipped her arm through mine. She asked, "Are you done looking?" When I nodded, she led me toward the exit.
I glanced back as we passed through the main door. Kitty was fuming, her jaw working. I'd never seen her that way before.
I expected that we'd head for home after the encounter with Kitty, but Melissa wanted a bubble tea. She led me to a pavilion next to the food court. Soon the two of us were sitting on a stone bench sipping our green drinks through big fat straws. The bottom third of the glass was filled with soft, chewy black balls. "What are these funny bally things?" I asked.
"Tapioca," she replied. "Isn't it refreshing?"
"I guess," I said, but before I could get any further, my attention got sidetracked.
The bench on which we sat was set against a wall. Nearby, small tables, big enough for two or three people were arranged, and most of them were occupied by people eating, drinking, or hanging out. My eye was caught by the face of a man who sat directly opposite from me, on a similar stone bench; his was set up against the big concrete planters that defined the food court. A man my age, with short, wavy brown hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders, and a handsome, manly face. I knew that face somehow; I was sure I did. As I stupidly stared at him, trying to remember how I knew him, he smiled. Then he winked at me.
Maybe this is strange of me, but I don't like winks. I don't like them at all. They bother me. I don't know why. Max doesn't wink. Neither do most of my friends. I've seen Amber wink, and it confirms everything I dislike about the practice. Having this man — however good-looking — wink at me, made me uncomfortable, and I found myself shifting in my seat, jostling against Melissa.
"What's going on there?" Melissa asked. "Do you need to use the ladies room?"
"No," I muttered. "That guy over there just winked at me."
She smiled and gave a little snort of a laugh. Then she glanced over and followed his gaze. "Oh, I see." she took a pull on her tea and told me in a confidential tone, "Put your knees together. He's looking up your skirt, and you're giving him a free show."
I clamped my thighs together and glared at him, as if it was his fault entirely. He smiled, shrugged, put his hands together as if in prayer, and bowed his head in thanks. I stood up abruptly.
"Let's go home," I said, and started walking to my right.
"The car is this way," Melissa reminded me. I turned, feeling as foolish as a cartoon character, and went to the left.
We hadn't gone far, when a voice came from behind us: "Miss? Miss?" It was that man again. He followed me! He caught up with me!
I straightened up and was about to aggressively, offensively demand What the fuck do you want? when he held up my phone.
"Is this yours?" His eyes twinkled. "It was back there on the bench... where you were sitting." Somehow he made the word sitting sound dirty.
"Yes, it is mine," I admitted, embarrassed. He was being nice — kind, even — and yet he repulsed me.
I reached for it, but he waggled it and held it closer to himself, at his right shoulder, next to his face. "Might there be a reward? A kiss? Your phone number?"
I gave him a distressed, pained look, so he gave it up, saying, "Never mind, then. Here you go. I thought— well, never mind what I thought." He handed me the phone. "Have a nice day." He turned away, then looking back, he said, "And thanks. You made my day anyway." He followed up by a devilish grin.
When we got in the car, I said, "Edison."
"What?"
"That jerk at the food court, the one who had my phone — his name is Edison. Max and I went to school with him."
Melissa scratched her head. "You certainly got his attention."
"I didn't want to!"
"You need to be more careful," Melissa told me. "All girls go through this; most at a younger age. But you'll get it. Lesson learned?"
"Lesson learned," I confirmed. At least, I hope so.
The next day, which was Thursday, started off with a light breakfast. Then Melissa showed me how to do my hair. "This will be part of your daily routine," she explained. It was the first time I had any second thoughts about being a girl.
Still, it's only temporary, I told myself. The phrase popped up out of habit: I used to say it daily when I was working at the startup. Even when I'd changed to Lorelei — at least at the start — my intention was to turn back after the wedding. But how long after the wedding?
Then I'd gone and told Max that I was never changing back. Why did I do that? I meant it at the time. I felt it at the time. If I didn't mean it, I ought to tell him as soon as possible. It would be wrong to mislead him.
I don't want to think about this now! I told myself, I don't want to be dragged back into that indecision! and suddenly became aware that Melissa was gently knocking on my head, the way you knock on a door.
"Hello, hello! Are you home in there?"
"Sorry — lost in thought."
"You have to pay attention, Lorelei. You're going to have to do this yourself. For yourself, by yourself. I won't be doing this every day."
Next we had a little discussion about what to wear. I mean, what *I* should wear. I grabbed the first thing at hand, a light blue summer dress. Melissa wanted to spend more time on the decision, considering the possibilities: where we'd be going, who we might meet, what impression we'd want to make. In the end, I won out, and wore the summer dress, but she promised I wouldn't get off as easily in future.
We made Max's dinner — as we had the day before — and after loading it into his fridge and picking up the empty containers from yesterday's dinner, I texted him.
Me: Your dinner is in the fridge.
Max: You don't have to do that.
[a few seconds later:] But thanks. Yesterday's dinner was great.
I hesitated over the tiny keyboard, my thumbs raised. "Don't answer," Melissa cautioned, reading over my shoulder. "Leave him on the back foot."
"I don't know what that means. Anyway, I want to answer."
Me: I'm glad. I like doing it.
Max: Hey...
[after a maddenly long interval of watching the dots, knowing he's typing]
What do I tell people who call for you?
Me: Who would call for me?
Max: I don't know. Your job? I could tell them you're visiting your dad.
Me: That sounds good. Thanks!
Max: What if your dad calls?
[the typing dots dance again — I wait]
I could tell him you had a sex-change operation. LOL
Me: ha ha
Max: Seriously, tho... how are you? Still not freaking out?
Me: I'm good. Not freaking out at all.
Max: Okay. I'm here if you need me.
Me: Ditto.
I waited for a bit, but that was the end of the conversation. Melissa groaned. "That's it? Oh my God, I hate text messages! All these crazy abbreviations and letters and emojis." She laughed. "You should send him that eggplant emoji." She laughed some more.
After blinking a half-dozen times, I asked, "Why would I send him *that* emoji?"
She seemed surprised by the question. "Because it's funny!"
"Do you know what it means?"
"It means something?"
"Yes, it means 'penis'."
Her jaw dropped in shock. "You're kidding."
"No, I'm not."
"Eggplant means 'penis'? It can't."
"It does."
"Oh my God, oh my God!" she cried. "I send that to my friends all the time! What must they think of me?"
"Maybe they don't know what it means either," I offered.
"I hope so," she replied in a chastened tone. "I guess I can't take those messages back, can I?"
"Nope."
We went together for mani-pedis, and then back to the mall for cosmetics, as she promised. At one of the counters at Macy's, a woman whipped up a "light daytime look" with some direction from Melissa. The effect was as shocking and striking as the transformation by the medallion. I mean, I liked it. I didn't realize I could look so glamorous. She made a video of my face while she applied the products, narrating instructions as she went along, and sent me the video afterward. Of course, I bought all the products that she used, and had (I thought) a realistic hope of recreating what she'd done.
The day would have been uneventful except for one thing, which I'm about to tell you. I wondered whether we'd run into Kitty again, though for some reason it didn't feel likely. We ran into someone else entirely, but the experience with Kitty had opened my eyes to something. I was raised to be polite, to not insult people, and to treat others as I would have them treat me. But Melissa's treatment of Kitty — which was, admittedly, a little unkind and a little rude — made me realize that being polite wasn't my only option. I'm glad I had that lesson, because I needed it today.
Oddly enough, I was looking through yoga pants again — but this time out of interest. Melissa was off in the changing rooms — she'd done so much shopping on my behalf that she needed to buy something for herself or she'd pop.
Amber appeared out of nowhere. She seemed to rise up out of the floor with her phone in her hand, snapping pictures of me. She scowled. I'm sure she imagined herself intimidating, off-putting, but her little show struck me as stupid and foolish. I think she was trying to come off as something like a cop; that her interrogation of me was the equivalent of a traffic stop.
What truly took my attention, the overwhelming thing I noticed — especially after all the hours I'd spent looking at my new self in the mirror — was that Amber and I had the same build. Like me, she was slender, with a narrow waist. Her eyes were level with mine, and I felt pretty sure her measurements were the same as mine. The realization was so odd and so unexpected, that it distracted me from her aggressive manner and from the arrogant things she said.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
Irritated, I responded, "Who wants to know?" I think she expected me to object to her taking pictures, but I didn't give a toss.
Not expecting that sort of pushback, she bristled at my response. "It's a simple question."
"Thanks for the explanation."
"What is your name? It's rude of you not to answer!"
Instinctively I knew better than to reply to her statements. It would put me on her ground, and I had no desire to give her the advantage. So I said, "Buzz off, will you? Go away, little girl."
Her eyes blazed. Her shoulders and jaw tensed. Her fists clenched. I'm sure the sight would have frightened a lot of people, but by this time (I mean after months of Amber's lies and undermining) I had nothing but contempt for her. I've never been in a physical altercation, but if she wanted a fight, I'd give her one, and I'd do my best to make her sorry.
"You do NOT tell me to go away!" she growled through clenched teeth.
"Reality check," I pointed out. "I just did." Then I smiled. She fumed and raised her fists. I don't think she meant to hit me; she was clenching her fists out of anger. I picked up a half-dozen yoga pants on their hangers and draped them over her arms. "There you go!" I declared. "Now scoot!"
I know that last move made no sense; it occurred to me in the moment, so I went with it. And I was so glad I did! It really blew her top. "You'll regret this!" she shouted, loud enough to make the store personnel and other shoppers turn to stare.
In that moment, she seemed nothing more than a petulant, spoiled child, throwing a little tantrum. Loud, angry, but not to be taken seriously.
And so I laughed. Out loud. This was Amber? This was all she had? I laughed.
She glared. She bared her teeth. "Aren't you going to stamp your foot?" I asked, and then to my surprise, she did. She stamped her foot, three times, growling as she did.
Amber threw the clothes on the ground and screamed at me. A full-throated, blood-curdling scream. I won't lie — that part, the scream, scared the hell out of me. I don't know what expression I wore on my face right then, but I wasn't laughing now.
"You'll regret this," she repeated in a low, menacing tone.
She turned and left. I didn't move a muscle as I watched her walk away.
Every hair on my body stood on end. My heart was pounding.
Once she was out of sight, I picked up the clothes, shook them out, and hung them back on the rack. Then I held on to the rack and took a few deep breaths. I needed to calm down.
Melissa came out a few moments later, asking, "Did I miss anything?"
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
On Friday, after Paul's habitual crash-bang-zoom departure, I made my way to the kitchen, bracing myself for Melissa's powerful positivity and excitement. Today was unusual: I found a different Melissa, a Melissa unlike every other time I'd seen her. Today she wasn't chirpy and cheerful. She had her head down, her face resting in her hands, her elbows resting on the counter. Today she gave the impression of being run over, or emptied out. She looked worn, frazzled, tired. Her hair was as messy and tousled as mine, so I felt no fear that she'd chase me back upstairs to brush out my tangles.
She didn't look up when I came in. Her response to my "Morning," was a faint grunt.
"Do you want some coffee?" I offered. Again, her only reply was a muted sound. It seemed more like a yes than a no, so I heated enough water to fill the French press and shoveled in the coffee as I waited for the water to boil.
"Tired?" I asked.
Melissa let out a nearly inaudible sigh. "I wish it was only that," she whispered. "I've got a migraine coming on."
"Is there anything I can do?"
"I already took my medication. When the coffee's ready, I'll bring it upstairs and lie down for a few hours."
"Does the coffee help?" I asked in a quiet voice. She nodded. "I should be okay by lunch. Just let me rest until then."
I poured her a generous mugful of coffee. She kissed my forehead, took the mug and trudged toward the stairs.
Her slow, muffled footsteps ascended the stairs and down the hall. Her bedroom door slowly closed, and then the house was quiet.
At first, I didn't know what to do with myself. It was the first time I found myself alone since becoming Lorelei. I wandered into the entryway and looked at myself in the mirror. For no particular reason, I tried out different smiles: showing teeth, not showing teeth, curling the corners of my mouth in varying degrees. I have some nice smiles and some dopey smiles. I have nice cheekbones. No dimples, which is fine by me.
Then my stomach rumbled, and I went to make some toast.
After a quiet breakfast, I figured the next thing to do was prepare dinner for Max. Then I could make myself pretty for the day.
Melissa and I had already worked out the week's menu for Max; all that remained was the execution. I confirmed that we had all the ingredients, got out the pots and pans, the cutting board, the knives and other tools, and was all ready to begin when my phone buzzed. It was a text from Max.
Max: What's up?
Me: Nothing much. You?
Max: Same. Are you at my parents'?
Me: Yep.
Max: Is my mom reading over your shoulder?
Me: No. ha ha
Max: How is it, living there?
Me: Nice. Your parents are great.
Max: My mom is crazy about you.
Me: yeah
Max: What does my dad think of you? Does he know your story?
Me: No. He doesn't know. He's good. I think he likes having me around.
Max: ... and using the pool
Me: that too
Max: Homewrecker!
Me: As if!
Max: j/k
Me: I know.
Max: So, what are you up to?
Me: Fixing dinner for you.
Max: What is it?
Me: A surprise. You have to wait and see.
Max: Fair enough. Do you want to help me eat it?
Me: Have dinner with you? Yes, of course! Where?
Max: My house. Where else?
Me: Your parents' house?
Max: No, no way. I need to talk to you.
Me: About what?
Max: A surprise. You have to wait and see.
Me: hmmph
Max: I can pick you up after work.
Me: Sounds like a plan
Good thing he caught me before I started cooking. After a quick evaluation, I saw that I could make enough for two. Just to be sure, I added another side dish, and made a mental note to pick up a baguette and some cheese.
Once my hair and face were ready for the day, I dressed in a pair of khaki shorts and a loose white cotton top. Since I had so much time to kill, I picked out my outfit for tonight, for my date with Max. The obvious choice was a cute bright yellow summer dress. The bright yellow was mitigated by an understated floral print, pale white flowers, leaves, and tendrils. It had a lot of nice details, like a flared ruffle skirt, a ruched bust, and spaghetti straps that showed off my shoulders and arms. A pair of white sandals with a two-inch heel finished off the outfit.
What I was going for was cute. NOT overtly sexy. It was important to establish that Max have no doubt that I'm female, and stop there. Instinctively I felt that anything more would make Max uncomfortable, and there was no point in that. "Uncomfortable" leads to resistance. I needed to make it easy for Max to accept me. No pushing, no pressure. He needed to feel in charge of the subtle negotiation.
Melissa came quietly downstairs at 11:30. It was the first time I'd seen her so subdued, so quiet. She still had the just-rolled-out-of-bed look, still wearing her pajamas. Seeing the concern on my face, she smiled weakly. "I'm fine," she told me in a in a near-whisper, and she gave me a hug. "It takes a lot out of me."
"I can see that."
She smiled again, to let me know she was alive and well.
"How often do your migraines come?"
"About once a month, which suggests an obvious connection." She smiled ruefully. "My doctor tells me they'll probably go away when I hit menopause."
"Oh!"
"Something else to look forward to, eh?" I didn't know how to respond.
She asked if she'd missed anything, so I told her about Max's invitation, expecting her to explode with glee. Instead, she merely nodded, smiled, and said, "That's nice. A step forward." No squeezes, nothing about grand-babies.
"Are you sure you're okay?" I asked, solicitous.
She smiled again and chuckled. "Yes, I'm fine. The storm has passed. Don't worry." She stood up and fished through her bag. "I'm going to give you my car keys. I was going to take you back to the mall again, to Macy's, so you can get a good evening look. I mean your face... makeup. That girl last time was very good — you should go back to her again."
"I can't drive," I pointed out. "I don't have a license."
"Ah, right," she conceded. "Tomorrow we can go get your state ID, start on the license process."
"Tomorrow's Saturday."
She sighed heavily. "I'm batting a thousand, aren't I?" She sat down again and played with her empty coffee mug. "How about this, then: take an Uber to the mall, get the evening look. Shop if you feel like it, and come back in time to get ready for your date with Max. I'm no use to you today, so there's no point in hanging around here."
Luckily, the same salesperson was working and available. Rather than work up a whole new look, she showed me how to make a few adjustments to my daytime look, and turn it into a face suitable for my dinner with Max this evening. Again, nothing overwhelming. Melissa was right about this woman: she really knew her stuff. What was particularly great about her was that she gave me a subtle look, a natural look, that — even up close — almost seemed like no makeup at all. I loved it.
While she worked on my face, I thought I saw Kitty walk by, a little far off, in the hallway outside. I'm talking about the mall hallway, the one that connects all the stores. I couldn't tell whether she spotted me, because I had to keep my head still for the makeover.
At Melissa's suggestion, I looked at some jewelry, and found two items that appealed to me. One was a simple gold necklace, fourteen inches, so it lay close to my neck. Then a pair of gold hoop earrings an inch in diameter. Again, I was going for simple. Feminine, yes, femme fatale, no.
The shopping felt a lot more relaxing and enjoyable without Melissa's pushing and prodding and asking me questions. I didn't always have a reaction ready for every piece of clothes she dangled in front of me. On the other hand, I missed being able to ask her opinions and to get reinforcement for my choices. Of course the salespeople told me that everything looked great on me, but they'd say that no matter what I chose.
At three-fifteen, I stopped in a little cafe. Although we were indoors in a huge mall, they managed to mimic Paris' sidewalk tables without seeming hokey or cheesy. Moments after I sat down a waiter appeared. I ordered a cappuccino and a chocolate croissant, and that's when Kitty appeared. She chose her moment well, blindsiding me by approaching from behind the waiter. She stepped into the open just as he was turning away from me.
She looked down at me, feigning surprise. She said, "Oh, you! Hello!" and then, after a quick glance at the waiter, she asked me, "Do you mind if I sit here?"
Her entrance was breathtakingly abrupt, but having seen her earlier, I wasn't completely surprised. I managed to say, "Please do," with some aplomb. Kitty asked what I'd ordered, and requested the same. The waiter left, Kitty sat. We smiled at each other.
"Sorry for bursting in like that," she said apologetically, "but I wanted to meet you, and didn't get a chance the other day. I'm Kitty Dahlmann. I'm a friend of Max's."
"Max?" I asked, pretending to draw a blank. The best course, I thought, would be playing dumb.
"Max... Max Errison — Melissa's son."
"Oh, right."
"Sorry — I assumed that since you're friends with Melissa, you'd know Max as well."
"I met him once," I told her truthfully, searching my memory as I spoke. I had a flash of a mental picture: Max's shoes, pointing at me as I climbed out of the pool. "I only met him briefly." That much was technically true: we'd only met once since I became Lorelei.
"Oh!" Kitty said, starting back slightly. She didn't expect *that* response at all.
The waiter arrived, interrupting the interrogation. He carefully set out our cups, croissants, napkins, and a glass of water for each. He checked the cream and sugar, asked whether there was anything else, and left. The entire time, I covertly studied Kitty's face. My response clearly befuddled her; far more than it should have. I could almost see the gears turning in her head; she wondered whether I was lying.
"But you *do* know Elliot," she prompted, as she broke off a bit of croissant and dipped it in her coffee.
I gave a little sigh and treated Kitty to a somewhat distressed facial expression. "Elliot?" I asked, feigning helplessness.
Kitty's confusion increased. "Elliot Beekman. He must be your cousin or something — you look so much like him."
"I'm sorry," I told her. "You seem like a nice person, but you're asking me so many questions about people I don't know. At the same time, I have no idea who you are."
Kitty blinked. Her face took on a troubled aspect. She arrived with a plan and a vision of how this conversation was going to go, but it wasn't going her way.
"I told you my name," she said, sounding apologetic. "But I don't think you told me yours."
"I'm Lorelei," I replied, and set my face like stone. I wasn't going to say the name Gight. That name would connect me to Darcy, which would connect me to Elliot, who I was pretending not to know. I thought my face told her that all she was going to get was my first name, but she persisted.
"Are you Darcy's sister?"
I replied with an open-mouthed, offended sigh.
"I'm getting very uncomfortable here," I told her. "Why do you care who I am and who I know?"
Kitty appeared genuinely unsettled. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm doing this on behalf of a friend. I don't mean to pry." She fiddled with her phone and held it up to show me a photo. "This is my friend," she said.
The photo surprised me. Honestly, it astonished me to a degree that I nearly fell off my chair — without exaggeration.
The photo showed Kitty and Amber, side by side, both of them smiling. Big, sunny smiles. Both were dressed in cutoffs, tank tops, and flip flops. The location was a boardwalk, somewhere. Kitty looked like the Kitty I've always known: positive, happy, solar, attractive — the archetype of the girl next door. Her hair was a bit longer, but otherwise the same.
Amber appeared in a way I never could have imagined. Her hair was a glorious mane. Her teeth were white and even. Max had said that Amber was hot — and that fact was very much in evidence here. She looked normal, healthy, full of life. Joyful, even.
I know that I've only met Amber a handful of times, but I can honestly say that the entire time I've been in her company, she scowled. In my limited experience, she had no other facial expression. The idea that she could smile never occurred to me, and if it had, I would never have pictured the open friendly smile that Kitty was showing me now.
For the first time, I understood how Max could fall for her.
At least on a physical level.
"Your friend...," I observed. "I met her yesterday. She didn't look like that."
Kitty glanced at the photo for a moment, then turned it back to face me. "Well, it's from five years ago."
"That's not what I meant," I told her. "She wasn't smiling yesterday. Not at all. Not for a moment."
"Well, what happened?"
"I was minding my own business, looking at some clothes. She came out of nowhere and snapped at least a dozen pictures of me without asking. She peppered me with questions, too." I shook my head. "She acted like she was some kind of cop, and she treated me like a criminal. She never even told me her name or what she wanted with me." I looked Kitty in the face. "Who is she? What is this about?"
"Her name is Amber. Amber Lochlin. She and Max Errison — Melissa's son — were dating for years... until last Christmas."
"And what does that have to do with me? Just because her boyfriend dumped her doesn't give her some kind of weird license..."
"Wait — no." Kitty was briefly flustered. "He didn't dump—" She sighed heavily. "Honestly, I don't know. They broke up. But up till then, they talked about getting married, and having kids." She looked me in the face, to see what effect her story was having.
I shrugged and said, "People break up. It happens all the time. Everybody's heart gets broken."
"Right," Kitty acknowledged. "But Amber is convinced that Max is her soulmate. That's why she won't let go. She can't let go."
I said nothing. I only raised my eyebrows in silent question.
"I don't know whether you believe in soulmates," Kitty told me. "I do. I married mine. For me, there is no other man in the world."
I didn't respond.
Kitty hesitated. In retrospect, I think she realized how bizarre it was going to sound. "But see — Amber wanted to talk to you because— See, um, Max left her for someone who looks... just like you."
I couldn't help it. I started laughing. "Seriously?" I asked, still chuckling, "That's why she came to bother me? If Max left her for someone who looked like Megan Fox, would she go pester Megan Fox?"
Kitty frowned. "Okay," she admitted. "That's fair. But what happened when she talked to you? I heard her scream. I've never heard her scream before. Ever."
"Really?" I said.
"Really. Amber is a wonderful person. I've never seen her angry or mean or unkind. I sometimes wonder whether she even has negative emotions."
On hearing that, my eyebrows went up as high as they could possibly go.
"I'm serious," Kitty said.
"So, you think that *I* must have done something to make your sainted friend scream?"
"Did you?"
"I refused to answer her questions and I asked her to go away. That's all." A thought occurred to me. "But if you were watching, you'd know that."
She colored red at that. "I wasn't watching," she told me. "I was nearby, so I heard the scream. But I didn't see your interaction."
"Did you sic her on me?" I asked.
"Sick?"
"Sic, like when you sic a dog on someone."
"No, of course not! She wouldn't do that anyway."
"But you pointed me out to her," I concluded.
"I'm sorry," Kitty said again. "This conversation didn't go the way — it didn't go any way that I anticipated. I'm sorry to have bothered you. I won't bother you again. I'll go pick up the tab for this. It's the least I can do. Goodbye."
Kitty was sorry, but I was sorry, too. I've said several times that I like Kitty. She's an old friend.
Her picture of Amber utterly confused me. Big time. Not just the photograph, but her description of the woman. A thought occurred to me — something that never occurred to me before: Amber had a lot of friends. Maybe none of them saw her the way that I do. After all, every woman in town (at least as far as I know) believed her stories about Max and me (Elliot-me).
And Kitty... it seemed she swayed one way and the other, sometimes favoring me and Max and sometimes favoring Amber... if she honestly believed in Amber, the way she said she did, she must need to shift her confusion back and forth, in and out of focus, depending on who she was with.
I'd have to ask Max about this. After all, he dated Amber for three years! It couldn't have been utterly horrible. At the very least, it couldn't have started off as horrible.
Then again, how much did any of it matter?
I took an Uber back to Melissa's house and got ready for my date.
Max sent a text that he was leaving his office and would arrive in thirty minutes. I packed up the food into two bags and waited in the kitchen with Paul and Melissa. Melissa was still subdued, but looked a lot better than this morning. She hadn't bothered to put on any makeup, which made her seem washed out, but I could tell that her spirit was much improved, though her enthusiasm was not yet up to full strength.
Max pulled into the driveway and honked once. I grabbed the bags and headed for the door.
"Hold on there!" Paul commanded. "Make him come inside! What kind of manners did we teach that boy?"
I set the bags down and stuck my head outside the door. Max rolled down his window. "Your father says you have to come inside," I told him.
"You're kidding," he scoffed.
I shrugged, smiled, and went back inside. A moment later and Max walked in.
"What kind of manners is that?" Paul asked (though he half smiling, half scolding).
Max gestured to me and said, "She knows me! It's not as though we're going to the prom!"
"Oh! The prom!" Melissa sighed wistfully.
Paul gave a good-natured scoff.
Melissa told him, "Max, don't you like her dress? Aren't you going to pay her a compliment?"
He took a deep breath, looked me over, and blinked. He said, "Wow. You look amazing. Really. That dress... your legs and arms and... uh, I'm going to shut up now."
I smiled. He smiled. Melissa brought her hands together close to her heart, beaming.
Paul said, "Now you kids have a good time tonight, but Max, I expect her home by ten."
Max rolled his eyes. "Come on, Dad."
"We're in loco parentis here, aren't we?" Melissa gave him a gentle poke with her elbow. "Alright," he said, "By midnight. Two at the latest."
Max reached for the bags, but his father stopped him. "Aren't you going to kiss her?" he asked.
Max sheepishly kissed me on the cheek. "God, you're so soft!" he whispered. Then, in a normal tone, "Let's get the hell out of here!"
In the car, Max asked, "So how are they treating you? Is it like being a child again? Do they let you go out by yourself?"
"It's nice," I said. "Your mother is helping me a lot."
"With cooking, or with girl stuff?"
"Both. I really appreciate her advice." I hesitated a few beats, then: "The only difficult thing about living with your parents is your father. When he gets up in the morning—"
"Oh, I know!" Max exclaimed. "It sounds like he's tearing the house down! He's so incredibly loud!"
"I don't know what he does, but first there's all this banging, and then he's up and down stairs in his clompy shoes—"
"—and then it seems like he slams the front door with all his might, and the same with his car door."
"Right. But he doesn't do that on the weekend, does he?"
"He gets up early every single day. Consequently, everybody else in the house is up early as well." Max shook his head. "My mother has talked to him about it so many times, but he never changes."
Back at chez Max, we entered through the kitchen. Everything was clean and in order — just as Melissa and I had left it the day before. Then I noticed that the table had been set, with all the cutlery and glasses and even a bread plate. "I copied what you did when Kitty and Claus were here," Max explained. "Claus took a picture of it, so I asked him to send it to me."
"Are you and Claus hanging out now?"
"Yeah! He's a good guy. I kind of wish I'd gotten to know him before. Sometimes he does that poor-foreigner-who-doesn't-understand shtick, but aside from that, he's great."
Foolishly, I felt a slight twinge of jealousy; the feeling that I'd been replaced. I let it pass.
"Does that mean Claus knows about our date?"
"Our date? No. All he knows is that I asked for that picture. I didn't say what I wanted it for."
As I stood and admired the table setting, I was aware of Max, who seemed to be studying the back of my dress. I ran my hand behind me, over my skirt. "Is something stuck on me back there?" I asked.
"Uh, no," Max replied, a little embarrassed. "I was, uh, just staring. Okay, I'll come out and say it: your ass is a work of art. I'm sorry, but it's the truth."
I looked at him. For some reason, my voice came out in a squeak. "I'm glad you like it."
"I hope I didn't offend you."
"No, no — not at all." Honestly, my mind was occupied with something else entirely: I was wondering whether Amber prompted Claus to become friends with Max. I knew better than to voice that question out loud. At the same time, on the positive side of the ledger, I noticed that Max didn't deny that we were on a date. I decided to touch that key again.
"So... Claus doesn't know about our date."
"No, I just told you: Claus doesn't know about our date. He doesn't know about you at all." Max noisily uncorked a bottle of white wine, and mused, "You know, speaking of dates... you're the first... person since Christmas to say yes to me when I asked them out."
I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. Nice negotiation of your gender-neutral words, Max! I swayed my hips to set my skirt swirling.
"That dress is killer," Max told me, as he handed me a glass of wine. We clinked glasses. I took a sip and started heating up our food.
"Max, your mother and I ran into Kitty the other day at the mall."
"You did?" I told him the story, and he shook his head. "I don't know what the deal is with my mother and Kitty," he confessed.
"Kitty *is* good friends with Amber," I pointed out.
"She always has been and probably always will be, good friends with Amber. I like Kitty. I don't feel she needs to throw over her friendship with Amber to be friends with me. With us. I don't want to lose her friendship just because of Amber."
"I like Kitty, too," I confessed, "but she confuses me."
"Awww," Max cooed, then stopped himself. "Wow," he said. "I almost came over there and hugged you."
"You could," I said.
"I will," he said. "Just not yet."
I nodded.
"The thing is," he explained, "Sometimes I see you as Elliot and sometimes I see you as Lorelei."
"I understand."
"How do you see yourself now?"
"I'm just me," I told him. "Most of the time I feel that I haven't changed at all. But then again, most of the time I'm alone, or with your mother, so I'm not really aware of my female-ness. There's nothing to bring it to the fore."
"Your female-ness," he repeated. "And uh, does your female-ness extend everywhere? To every part of you?"
I bit my lip before answering. Then I told him, "I have a vagina, if that's what you're asking."
His breath caught in his throat. Then he said, "That *is* what I was asking, yeah."
"In fact," I told him, "I'm a virgin."
My timing was unintentional, but perfect: Max had just taken a sip of wine, but on the word virgin he spat his mouthful all over the kitchen wall. Fortunately, I was not in the line of fire. Luckily, it was white wine, not red.
"Vir— virgin," he repeated.
"Virgo intacta." I added, with precision. "But don't worry — I can get that fixed."
"How?" Max asked, caught off guard. He thought I was talking about his aunt's medallion.
"The old fashioned way," I replied. I made an "O" with my left index finger and thumb, and inserted my right index finger into that hole.
"Ah!" Max gasped, and the two of us burst into laughter.
"So if you know any one who wants to cure me...," I said, giving a rakish look over my wine glass.
"I'm sure you won't have any problem finding applicants," he quipped, giving back a rakish look of his own.
I opened my mouth to add another witticism, but thought better of it.
Max saw my mouth open, then close, so he asked, "What were you going to say? Go ahead! Come on!"
I said, "Hopefully they'll be able to pass the entrance exam."
Max howled.
I noticed that Max was being unobtrusively careful about his wine consumption, pouring himself half glasses, and drinking them slowly. When I remarked on it, he said, "I need to be able to drive you home. I don't want to send you home in an Uber."
"I appreciate it," I told him, although — I didn't mention the possibility, but I could easily stay overnight. We didn't need to sleep in the same bed. But as I said, I didn't mention it. I didn't want to push it.
By the time we'd done eating, Max hadn't consumed even one full glass of wine. Still, I thought I might safely broach a topic that was much on my mind, especially since my meeting with Kitty. If he'd had more, I would have felt a bit easier about it, but I needed to talk about it.
"Max, I know I asked you this before, but how on earth could you stay with Amber for three years? I mean, isn't she an awful, crazy, witch?"
"Oh," he said, taking a deep breath and letting himself deflate. "I guess you've only seen the worst of Amber, so you wouldn't know." He took a tiny sip of wine. "Amber is like four different people. Four very different people. There's the public Amber, the covert Amber, the crazy, violent Amber, and the bitchy, controlling Amber."
"Violent?" I repeated.
"Well, I don't want to exaggerate," he said, after a moment of thought. "I have never seen that Amber, but I know that she once kicked down the door of a previous boyfriend's apartment because she thought he was cheating on her."
"Was he?"
Max burst out laughing. "Yes, he was. Obviously, she scared the hell out of him — and the other woman as well."
"Did she hurt them?"
"No, she just walked in, said I thought so, and left. Maybe she broke a lamp or something. I don't know."
"Are you sure that really happened?"
"Oh, yeah!" Max said. "I talked to the guy. I think he's still afraid of her — soon after that, he moved to Canada."
I couldn't help it — I started laughing. "You're putting me on!" Then I thought for a moment. "But wait — when did you talk to him? If he was going out with Amber, then that was before you, but if he left..."
"Don't make it complicated," he said. "He heard I was seeing Amber and he called me. She had his mother's engagement ring and he wanted it back, but he was afraid to ask her for it."
"Did you get it back?"
"Yes. Anyway, that's the least interesting part of the story. In any case, not many people get to see the crazy Amber, thank God."
I have, I thought, but I'm not going to tell Max about it. What I did say was, "I'm guessing the covert Amber is the one who secretly moved out and started the whisper campaign about us."
"Right," Max agreed. "She can be very subterranean and secretive. Now, the public Amber — that's the Amber most people know. That's the Amber who is funny and charming and charismatic."
I shook my head. "I find that hard to believe."
"That's the Amber Kitty knows. That's why Kitty doesn't believe the things we say about Amber, because to Kitty they seem totally out of character."
Max scratched his eyebrow, thinking, before he went on. "Think about it: Amber has a lot of friends. A lot of friends. She knows just about everybody, and pretty much everybody likes her and even respects her. She's very active. She's always doing things, making things happen, and bringing people along."
"Really?"
"Yes, really."
"What kinds of things?"
"Parties, little trips, outdoors things like hiking, canoeing, camping, sports..."
"Is she good at sports?"
"No, she's terrible! But that makes it easier to pull people in, because they don't feel intimidated by their inability."
"I had no idea." I mulled over what he said, and then asked him, "Do you miss her?"
"Oh, hell no!" he replied immediately. "Not at all! Not at all. Because I got to know the fourth Amber: the controlling, bitchy one." He gave a bitter, barking laugh.
"When we first started seeing each other, it was great. It was fun. You haven't seen her — I mean, really seen her — but Amber is hot. And the sex was pretty good... it was definitely up there. It wasn't until after we moved in together, though, that she began to show this other side. She wanted to change me. To improve me. To round off my rough edges. She didn't just try to change me. She demanded changes. Changes in the way I dressed, changes in the house, changing furniture, deciding who we'd see and who we wouldn't see — that was a big one. She had me cut off most of my contact with my family and friends. With you, for instance."
"I was busy with the startup then."
"Right, so you didn't notice. You were down in that coal mine. I'm sure you remember, the times that she saw you, she treated you badly." He sighed heavily. "As time went on, she criticized me more and more. She was relentless. I began to feel she was trying to break me. And somehow, I felt like it was good for me, that I needed it, that she wanted nothing but the best for me and from me. But it wasn't like that at all. It was just control. Pure control. Through negativity. After a while, it seemed that she didn't like anything I did or said. Finally I gave up. I figured, if she doesn't like anything I do, I should do whatever I want!"
"Why didn't you break up with her?"
He chuckled. "I tried! I told her that I wanted to break up. I told her why. I didn't hold back. She let me talk. She listened to every word I said, and then she said, Well, I don't want to break up. I think we should stay together.. And that was the end of it! She stayed. She didn't move out. I felt like *I* was the one who was supposed to move out — of my own house!" He twisted his mouth to the side. "That was about a year before she left."
My jaw dropped. "She was just going to occupy until you broke down and married her."
"I'm pretty sure that was her plan."
The two of us where silent for a few moments. Then I asked, "So was I the first crack in the wall?"
Max smiled and gave a little shrug. "Seems that way. When you moved in, seemed like she figured all bets were off."
"Maybe she figured that if she moved out, you'd come desperately running after her, begging her to come back."
"It that was her strategy, it was a miserable failure!"
As we loaded dishes into the dishwasher, I said, "Hey, you said you wanted to talk to me about something? Did we talk about it?"
He laughed. "No, we didn't. Sorry, but I was so dazzled by that dress and all your..." he gestured at my body, toe to head "... all your charms, I completely forgot!"
"So, what was it?"
"Remember Kass, the dancer?"
"Your fake date on Valentines?"
"Yeah. Well, her girlfriend, Tamara, has invited us to lunch tomorrow at the Celestial Lamb."
"I thought you needed to make reservations months in advance for that place."
"For dinner, yes. For lunch it's much easier. And less expensive. Anyway, it's her treat."
"What's the occasion? Is there one?"
"Tamara is a fashion designer, and some celebrity chose her to create their red-carpet look. It's a big deal for her; a real coup. Probably her big break. So she wants to celebrate. Since Kass is not officially out, or completely out or whatever, it's a small celebration, just the four of us."
"Do they know who I am?"
"No, the invitation is for me and my date — if I can find one."
"Cool!" I said. "I'd love to go!"
The dishwasher loaded, Max moved on to hand-washing his crystal glasses while I dried. I told him about my encounter with Amber at the mall. When I got to the scream, he went white and set the glass he was washing down. Leaning on his hands, looking down, he said, "Lorelei, promise me that you will never get into a fight with that woman."
"I'm not afraid," I told him. "If she starts something, I'll do my best to make her sorry."
"No," he said. "Please don't. There's no winner in a fight like that. And remember: crazy, violent Amber has no rules. She could bite a chunk out of your nose, or scratch your face to shreds. You don't want that. Promise me. Back away. Run away if you have to."
"Okay," I said, more than a little miffed.
"Seriously," he insisted, looking me in the eye.
"Okay!" I reiterated. "I promise!"
"Good," he said, and returned to washing glasses.
Then, trying to lighten the mood, I told him my perception, that Amber I were the same size, the same build, basically the same body.
"I guess you have a type," I joked.
He gave me a strange look, and I almost apologized for saying it. But I didn't.
He dried his hands and went into his pantry with the step-stool. He looked at the four remaining Christmas presents, pulling one after another slightly off the shelf. He stopped at the third box and reached it down.
"Here," he said. "You might be able to wear this tomorrow, to the lunch." I started to pull on the paper, to rip it, but he put his hands on mine to stop me.
"No, open it at home," he said. "I don't want to see the expression on your face if you don't like it or if it doesn't fit."
"Okay," I acquiesced, withdrawing my hands. "But tell me: how do you know that this one is a dress? Are the other three dresses too?"
"No," he said, tipping the box up. He pointed to a letter D written in a corner on the bottom. "D means Dress."
"What was the letter on the All-in-One Cooker?"
"A for All-in-One."
"What letters are left?"
He grinned. "Do you think you're going to get them all?"
"I don't know, am I?"
"We'll see!" he laughed.
"So what are the letters?"
He thought for a moment. "Okay, the remaining letters are P, V, and S. Don't ask me what they mean. I won't tell you."
"Can I buy a vowel?"
"Ha! No."
"Hmmph."
He fingered the tag. "You know these were for Amber. I can pull off the tag, but that will rip the paper. Which would bother you more: ripped paper, or the To Amber tag?"
"It doesn't matter," I told him, "you can leave the tag."
But when I got back to Melissa's house, in the half-lit kitchen, I set the box on the kitchen counter. I tore off the tag, muttered, "Fuck you, Amber!" and tore the tag to shreds. It left such a bad taste in my mouth that I left the box unopened and went to bed. I'd open it in the morning.
Halfway up the stairs I realized that Melissa wouldn't be able to resist the mystery, so I ran back down and carried it, still unopened, to my room.
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
Today being Saturday, with the possibility of running into Paul, I didn't go directly downstairs in my pajamas. I took the time to get my hair and face ready. I dressed in a white skater dress.
I don't know what plans Melissa had for me today, but they'd need to be set aside. My program was already set. Today was going to be my second date with Max: our lunch with the ladies. The ladies being Kass and her girlfriend Tamara.
Dressed, but still barefoot, I sat on the edge of my bed and eyed the Christmas present Max had given me last night. He made it clear that the box contained a dress, and that he thought it would be suitable for today's lunch. I was hopeful; it would be a nice touch, showing up in a dress he'd given me.
I almost opened the box. But when I heard Melissa's voice come indistinctly from downstairs in the kitchen, it struck me in an instant that *she* would get a bigger kick out of opening the present than I would, and so, smiling, I picked it up, left my bedroom, and walked softly across the upstairs carpet.
As I descended the stairs I crinkled the wrapping paper beneath my fingers so Melissa would know I was coming.
"There she is!" Paul exclaimed by way of greeting, as soon as my feet came into view.
"Hello there, sweetie," Melissa called, "Do you have any plans for today? I was thinking..."
My response, my interruption, was to waggle the golden Christmas box at her, as soon as I'd come far enough down the stairs that she could see it. She clapped her hands together and shrieked like a teenager. Paul winced and blinked.
"Oh, my goodness! what is that? What's in that box?" Her questions came firing out, accompanied by a huge, dimpled smile. "Another present? A present from Max?"
"Yes. Yes to all that." Her joy was too infectious. I had to smile as well — a smile so big it almost hurt my face. "This one is a—"
"AAH!" she interrupted, pointing a sharp index finger in my direction. "Zip it! Zip that lip! Don't spoil the surprise!"
"Okay," I acquiesced, "but Max already told me what it—"
"No, no!" she cut in loudly. She covered her ears and said, "LA LA LA LA LA" to drown out my words. I set the box on the kitchen counter, in front of her, then made the motion of zipping my lips shut and locking them with a key. She took her hands off her ears, and asked, "Do you mean I can open it? Don't you want to open it?"
"Open it," I told her. "*You* open it, before I tell you what it is."
After three fruitless tugs at the red ribbon, Melissa snipped it off with a pair of scissors, then carefully fit her fingers into the edges of the paper, pulling it gently open. Paul watched the proceedings with some curiosity. It occurred to me that I ought to ask Melissa what Paul thought I was doing in their home, how long he thought I was staying, and so on. I'd gone from being an almost complete stranger to something of a more-or-less permanent fixture.
I say "almost complete stranger" because Paul, like everyone else, took me to be Elliot's cousin. There was a built-in sense of familiarity — due on the one hand to my "strong family resemblance" to Elliot, and on the other hand to the secret fact that Paul and I already knew each other. "Secret" only because Paul hadn't the least inkling. He knew nothing about the medallion, so the possibility of my ever having been Elliot would never enter his head.
At long last, Melissa got the box open. It contained, as Max said, a dress. Melissa was underwhelmed. It was a wrap dress, pale sage in color — a cool, understated color, I thought. The sleeves were short; the skirt came down to just above my knees.
"I guess you have to try it on," she said without much enthusiasm.
As soon as the fabric touched my body, I was convinced. The cloth was incredibly light and soft. It floated on my skin like a feather. Never having worn a wrap dress before, I needed Melissa's help in positioning it correctly and in tying the bow that kept the dress closed.
Paul signaled his approval with a wolf whistle.
"Well!" Melissa exclaimed, taking a step back so she could see it better. "That is a lovely dress on you! I wonder who helped Max choose it?"
"Do you know," she went on, after looking from various angles, "Lying on the counter, it just looked like a pile of cloth. But now, it doesn't just fit you, it hangs on you. It... follows your curves, like water. I'd say it's flattering, but you don't need flattery. It shows you off. It really shows you off."
"It fits me perfectly, doesn't it?" I asked. The question was redundant, but I wanted to be sure.
"Like it was made for you," Melissa confirmed. Paul nodded and gave a thumbs up.
Melissa and I half-jokingly ran the dress through its paces: walking up and down, quickly and slowly, climbing and descending the stairs, twirling, quick, dramatic turns right and left, sitting, standing... That process complete, I changed back into my white skater dress. I couldn't risk spilling breakfast on the new dress. Now that the show was over, Paul retreated to the patio with a mug of coffee and a book.
With that, I was essentially ready for my lunch date. There wasn't any time for much else, so Melissa and I beguiled the time talking. During a conversational lull, I told Melissa about the remaining Christmas presents, the three coded P, V, and S. She tried guessing all sorts of things, each time going for all three at once — "Pizza, Vegetables, and Salamanders!" or "Pajamas, V-necks, and Sapphires" or "Paris, Venice, and Singapore" — until at last she came up with a combination that short-circuited herself: "Penis, Vagina, Sex!" After we stopped laughing, she was done guessing. Her brain, burnt out, refused to throw up any more possible answers.
We talked about Kass and Tamara. Melissa hadn't heard the story of Max's Valentines Day dinner with Kass, so I laid it out for her. Melissa's anger was ignited on hearing of Amber's verbal attack on Max. She was nearly incandescent, but at the same time sad. I thought she'd be pleased to hear how Kass gut-punched Amber. Instead, it distressed her. "I understand that Kass was provoked, but even so, it's undignified," she told me, shaking her head. "Even for someone as awful as Amber... who, no doubt, deserves it. Remember: violence begets violence."
Her response took a lot of the air out of the story, but there was the postscript (if you remember) from the parking lot: that Amber would be coming to Nessa's wedding.
"What!?" Melissa exclaimed, the flame of her anger re-lit. I'm pretty sure that if Amber were somehow present at that moment in Melissa's kitchen, that Melissa might have given old Amber a punch in the gut herself. "That girl is a snake! She's insidious, that's what she is! Why would someone stick their nose in, where they're not wanted?"
She went off on a fiery tangent, wondering whether she dared try to scuttle Amber's invitation. When I pointed out that a wedding invitation is a "difficult bell to un-ring" she grudgingly gave it up.
From there, determined to change the subject, Melissa began telling happier stories — beginning at her own wedding, to Paul. Then, anecdotes of their life as a young couple, up to the point when Max was born. Some random association took Melissa into memories of Vivianne, who was apparently quite wild as a teenager.
"Honestly," Melissa confessed, "someone could make a movie, based literally and exactly on the life of that woman, but no one would believe it. They'd think it was utter fiction."
"Because of the medallion?" I asked.
"What medallion?" Melissa blanked for a moment. "Oh, that. No, no — even without that! She was always just... not so much out of control as... well, light years out... light years out on a limb, if that makes any sense. She's a strange creature. Sometimes she reminds me of Shirley MacLaine, if Shirley MacLaine had a dark side. I thank God that Vivianne is kind and considerate, because if she wasn't... well, there'd be no stopping her."
A chill went through me as she spoke.
The time flew so quickly, we were both caught by surprise when Max's car pulled up outside.
Melissa followed me as I ran upstairs. I needed her help again with the wrap and the bow. I quipped, "Hey, I'm like a Christmas present: wrapped with a bow." Then, hearing the words that came out of my mouth, I stopped and said, "I'm not sure how I feel about that."
"Put your shoes on," Melissa said. "You'll have plenty of time to decide how you feel about what you feel later."
When we returned to the kitchen, I had to show off the dress. Max nodded appreciatively, gave me a thumbs up, and when I turned my back to him, he exclaimed, "Whoa!" in an appreciative tone. Thanks to our rigorous testing earlier, I knew what that view looked like: the dress did my derriere proud.
Melissa gave Max a half-disapproving look. She was distressed by his wolfish aspect, but pleased that he was pleased with Lorelei. Max, ignorant of all her subtexts, shrugged and winked at her.
I wondered whether Max would kiss me (and what sort of kiss he'd give) without his father present to prompt him.
Max took a step toward me, put one hand on the back of my neck, and kissed me on the cheek. Then, with his hand still heavy on the back of my neck, he rested his forehead on mine for a few moments. I closed my eyes and drank in the silent communion.
"That was nice," I told him in the car.
"Yeah," he agreed, reaching over to squeeze my thigh before placing both his hands on the steering wheel. He looked over and smiled. "That dress is perfect for you," he told me.
I rested my hands in my lap and smiled to myself. Things were going so well!
At one point, the car hit a bump in the road, and I almost told Max his mother's guess for the meaning of P, V, and S, but managed to bite my tongue.
My heels were a bit higher than any I'd worn so far. Consequently, they endowed my derriere with complete autonomy of movement. In other words, I could feel my butt dip and sway as I walked, without any control or intent on my part, whatsoever. I knew that Max had gotten wind of this back in his parents' driveway — I was clued in by the way he hung back as I moved toward his car. When we got to the restaurant, he came around to my side, opened the door, and gazed down at me. "You're a vision," he said.
"Thanks," I quipped. "I guess that makes you a visionary."
He helped me to my feet. When I was fully vertical, almost balanced on my high heels, he suddenly, abruptly, clumsily hugged me. I was so taken by surprise that I would have fallen if he wasn't holding me tight.
"Oh, God," he groaned, and somehow I understood that he was saying, I'm confused and conflicted... so confused and conflicted. It was one of his Elliot or Lorelei? moments, I could tell. His body told him Lorelei while his brain insisted Elliot. Max's face was flushed as we came out of the embrace. I didn't mean to, but I glanced down at the lump in his pants, taken aback by the size of it. It occurred to me that I'd never seen Max's penis in the wild, if I can express it that way. He cleared his throat and asked, "Would you mind walking ahead me into the restaurant?"
I scratched my eyebrow and gave him a sideways look with a teasing smile. "Is this so you can stare at my butt? Or so you can hide your boner?"
"Both," he admitted. "But one thing works against the other." He sighed. "Do you mind?"
I hesitated a moment, then told him, "No, I don't mind, but, um... maybe it would be better to wait out here until it passes. Can you think about baseball scores or mowing the lawn or, uh, I don't know... doing your taxes?"
"Taxes," he said, closing his eyes. "Taxes." He shook his head back and forth. "Depreciation would probably help."
"Try to remember all the forms you have to find."
He grumbled and concentrated, but after a few minutes he confessed defeat. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's no good. You're just... you're just way too hot."
"Okay," I said. "I've got a image for you — you have to immediately forget that it was me who told you, okay, but this one is guaranteed." I leaned close to whisper in his ear. He looked at me from the corner of his eye. It was pure heat. He snaked his hand around my waist. I whispered, so not a soul on earth could hear what I had to say. "Max," I whispered, and the two of us quivered.
"You're killing me," he groaned.
"Picture your grandmother, naked on the toilet," I told him.
He recoiled and took a few steps away from me. "Oh, that's sick!" he protested. His shudders, his grunted moans of disgust, made me laugh so hard that I bent over crying, clutching my stomach.
I don't think a full two minutes passed before I was straightening up, wheezing, and he was descending on me like a fury. He took my arm, said, "Come on inside now, you dirty thing, you."
"I guess this means you're better?"
He replied by giving me a sharp swat on my butt. I yelped.
Then, finally, he laughed. "Yes, it worked. Your awful image worked. Where on earth did you get that?"
"I don't remember," I told him honestly. He rolled his eyes, but then he smirked and gave my arm a conspiratorial squeeze.
The restaurant wasn't lit very brightly inside — nothing near the noon intensity outside. Temporarily blinded by the transition, we wouldn't have been able to find the table if the hostess hadn't led us directly to it. Of the two women seated there, it was easy to know which woman went with which name. Kass, clearly, was the demure woman: perfect posture, long hair, and the slender body of a dancer. She held her head high, reminding me of a meerkat standing on its hind legs so it can see far. She remained seated, smiling and waving hello, but Tamara got up and walked in front of the table to greet us.
Tamara was a strong contrast to the petite, poised Kass: Tamara is big: not tall, and definitely not fat. What Tamara was, was big-boned: her pelvis and shoulders were wide. Her body was like a cartoon square with a hand or foot on each corner, and a small head on top. Her hair was red, close-cropped in a mannish buzz, and she wore big, rectangular-framed eyeglasses. She might have seemed comical, except for her smile, which wide, symmetrical, and utterly disarming.
When she spoke, her voice rolled out in a Texas drawl.
She grabbed Max and hauled him into a bear hug. Her arms around him, she flexed forcefully, eliciting a grunt, then a second grunt, from the captive Max.
"Oh, Max, Max!" she crooned. "Thanks for rescuing my little girl on Valentines Day. I'm so very grateful! I'm so sorry I missed it; it sounded pretty damn eventful."
Released from her embrace, Max bashfully scoffed that "it was nothing." Tamara squeezed his upper arm with a strong hand.
Then she turned to me. I was a little apprehensive. If Tamara gripped me as firmly as she held Max, I was sure to come out of it with broken bones, or bruises at the very least. Instead, she utterly charmed me by gently taking my right hand, saying, "Now, this delicate flower must be Lorelei." She raised the back of my hand almost to her lips. Rather than kiss my hand, she kept going, lifting it by my fingers higher than my head, as if she needed to do so to see my dress adequately.
She nodded, smiled, approved: "Excellent choice! You can't go wrong with the bias cut. I love a good draping." She continued to move my hand, guiding me into a slow turn, so she could see the dress from all sides. Some diners at another table looked on and smiled. I blushed, both flattered and embarrassed.
Tamara herself was dressed in a pair of rust-orange elephant pants with a super-loose silk floral-print top. The print on her top looked as though it was painted by a five-year-old. And yet... the outfit worked! There may not have been another woman on earth who could have worn such a look, but Tamara made it look good.
That was the thing about Tarama: she was too much, but she beguiled you with her excess.
The moment we all sat down, Tamara leaned back and reached into the ice bucket next to her chair. She pulled out a champagne bottle and held it against the light. "Empty!" she pronounced. Tilting her head back, she called across the room, Une autre bouteille de Moët, s’il vous plaît! The waiter nodded.
Let me say, in passing: you have not lived until you've heard French spoken with a Texas accent.
Tamara turned her head and looked lovingly at Kass, but pointed with disapproval at Kass' glass. "You've barely touched your champagne, my dear." In fact, the glass was, for all intents, full.
Kass gave a cute shrug with her delicate shoulders. "Honey, you know I'm not a big drinker."
"But we're celebrating!" Tamara protested, throwing her arms wide in global invitation. "Everybody ought to be drinking!" She leaned forward toward Max and me. "The occasion today is my first red-carpet event! A celebrity — I can't tell you her name, not yet, but you know her — everyone knows her — an A-lister — her people are flying me out to LA this week to talk over designs and to try on some of my pieces. And then, I will create for her a one-of-a-kind, never-before seen and never-to-be-seen-again dress, along with a look." She picked up her glass to drink; was taken aback to find it empty. "It will be a dress, a look, to die for," she confided. The alcohol she'd already consumed seemed to rise from her like a miasma. A joyful, celebratory miasma, but a miasma for all of that. It quickly passed.
I smiled at Tamara, and she smiled back. Her eyes drifted down to my dress, and she commented, "Killer dress. Killer dress."
"Thanks," I acknowledged. "But... can you tell me, what was it you said before about a bias? I didn't understand that."
Her eyebrows bounced. "No? Gracious, girl! I thought everyone knew... oh well. Here we go. I'm going to explain to you what the bias cut means, in a nutshell. Most of the clothes you see are made from rectangles of cloth, all sewn together. Nothing wrong with that. You can get wonderful clothes, doing that. Just for example, look at the clothes around this table. We're all dressed well, but there's a difference between the way your dress is made and the way our clothes are made. Take a look at Max for instance: he looks good; he's dressed well. You can understand that his clothes are made from rectangles of cloth, all sewn together. Do you follow? Rectangles." She made gestures with her hand that somehow made it clearer.
"Yes."
"That's the usual way. My clothes, Kass' clothes, right now, today, rectangles. Now, look at this napkin." She held up a cloth napkin and pulled the sides away from each other. "This is a rectangle, or a grid if you like. now lookit here: there's not much give in the material. It's very stable, which is wonderful if you want stability. But now, take a gander at this." She turned the napkin 45 degrees, and dangled it by one corner. "This is the bias. It means the cloth is cut and sewn on the diagonal. Suddenly, just by taking that turn, you lose the rigidity of the rectangles. It's like magic: it leaves the cloth free to flow over your body. Do you see what I'm saying?" She moved her hand beneath the napkin, and the cloth flowed over her fingers.
"I think so."
"Tonight, when you go home, hang up that dress, put it on a hanger, and then take a good look at it, there on the hanger. Compare it to another dress on a hanger. You'll see the difference. The other one will keep its shape. The way it looks on the hanger is how it looks on you. This dress, on the other hand, looks great on you, but on the hanger, it'll just hang like an old rag. Try it. You'll see."
The waiter arrived with another bottle of champagne, which he popped and poured.
Tamara chortled, "Ladies, I have c confession to make: I'm of a mind to swallow me a sea of bubbles."
"We need to eat something," Kass protested. "I'm starving, and the food here is not to be missed."
Tamara waved her hand as if erasing her own sea-of-bubbles remark. "Alright, darlin', alright! Your wish is my command. Food! Let there be food, in abundance!"
The food was wonderful, but you don't need to hear about it. You can visit Celestial Lamb and try it yourself. What I do need to talk about are two sensitive, secret moments that came up during our lunch. The first moment: when Tamara left the table so she could speak with the chef about a dish. A dish that wasn't on the menu.
"She always does this," Kass confided, twisting her mouth to the side in frustration. "It's embarrassing. She always has to order something that isn't on the menu. Usually she just harasses the waitperson about it, but this being a special occasion, she's got to go in the kitchen and pester the chef." Then, after a quick glance over her shoulder, she leaned forward and in a low voice told us, "I should have warned you guys. Tamara — you know I love her — but when she drinks, she drinks a lot. It's like every day she doesn't drink is a token that she saves up for a special occasion, and then boom! She cashes in those tokens all at once!"
What Kass said seemed to be true: Tamara ordered, all told, two bottles of champagne and two bottles of white wine. Kass had less than one glass. Max, and I each drank two. All told, let's say that's one bottle. Tamara pretended to complain ("What a burden you three have put upon me") and did away with the rest. Then, after dinner, in lieu of dessert, Tamara insisted we each have a glass of Chartreuse, a green digestif from France.
I wasn't sure what to say. Luckily Kass stepped in. "Honey, you can have a glass by yourself, but the three of us can share one."
Tamara bristled, but she gave in without argument.
The second moment: when Max left the table for a trip to the men's room.
The topic of Nessa's wedding came up. Kass confirmed that she and Tamara would be there together. "I hope we can sit at the same table," she said to me.
"If we're not," Tamara put in, "we'll just move the placecards around. Problem solved!"
"I'm not sure that I'm going to the wedding," I confided. "Max hasn't asked me yet."
"Hasn't asked you?" Tamara repeated, feigning indignation. "Hasn't asked you? Well, what the hell is he waiting for? I oughta slap that boy up the side of his head! Of course he's going to ask you! Don't talk nonsense! I've seen the way he looks at you! That man — that man — he wants to slobber all over you!"
"Tamara!" Kass cautioned.
"It's true," she protested. "Look, when he gets back to this table, I'm going to put that boy on the spot. I'll tell him straight out: he's got to ask you right now, today. I'm asking you: What the hell is he waiting for?"
I went white. "Please don't," I said. "Please?"
Tamara was genuinely surprised by my reaction. She reached out to grip my hand to reassure me. "Well, look at you girl — bless your little heart! You look like you've seen a ghost! My goodness. Come on, now, Lorelei. Don't you worry. Aunt Tamara's going to straighten that boy out, right quick. We'll get you to that wedding!"
"No, no, really. I appreciate your concern, but please: just leave it. Please? It's complicated. If you push him, it could blow everything up."
Tamara frowned, uncomprehending. She stared at me and worked her jaw, as if chewing something.
Kass touched Tamara's hand, and smiling said, "Honey, honey? Let's let Lorelei run things her way, okay? Honey?"
Tamara twisted her head around, struggling to let it go, but in the end she grunted her assent. "If you say so. Fine." Still, she leveled her index finger at me, "If he... if... if you give me the word, I'll kick his skinny white ass into next week."
She said it to make me laugh, and laugh I did.
"Actually," Tamara specified, "I'd have my little girl Kass here do the kicking. Did you know she's a bona fide martial artist?"
"No, I didn't know."
"She teaches Krav Maga to the local police. What do you think about that?"
"That's not accurate," Kass protested.
Tamara shrugged. "It's funny, or ironic, I guess. People see me... I'm big and loud, I speak my mind, I'm from the South — they figure I'm a brawler. People tell me they're afraid of me. Afraid of me! I'm just a big pussy cat. The thing is, I've never been in a fight. Not even once, not even close. I'd be scared to death; I wouldn't know what to do but run away screaming. I've never raised my hand against man, woman, animal, or child. The one to fear is this little one here." She gestured to Kass. Then she squeezed the giggling Kass into a hug.
We stayed at the restaurant for two and a half hours. We weren't the only diners to linger that long, though. In the end, I'm pretty sure it wasn't a problem. Judging from the waiter's expression, Tamara must have left a pretty hefty tip. She was in an understandably expansive mood.
Outside, we blinked in the mid-afternoon sun. "I expected it to be dark out," I said. "Or at least evening."
"Sorry to disappoint!" Tamara laughed. "But hey, do you two have any plans at the moment? What do you say to coming over to my workshop?" Max had his back to us, so Tamara reached over to give me a playful push. "We could find you something to wear at the wedding, Lorelei, what do you say?" to which she added a big, slow, obvious, over-elaborate wink. "What do you say?"
Max turned, abstracted. "Sounds interesting," he replied, but it was hard to tell whether he'd actually heard Tamara.
"Can you drive?" I asked.
"Sure," Max replied. "That's what I was just calculating. Two glasses, two and half hours. I should be fine."
The four of us climbed into Max's car and off we went. Tamara gave an address that was perched on the inner edge of the industrial district. Tamara's building ("I picked this place up for a song!") was a three-story structure, almost 4000 square feet, solid, stuccoed in a color Tamara called "Cannoli Cream" — and completely anonymous. It could easily be an office building filled with dentists, accountants, or direct-mail companies. "But it's mine — entirely mine!" Tamara explained. The lot was surrounded by a five-foot wall. The grounds were simply grass, all around. Out back was a terra-cotta patio adorned with a little table and four chairs.
Tamara gave us the tour: the first floor was all work: four big rooms: one housed six sewing machines, a second held bolts of cloth, buttons, zippers, and other supplies, the rest of the first floor was for layout tables, dress dummies, and whiteboards on the walls. The last room was for packaging and shipping.
"My bread and butter is a subscription shirt service," Tamara explained. "I make custom shirts: any cloth, any style, as often as you like. Some men get a new shirt every week, some once a month, others get a pack of ten every so often. Whatever they want."
The second floor was split between offices and atelier.
Tamara and Kass lived on the third floor. "It's a good location," Tamara told us. "We're walking distance from Kass' dance studio in one direction and her gym in the other. She has to drive to work, but it's not far."
They kitchen was particularly well appointed. There was also a spacious guest room with its own bath. "You two could stay over, if you like," Tamara suggested — an invitation loaded with saucy undertones and another overdone wink. The bed was certainly inviting, I'll admit — loaded with white ruffles and layer upon layer of soft fabrics. I could see that Max was not insensitive to the possibilities offered by that bed and that invitation.
There was a lot to see, and there was clearly a lot of depth to Tamara.
Her dress designs puzzled me, tending, as they did, toward the avant garde. I didn't see how I — or really, how most women — could wear any of them, unless the event was something like the Met Gala. None of them were suitable for the wedding. They were all too much, too far out there, too eye catching. Or too little: showing too much breast or butt or the intimate area. Several were too transparent to be worn in public anywhere.
There was one dress that Max particularly liked: the main feature was a pair of tight silver lame hot pants, surrounded by a pseudo-eighteenth century dress, corseted, with tight sleeves and a hoop skirt. What caught Max's eye and imagination was the way that the skirt had seemingly exploded in front, with tattered edges, laying bare the woman's legs underneath, revealing everything up to the lame hot pants. The corset, likewise, was cracked open like an egg at the top, so that the model's breasts spilled out, stopping only at the very edge of indecency. It was sexy, yes, exposing so much skin in that way against such a repressive background. What Tamara accomplished in that dress was to blast the prudish standard of that time; to literally blow it up, revealing the nearly-naked woman underneath.
And then... the four of us divided. It was entirely spontaneous. I wasn't aware of it happening at the time. I don't know that any of the others were aware of it, either. There was no design or plan or scheme.
Kass, understanding that Tamara's avant-garde designs left me cold, undertook to lead me into another room, where she showed me other, more accessible dresses that Tamara created, but loved far less. Honestly, though, these dresses were wonderful. It would have been worth becoming a woman just to wear these dresses from Tamara. "She could conquer the world with these designs," Kass confided, "but she insists on pushing her abstract, crazy pieces on people who will never want them."
While the two of us pored over drawings, photos, and actual dresses, Tamara and Max discovered they had a mutual interest in wines, spirits, and cigars. The two of them went up on the roof with two cigars and a bottle of Bacanora añejo. Later, I asked Max what the two of the them found to talk about, but he always claimed that he couldn't remember. What he *did* remember was the smooth smoke from the cigar and the unusually earthy taste of the bacanora. "It's a taste that's practically an aroma. Just imagine... if you could roast sugar crystals," he said, "what that would smell like... and then, combine that — with maybe the idea of coffee... and then, I don't know... it's tastes and aromas and alcohol."
In other words, Max and Tamara got rip-roaring drunk. I don't know how often that happens to Tamara, but it's pretty unusual for Max. He was still able to stand upright, walk, and talk sensibly, and neither he nor Tamara fell off the roof, so that's something. Not a lot, but something.
While all that was going on, Kass and I managed to find a few possible dresses for me to borrow if — IF — Max got around to making me his plus-one. I didn't try anything on, but Kass made notes and promises, and I, buoyed with excitement, would willingly pay to wear one of Tamara's more "pedestrian" creations.
Our dress hunt completed, Kass and I shared a conspiratorial sisterly hug and went off to find our opposite numbers.
We found Tamara and Max there on the roof, each with an arm draped over the other's shoulders, holding an unlit, half-consumed cigar in their free hands, singing.
"It was the only song we both knew," Max protested.
The song was Deep In The Heart of Texas. They stamped their feet in lieu of clapping. By the time we got there, they were improvising lyrics, nonsensical stanzas that had nothing to recommend them by the rhyme. The pair of them were laughing and shouting.
When Max saw me, he stopped singing and walked over to me, draping his arms heavily over my shoulders, the way that drunken people do. "Oh, you found me," he said, breathing alcohol into my face. "It all means something."
"I think it means we should head for home," I told him.
Tamara protested. "It's early! It's not even whatever o'clock! We're young! We should party all night. Kass, what's the name of that club we should go to?"
Kass looked at me, smiled, and shook her head. "It's time to roll up the tent, Tamara," she said.
Yes, it was definitely time to roll up the tent and head for home. But how to do it? Max was in no fit state to drive. In fact, he was none too steady on his feet.
Tamara's blood alcohol was well above Max's, but she was already home. I had only two glasses of wine hours ago, and was sure to pass any breath or blood test. I was fit to drive, there was no doubt, but I had a different problem -- I didn't have a drivers license. I'd only been a girl for five or six days; there wasn't enough time, even if I had made the effort to get my license — which I hadn't.
That left Kass, who'd only had the merest sips — virtually nothing. She was the only person who could legally drive. After a brief discussion, Kass declared it would go like this: She would drive Max and me to Max's house. Then she'd take an Uber home. It was the simplest plan. It was impossible to come up with anything simpler, aside from our sleeping over at Tamara and Kass' house.
Why didn't we? Neither Max nor me wanted to. Kass tried to push that solution, until she finally understood that Max and I had never slept together and that we weren't ready yet to fall over that edge.
I sat in the back with Max, who fell asleep as soon as the car started moving. He slept with his head thrown back, like a drunken man. He let out the occasional snore.
Kass nearly missed a turn, and took it so hard, that Max's head swung to the side and knocked hard against the car window. "Sorry!" she exclaimed, but he didn't wake. I held him after that so he wouldn't flop around.
Just before we arrived, just before Kass pulled into Max's driveway, he awoke and seemed to have recovered his senses.
"Do you need help getting him into the house?" Kass asked.
"I can walk," Max protested, and demonstrated it by stepping out and standing next to the car. Kass called an Uber. I told her we'd wait with her. "It's not necessary," she replied.
Hearing that, Max began walking toward his house, toward the front door. His posture was stiff and tall, his gaze fixed straight ahead. "The Uber's almost here," Kass told me. "You better go after him — make sure he doesn't hurt himself."
At that, the next few things happened like clockwork. I glanced around the corner of the house and saw Max walk uncertainly into his house, leaving the front door open. Kass locked up the car and handed me the keys. I gave her a hug and thanked her. The Uber arrived. She ran to it; I dashed into the house and shut the door behind me.
Max was sitting on his couch, feet flat on the floor, bent over at the waist, chest resting on thighs, fingertips touching his shoes. I knelt on the floor next to him. "Are you alright?" I asked in a gentle voice. "Do you want a glass of water?"
"I'm fine," he breathed in a heavy whisper. "I'm untying my shoes. Can't you see?" He wiggled his fingers, but his shoes remained tied.
"Good boy," I said, and ruffled his hair.
My cell went off. It was Kass.
"Hey, listen," she said. "I looked back as I was driving away, and I saw somebody come out from the side of the house. They stood in the street and watched me drive away. It was pretty creepy."
I didn't know what to say. Half-automatically, I asked, "Are you okay?"
"Sure *I* am," she replied, "But *you* ought to check all the doors and windows, make sure they're locked." She hesitated a moment. "You ought to check the whole house. Or call the police and have them do it."
"It's okay," I told her. "I can do it."
"Do you want me to stay on the line? I can stay with you while you look around. If anything happens, I'll call 911 for you."
"No, it's okay, I'll just check everything. It'll be fine."
"Call me back in ten minutes. If you don't, I will call the cops, okay?"
"Make it fifteen," I said. "I'm checking now."
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
Talk about a shot of adrenaline! Okay — I had fifteen minutes to check doors and windows. Then I have to call Kass, and after that, search the house. I'll leave the upstairs for last. It's the least accessible, and I didn't hear any signs of life from up there.
On the first floor, there are are only two doors: one in front, and one in back. I started at the front door and circled the house clockwise, checking the windows. The only windows on the North side are in the kitchen, so I arrived at those two after trying the kitchen door. All windows and doors locked; first floor, secure.
Now for the basement. As I descended the stairs, I wondered, Is it possible that Kass imagined seeing that person? Immediately, I rejected the idea. It seemed too unlikely. Kass wasn't flighty or nervous, as far as I'd seen. It's possible she misinterpreted what she saw, but I felt sure she'd seen a person. It could have been a neighbor walking their dog, or a late-night jogger. Something a little unusual, but entirely innocent. In a way, though, it hardly mattered: I still needed to check the house.
Why, though, would anyone hide on the North side of the house? There was no entry on that side. The North side, the side away from the driveway not only had no door; its few windows were too high to reach without a ladder and too small for an adult to fit through. Whoever Kass saw, it wouldn't have been a burglar.
Just for the sake of argument, let's say a mugger decided to spring an ambush at either door, front or back. They'd find it a losing proposition. At ever step, they'd need to overcome real, physical obstacles. From the outset, the moment they stuck their head around the corner, they'd been seen. After that, there is no straight shot to the door: front and back there are small shrubs that the bad guy would need to navigate around, and finally he'd find a short set of stairs and a stair rail in his way. It would take so long to launch the assault, they'd entirely lose the element of surprise. Even a nervous, clumsy target would already be safe inside by the time the attacker arrived.
And yet, Kass said she'd seen someone come out from the side of the house. Not from the driveway: She had just come from the driveway herself. She would have said "driveway" if she meant driveway, but she didn't.
Back to my search: Directly at the bottom of the basement stairs stood a door to the backyard. This was the separate entrance, for the mother-in-law suite. That door, like the two upstairs, was securely locked with a deadbolt.
I'd already cleared the first floor, and intended to continue my search of the house down here, in the basement, in the mother-in-law suite. But before I opened the door to my previous abode, I stopped, stock still, and stared a door that I'd seen countless times but never opened once. I'd looked at it, but never really seen it. It may as well have been a piece of wall, as far as my recognition of it went. The door was steel, a fireproof door. Max called it "the door to the mechanical room." Back on Christmas Eve, when he helped me move my belongings inside her, to the suite, he made a vague hand wave to indicate the door, and told me that the water heater, the electric panel, and HVAC were inside, "along with assorted junk."
I never needed to open that door, and I'd never given that door a moment's thought. Now it looked like a big, gray, rectangular puzzle piece to me.
I called Kass, who was still in the Uber. "Listen, Kass," I told her, "I'm going to open a door I've never opened before. It's in the basement. The heat and electric and stuff is all inside there. Can you stay on the line with me while I do this?"
"Absolutely."
I pulled open the door and flicked on the light switch. It was a typical basement room: concrete floors, cinder-block walls. The ceiling was nothing more than the underside of the floor above, supported by wooden joists and supported by two black metal posts. Aside from a good-sized water heater, a furnace and some ductwork, there was only a small table and a few shelves that someone long ago had knocked together out of scrap lumber. The room smelled of wood and old paint. The floor was dusty, although clearly someone had taken a broom to it recently. The broom itself was leaning against the wall in a corner. Aside from a few rusty old tools and some broken garden implements, there was nothing to see. Except...
"Kass, there's another door here. I didn't know it was in here. It opens to the side of the house."
"Is it locked?"
"Doesn't look like it. There's a deadbolt that isn't thrown and the switch in the doorknob is straight up and down. That's got to mean unlocked, right?"
"I'm not sure. I think so."
"I'm going to open it a sec and try the knob from the outside."
"Lorelei — don't. Just throw the deadbolt and get the hell out of there!"
"I need to know," I told her. I didn't tell her why. What I needed to know was whether this was Amber's way of getting in and out.
I put my phone on speaker and set it on the table near the door. Then I braced myself, one foot back, one foot forward, and took a deep breath as though I was about to dive underwater. I grabbed the doorknob and silently turned it as far as it could go.
I yanked the door open quickly, almost violently. A moth, who must have been lying in wait outside, shot into the room like a bullet, narrowly missing my head. I jumped backward and nearly fell. Then I shrieked like a little girl and jumped to the side: a large spider who'd been living in peace beneath the door ambled out and crawled away slowly into the darkness. I shook myself and took a deep breath. A quick look, poking my head out, determined there was no one there. No one waiting, no one hiding. While looking for the spider, I noticed there were no footprints outside the door. There couldn't be: on that side of the house there was a concrete pathway which was dry and clean.
Now that I'd looked at everything else, I returned to my missing: I tried the knob on the outside. Unlocked.
I slammed the door shut, threw the deadbolt, and turned the switch in the knob. Goodbye, Amber, I said in my head.
Then I picked up my phone and reassured Kass that I was still in one piece.
"Oh my God!" she exclaimed. "I was having a heart attack here!"
"I as well!" her Uber driver shouted.
"Everything is fine," I assured them both. "Doors and windows are secure. All I have left is to check the upstairs, but I'm confident no one's up there."
"We can stay on the line!" the driver called.
"There's no need," I said. "I'll send a text when I've finished searching."
I heard the driver tell Kass, "I will be on tenterhooks! Tell her! Tenterhooks!" Kass laughed and wished me luck before hanging up.
What I'd said to Kass wasn't strictly true. I hadn't searched the basement. Not all of it.
I left the mechanical room, turning off the light, closing the door, good and tight, and then I entered the mother-in-law suite. My old home.
Starting in the bathroom, I pulled the curtain and looked behind the door. No one there. No one under the bed, either.
So far, so good, I said to myself, and opened the first closet.
I blinked several times in disbelief. The closet was empty! No matter how many times I blinked, it remained empty.
I mean, yes, no one was hiding in there — which is great. But all my clothes were missing! Everything that belonged to me, as Elliot — gone. I opened the second closet: also empty. The chest of drawers, the bedside table, empty, empty.
It reminded me of Christmas Eve, when Max and I discovered the vacant trail Amber left, when she absconded with all her belongings. It was exactly like this: the shock of opening a door or drawer, expecting to find clothes, belongings, possessions... but instead drawing one blank after another.
I returned to the bathroom. Even my old shampoo and toothpaste were gone! I want to say it was baffling, but it wasn't. It was simply crazy.
Amber's purge even extended as far as the kitchenette! There was nothing personal about the food or drink that I left; nothing that specifically stamped it as mine, but even so, Amber made it all disappear.
I took a deep breath and shook my head.
Luckily, none of it was particularly important. I'd gone three years without buying new clothes or new shoes. I'm not sure whether I even bought any underwear or socks during those years. As far as things that were important, I'd taken them all to Melissa's house with me: my laptop, my car keys, and all my documents.
For a moment a wild thought sprang up in my brain and tried to ring a panic alarm: by taking my clothes, had Amber condemned me to remain Lorelei forever? It brought to mind an old folk tale about a werewolf who couldn't return to human form without his clothes.
That wasn't my case, though — I still had a complete set of "Elliot" clothes at Melissa's house: everything: shirt, shoes, underwear, pants, belt. I was all set if I needed to go backwards.
Funny thing, though: the initial thought shocked me for a moment (that I might be stuck as Lorelei forever) -- I'll admit it even scared me for a few seconds -- but it didn't bother me. Deep down, it was clear to me: I'd be okay with it. I nodded to myself at the realization, filed it mentally under IMPORTANT REALIZATIONS and went back upstairs. I'd already searched the first floor — except for the pantry. In the interests of being thorough, I opened that little room and checked for the last three Christmas presents: P, V, and S. Still there.
Still there? Did that mean that Amber wasn't aware that the presents were up there? Maybe she just couldn't reach them. Who knows?
Max was still sound asleep in the same pose, seated, bent over, chest to thighs, feet flat on floor.
I looked at the staircase running up from the front door, then back down at Max. Search upstairs first? Or put Max to bed? I looked again from the staircase to my friend.
When I was Elliot, Max and I were around the same weight. He was a bit more muscular than me, but we were about the same build. Now that I was Lorelei, he was at least sixty pounds heavier than me. I was pretty sure I wouldn't be able to wrestle all that muscle and bone up the stairs by myself. Unless he managed to wake up again, the way he did in the car, and walk up the stairs himself, he was going to have to spend the night on the couch.
Even though it wasn't strictly true, I sent Kass a text: "All clear. Thanks!"
Immediately the reply came back: "Any time, girlfriend!"
Okay. Max first, then search upstairs.
I pushed the coffee table away from the couch to remove any danger of Max banging his head on the table's hard edges.
Somehow he'd already untied both his shoes and taken the laces out of one shoe for some unknown reason, but it was impossible for me to work his shoes off his feet. All his weight was pushing directly down into his heels. The first thing to do was sit him upright. Kneeling on the floor in front of him, I put my hands on his shoulders and pushed. It was difficult to get him moving, but soon I had a little momentum. His upper body abruptly flopped back against the couch. His dropped backward, a dead weight, and made a resounding thump! against the couch's wood frame.
I swore, but Max only let out a few soft snores.
Unfortunately, Max had seated himself on the very end of the couch, hard against the arm rest. If I tipped him to his right, his upper body would dangle over the arm rest. If I tipped him to his left, he'd be mostly lying flat, but his legs have to bend over the arm rest. Not a great position, but still, it seemed the better of the two options. I tipped him onto his left side, and on a sudden inspiration, pulled the back cushions off the couch. This had the effect of enlarging the seating area to the width of a single bed. Great idea! When I lifted his legs over the arm rest, he turned fully onto his back. If his legs weren't dangling weirdly over the end, my work would have been done. Now, I needed to haul him up by the arm pits until his legs were resting on the couch as well.
But first, I knelt on the floor again, and placed my hand on his chest. His chest rose and fell with his breathing, carrying my hand with it. I could feel his breating, and I could feel his heart, beating steadily beneath my palm. His left arm dangled over the side, touching the floor near my knee. When I bent his elbow and lifted his arm — I didn't mean to make it happen, but the backs of his fingers brushed the length of my thigh, from my knee to my hip. His index finger just missed my mons veneris. I held my breath for a moment, feeling my own heart beating inside me, and then I laid his hand on his chest.
I always knew that Max was handsome. All our lives, everyone said so. Thank God, he was never vain. I don't think Max ever really knew how good-looking he is. I licked my lips — they must have been dry. Max's face looked so relaxed and peaceful. Had I ever seen Max asleep before? I don't think so. His expression was nearly angelic — no worry, no fear, no stress, no hurry. Just pure, unfiltered Max.
His lips were slightly parted, giving a glimpse of his even, white teeth. His eyes were closed. His breathing slow and steady. I leaned closer, to look at his skin. Then a thought came, unbidden. It popped into my head, all by itself. The thought said, Max has kissed me twice — admittedly, only on the cheek — but I've never kissed him once. Then, right then, exactly then, before another thought could run in, screaming DON'T DO IT, I kissed him.
I planted my lips softly on his and held them there for a moment. Then I let go.
It was nice, it was good. I liked it. But I was sure that kissing isn't as good as it could be, if it's only going one way. It wasn't a real kiss unless he was kissing me, while I was kissing him.
Another thought came, unbidden: So what? I nodded to myself. Good point! and I kissed him a second time, longer this time. I put more into it this time, a lot more. I turned my head right and left as I kissed, the way people do in the movies. I put my hands on the sides of his head (as people do in movies!). I don't know what that's supposed to do, but it seemed to enhance the experience somehow.
That was better, I told myself, and it was. Was it my imagination, or did I call up some kind of warm, loving energy from inside Max? *I* felt warm, anyhow. I had the feeling he was warming up, as well.
I stood up, quivering. I shook myself. I was a little embarrassed. I felt a little... guilty. Above all, I was... excited. My heart was beating faster and harder. I looked down at his body, lying inert, passive, and had a silly thought: if this was a romantic comedy, then somehow, without meaning to, I'd end up falling full length on top of him, face to face, nose to nose, and he would wake up in that instant, and I'd say, "Oh!" in a pretended innocent way, and try to make up some idiotic excuse, but before I even got started, he'd stop me by placing his hand on the back of my head, kissing me, and drawing all the breath out of me.
Of course, that didn't happen! Something else happened instead.
I licked my lips again. I swallowed. I took a quick breath to steel myself. One last kiss, I told myself, and knelt down next to the couch again.
This time, I moved in close, and caressed his nose with mine. I brushed my cheek against his. My heart was pounding. I kissed his cheek bones, I kissed his chin. And then, wanton wench that I am, I kissed him full on the mouth, working my lips on his, and then like a fool I slid my tongue between his lips. Just a little! But then, I plunged it into his mouth. A thrill shot through me when my tongue met his. Oh, God, that was nice! No, it was more than nice. It was electric, it was illicit. I knew I shouldn't do it, but once I started, I was hooked, and I didn't want to stop. Even when I felt him stirring faintly beneath me. I didn't want to anything but go on kissing him with all the kissing energy that was in me.
But then, what happened?
I'll tell you what happened: Max's eyes popped open, just like in a romantic comedy.
I leapt to my feet and said, "Wow!" like an idiot. I don't why I said it or what it was supposed to mean, but as it turned out, it didn't matter.
Max, who was still well and fully drunk, blinked a few times, and said, "Whoa. That was hot! That was... really hot. How long were we kissing for?"
"Oh," I said, nervously. My shoulders were jerking around like a marionette's. I couldn't control them — or my hands, which were uselessly running over my hips and thighs, as if I was wiping my guilt and embarrassment off my palms on my skirt. "Not long. A few minutes, a few seconds, I don't know. Ha ha!" That ha ha sounded so patently foolish that I wanted to slap myself. Instead, I heaved a big, idiotic breath and asked him, "Did you like it?"
"I think so," he admitted, sheepishly, "but I feel like I missed part of it, like I woke up in the middle. Sorry!" He looked around, I could see his poor little brain, still addled by alcohol, laboriously figuring out that he was lying on his couch in his own living room. His eyes darted to his left and he stared at my knees for a few seconds. He was still working out where he was and what was happening. My knees were not a helpful clue. So he turned his face upward and gave me an apologetic look. "I had too much to drink," he confessed, as if it were a well-kept secret.
"Yeah, I noticed."
"I'm sorry," he continued, "I want to blame Tamara, but I..." he paused, as if he'd forgotten what he was about to say. Then, after a long pause, he finished the thought. "I took off, like, I took off my parking brake. On a hill. Do you know what I mean?"
"I guess so. You're usually careful and responsible, but tonight you just—" and then I trailed off, too, because I got it. I understood what Max meant about the parking brake. I knew why he let himself go.
"It's okay, Max," I assured him. "I understand."
With a perturbed expression, he began to raise himself up on his elbows. "But I'm sorry I fell asleep while we were kissing. That's... bad. Really bad."
"It's fine," I told him, feigning a nonchalant magnanimity. I waved my hand like a silly dope, to signify that it didn't matter.
"Did *you* like it?" Max asked me, dropping back down, flat on his back, blinking with big, dark eyes.
"Oh, yes!" I exclaimed. "Much!" Much? Why did say 'much'?
"Then let's do it some more," he said, sounding quite serious. "Can you give me a hand up?"
I put my hands into his and pulled, forgetting as I did the difference in our weights and strengths, and all the principles of mechanical physics. When we both pulled, I nearly fell on top of him, and recovered enough to end up sitting astride his thighs, with my breasts softly pushed against his face. He let out a drunken "ohhh" of contentment. The warmth of his appreciative sigh penetrated the front of my dress, and I felt his breath all the way through to the valley between my breasts. I got back to my feet, clumsily, blushing.
On our second attempt, I leaned back nearly forty-five degrees as we pulled, and Max rose to his feet. He seemed able to stand on his own, but we held each other close, just in case, just to be sure.
Max slid his face close to mine, cheek against cheek, until his mouth was next to my ear. When he spoke, I could feel his warm, moist breath soft upon my ear and neck. It was something from a dream; an unexpectedly sensual, erotic sensation. I could have dropped to the floor and melted into a puddle.
"Do you know where this would work better?" he whispered. "Much, much, better?" His body rocked dangerously against mine. Our arms were tight around each other, our hips and thighs pressed close, as close as two clothed people can be. He swayed too far, then corrected his balance. I tried to plan the safest way to fall. Certainly the best outcome would be for him to fall on the couch, hopefully without whacking his head for a third time, and then for me to fall on top of him, hopefully like a autumn leaf drifting to earth. That would be a win-win, I thought, and about as romantic as the situation could permit.
"Where?" I whispered back, "where would this work better?" I guessed, from his sudden intake of air and the arching of his spine, that my whispered breath on his ear and neck aroused him as strongly as his did me.
"In my bed, upstairs," he whispered.
I pulled my head back so I could look him in the face. "No, Max, no," I said. "We can't."
"Why can't we?" We tried to charm me. He put on a beguiling smile. "We're both consentuating adults."
"Consensual," I corrected.
"Me too," he nodded.
"No, Max, no. You're drunk. I can't be sure you really want this."
"Are you kidding?" he shot back. "You can't feel how much I want you? I know you want me. Look me in the eye and tell me that you don't."
"I *do* want you, Max, but I need to know that you're making a sober decision."
"Come on!" he protested. "In vino vidi vinci, right?"
"You know that's wrong," I chided. "In vino veritas."
"My point exactly."
"Maybe that's so," I admitted. "Or let's say okay, it's true. But words are one thing, and actions are another. I know that you mean what you say, but there's a 50/50 chance that you might do something while drunk that you wouldn't do sober."
He scoffed, a breath rendolent with Bacanora. "Hmmph," he said, in a tone that made me feel I'd made my point and gotten through to him. And yet, we were still in each other's arms, in a tight embrace. I didn't want to let go, and not only because he'd fall. I liked having him and holding him. As if reading my mind, Max lifted his head and smiled his open, glad smile. I couldn't help but smile back at him.
In a quiet, magical voice, he said, "You don't want to let go, do you." It wasn't a question; it was an observation.
"No, I don't."
"Neither do I," he said, and he began moving his body against mine, as if we were dancing. His thighs made gentle, subtle movements against mine. His chest moved gently over my breasts as he held me so only our hips and abs were still, tight against each other.
"Max, Max, Max, Max — stop," I told him.
"I can't stop," he laughed.
"Look, look — lie down on the couch—"
"—with you—"
"No, you get comfortable. Go to sleep. We can talk in the morning."
He stopped moving, stopped swaying and caressing my body with his. Max pulled his head back so he could study my face. I felt like he was looking for something in my expression. I gave him a few seconds, and then I moved my hands to his shoulders, ready to push him down onto the couch. Once he was there, I'd cover him with a blanket and quickly and quietly make my exit.
"Okay," Max said gently. I smiled. "One last kiss?" he asked. I nodded. "That would be nice."
His face drew close to mine. Then...
Max kissed me. Full on the mouth. Our breaths mingled. His tongue glided over mine like a kiss inside a kiss.
I didn't resist. I didn't hold back. I released myself, I let myself go, into the warm darkness of that kiss. I closed my eyes and the kiss become my world. My mind emptied of all thoughts and all desires, except one: to be there, kissing Max.
Maybe you're reading this and thinking, I've *never* had a kiss like that. There *are* no kisses like that. But believe me, please believe me, there are such kisses, kisses that seem to last forever, kisses that annihilate all existence apart from that kiss.
Yes, I know, most kisses are perfunctory. Two sets of lips touch. Sometimes it's nice, sometimes it's sloppy, sometimes it's happy, sometimes it's unwelcome and horrible. But... it can happen: falling into a abyss... one's mind a blank... a nearly mystical communion, or at least, the intersection of two all-consuming longings... Trust me: there really are kisses like this. Kisses of a cosmic order, where this world disappears and a new world is born.
It was wonderful and warm and everything I ever wanted. That's how it felt at the time.
I don't know how long it went on, but it felt like a long time, an endless time. Nothing in me wanted to stop.
Max slid his left hand down my back, sliding slowly down down down, until his fingertips rested on my rear. I took a breath and squeezed him. Yes. Then his other hand slid down, until both his palms were resting on my cheeks.
A lot of thoughts ran through my head. One was that I haven't been a girl for very long, and wasn't sure if this was the proper protocol. Then his hands slid lower, so they cupped my derriere, as though I was sitting in his hands. He lifted slightly, and the effect was electric. I let out a mmmmmmm that passed from my mouth into his. Then I moaned, still kissing, and my back arched slightly, pushing my breasts up. I couldn't help it: I moaned again, louder.
Then I a voice echoed in my memory. It was Vivianne's voice, saying If you really and truly want to turn back to your old self after the wedding, you must NOT get pregnant. Remember that.
Aw, fuck, I said to myself, and felt a deep, disappointed, inner sigh. Clearly, though, that was a clear and present danger here. I had to stop. But did I have to stop now?
Yes, probably! The situation was growing more dangerous by the moment. At some point I wouldn't be able to say no. I was getting too turned on, too excited. Soon I would be nothing but an quivering, electric YES, and then it would be too late to even pretend I could stop. My entire body was tingling with desire. My skin was red hot all over, and — was it my imagination, or was Max radiating in the same way? Was he feeling my heat, the way I was feeling his?
If he was feeling any of that, though, he was feeling something else as well. Something strong and overriding.
Max suddenly broke off, saying, "Whoa, hey, oh..." He face looked wild, lost.
"Are you getting dizzy?" I asked him. That's what I read from his confused, distressed expression.
"Oh, babe, I've been dizzy since I stood up. But I needed to kiss you. Now everything is spinning. It's out of all control. It feels like the floor is flying up at my face—" his knees buckled. I held onto him, tight, hard. I took a step back to gain some stability. We struggled. It was difficult, but with a modicum of help on his part, I managed to guide his fall in such a way that he landed on his back on the couch without banging his head.
Inevitably, I ended up lying on top of him, a classic rom-com pose, the way I'd pictured earlier, but he was so dizzy that there was nothing romantic about it. Nothing at all. He let go of me and moved both hands to his head.
The romance had pretty much evaporated by that point, but if there was any atom of enchantment left in the room, Max blew it away with a loud and fragrant belch.
"Oh, my God!" I exclaimed, as I jumped to my feet and waved my hand frantically in front of my nose.
"Sorry," he grunted, and let out a series of smaller burps, rendolent of cigar and rich vapors of alcohol and burnt sugar.
"You're not going to throw up, are you?"
"No, no, I'm fine. It's just—" and then he brought up a blast of wind strong enough to echo throughout the house. If anyone were hiding upstairs, they would have died of a heart attack. Max's boom would have registered as the epicenter of a quake if any seismic machines were in the neighborhood.
"I feel better now," he said. He sniffled. "That was the last one."
"If you say so." I held my nose and pulled his shoes off with one hand. Then I picked up a blanket and, holding my breath, covered him with it.
"Oh, no!" he exclaimed. "You're not leaving, are you? I promise, I swear, I'm not going to burp any more!"
"It isn't that, Max. I want us both to be sober and awake when we have sex for the first time."
He nodded, looking a little guilty. He didn't try to get up. His eyes closed, and in an instant, he was asleep.
I resisted the urge to kiss him goodnight.
Instead, I took off my shoes and quietly made my way downstairs, to the mother-in-law suite. It was weird. It didn't feel like home, now that all my stuff was gone. It felt like a hotel room. I took off my dress and jewelry and then I used the bathroom.
Studying my face in the mirror, I was surprised at how quickly I'd gotten used to wearing cosmetics. I needed to remove my makeup before going to bed. Would soap and water work? Melissa had drummed into me the maxim of never using soap on my face. But also, sleeping in your makeup is a no-no. So I took my phone and googled how to remove cosmetics without makeup remover. There were a number of possibilities, but the simplest, given the circumstances, was olive oil.
Still in my underwear, I tiptoed up to the kitchen. A quick peek into the living room told me that Max was still out like a light. I could hear his deep, rough, rhythmic breathing. The sound was reassuring; I stayed to listen for a few moments.
Then the doorbell rang. I nearly jumped out of my skin! But Max lay there, inert. The loud bing-bong couldn't penetrate his alcohol-aided slumber.
The doorbell rang again. Then came a series of knocks. Max slept on.
In the kitchen, Max had a tablet, a screen, that displayed the doorbell's camera. I swiped with my fingertips and the screen lit up.
It was Amber at the door. Of course. Who else could it be, at such an inappropriate hour?
While I poured into a little bowl a small amount of olive oil (to use on my face), I studied my nemesis on the little screen.
Amber was dressed to kill.
Her hair was pulled back from her face, exploding at the back of her head in a mass of curls. It was a striking look. She wore a filmy, near transparent black top that enhanced the sexy presence of her lacy black brassiere. Amber had a pretty spectacular pair of breasts, I had to admit, and a remarkably narrow waist. Her face — I was surprised, very surprised to see that Amber actually looked attractive, very attractive, now that she'd lost the scowl she used on me. Her makeup was well done. Very well done. In fact, I snapped a a couple of pictures of her face on my phone. So far, I had a daytime look, and an evening look, but not a nighttime look — and Amber's was definitely worth copying.
The entire time, she knocked and rang endlessly, while Max slept on, blissfully unaware.
I spread the oil on my face, working it around my eyes and over my lips. I took an old kitchen towel that was a little ugly but fairly soft, and gently wiped my face with it. The technique worked pretty well. My face was clear of makeup, but was now pretty oily. In spite of Melissa's prohibition, I bent over the kitchen sink and washed my face with soap and water. I figured the oil and the soap would cancel each other out.
Amber still hadn't given up, though she was dancing with impatience. Or did she simply need the bathroom? I chuckled to myself.
Then came the moment I was waiting for: Amber ran down the steps, and around the house, to the North side. She wasn't gone long; once she tried the now-locked doorknob, there was nothing left for her to do. When she returned to my screen, she looked so disappointed that I almost felt sorry for her. I said almost.
Finally, after heaving a heavy sigh of resignation, she left.
I went downstairs and climbed into bed. It took a long time before I could fall asleep. I had a lot to process. After lying there, wide awake, for an hour and a half, I got up and took a shower. It relaxed me enough that I could finally fall asleep.
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
I woke up with a bundle of feelings and no inclination to unpack them.
Unfortunately, the feelings came spooling off, all on their own accord.
The first item on my list of concerns, though, was my teeth. I ran my tongue over them, inside and out. My teeth were in excellent shape when I was Elliot, and happily Lorelei's teeth were equally good, although smaller, in a smaller jaw and mouth. I was pretty lucky and pretty happy there.
Still, I've always brushed at least twice a day. I can't NOT do it. I hate the feeling of dirty teeth. Last night was the first time in forever that I hadn't brushed, and it bugged me. A lot. Because of Amber's insane purge, I had no toothbrush, or even toothpaste.
Still, there was a way. I should have used it last night, but I had a lot to distract me. I call it the "cowboy's toothbrush" even though it has nothing to do with cowboys and no cowboy is likely to have ever used it. I just needed to sneak into the kitchen.
Yes, I was going to sneak. I had to go up there without waking Max. Last night, I made a complete fool of myself — a jackass — and consequently I was filled with uncomfortable mixture of awkwardness, embarrassment, and shame. I felt guilty and stupid. I shouldn't have kissed him while he slept.
At the same time, I couldn't help but remember how he kissed me back, and the electric effect of his fingers on my behind. The memory of it drew me in; I relived the excitement and stimulation of that moment... and caught myself holding my breath, tensing to prolong the physical sensation I'd evoked.
I let out my breath loudly and shook my head in disappointment with myself. What was Max going to think of me? How was he going to react? I'd been so careful about not pushing things... and then I went and did that.
I was mad at myself, but I had another target of anger: Amber, that crazy bitch. Still, I could set that package of outrage aside for the moment and chew over it later, at my leisure. Right now I needed to clean my teeth and then get the hell out of the house before Max woke up. Sure, I'd have to face him sooner or later, but later sounded much better to me at the moment.
I jumped out of bed, clad only in my bra and panties. Until last night, I've been sleeping in a pair of comfortable pajamas: emphasis on comfortable, not on sexy. My legs, as they kicked off the bedclothes, never looked so naked to me as they did now.
Even so, I didn't bother to put on my dress. I was in a hurry. I needed to zip in and out of the kitchen, fleet, light-footed.
As I ascended the stairs to the kitchen, a few of the treads let out a creaky groan. At each squeal from the stairs I gritted my teeth and held my breath as if my teeth could hold in the sound and my breath would make me lighter — the balloon principle. Gingerly, I opened the door at the top of the steps. Thankfully, the door was silent on its hinges. After listening for a moment, I crept barefoot into the kitchen. A quick peek around the doorway to the living room revealed Max, still sleeping, lying on his back. He must have done some kicking and turning, because his blanket seemed tied around his legs. I had to repress the impulse to straighten it out and cover him more neatly. Still, I watched him for a few moments, listening to his deep, smooth, rhythmic breaths. And there was something else: I never noticed what a great profile he has. Next time I had my phone with me I'd have to take a picture.
But first... now... my teeth!
I tore off a paper towel and wrapped it around my finger. After wetting it at the sink, I dipped it lightly into a box of baking soda. After rubbing all my teeth inside and out, I rinsed my mouth several times with water. Baking soda has a disgusting taste, but even so, it leaves a fresh, clean feeling; a vast improvement over a dirty mouth.
I tossed my improvised brush into the trash, put the baking soda back in the cabinet. As I carefully, quietly was setting my water glass in the sink, the doorbell rang three times, accompanied by three knocks. I nearly yelped at the abrupt noise, and almost dropped the glass. I froze there, listening, on my tiptoes for some reason. Whoever it was rang the doorbell and knocked once again. They rang insistently, repeatedly, and on the fourth set of rings and knocks, Max groaned and swore. I could tell he was struggling to free his legs from the blanket. I had to move, but I had a few seconds... Max's tablet, the one I'd used last night to spy on Amber, lay close at hand on the kitchen island.
Max, stretching, let out a great loud yawn and bellowed, "I'M COMING! I'm coming! Hold your horses! I'm coming! Jeez!" Then he muttered something about "Sunday morning."
Unable to restrain my curiosity, I swept my hand up on the tablet's screen. Immediately, Amber's image appeared. Her hair was loose this time, and her makeup was lighter — a daytime look. She wore a different top and less jewelry than last night. Dressed to kill? Last night, yes. This morning she was dressed for brunch, though she was pretty generous in showing off her cleavage.
I left the tablet on the counter. Max very nearly saw me in my ill-timed dash to the stairs. Luckily, he turning away from me, turning his back to the kitchen, his face to the front door. And, he was sleepy, still waking up. Consequently, he didn't see me at all. I left the door half open — There was NO WAY I was going to miss this conversation! — and I sat down silently in the doorway. All set! Although — looking down at my deshabille, I realized that I might need to make a quick getaway, if Max invited her in. Considering the creaks in the stairs, it would be a noisy getaway, and certainly more than a little awkward, but at least I'd have time to put my dress on before having to explain myself.
Max opened the front door and swore. "Oh, hell, Amber. It's you. What's the big idea, ringing my bell, knocking on my door, so early on a Sunday morning? In fact, what are you doing, coming to my house at all?"
Amber ignored his clear hostility. Her reply was sweet, patient, and sugary, "Oh, Max! That's not a very nice greeting!"
"I'm glad you were able to figure that out," he replied. "What do you want?"
"Can I come in?"
"No, you can't."
"Max, just move your foot — you're holding the door closed."
"I know what I'm doing. Don't tell me what I'm doing or not doing. Just tell me what the hell you want. What's so important that you have to wake me up on a Sunday morning?"
"Max, I was worried about you. You've been seen with that Kass woman. I've been told that she brought you home last night."
"And?"
"That woman is violent. You know that. You witnessed her attack on me."
"Did I?"
"Yes, you did — at the Celestial Lamb."
"Amber, who I do and do not associate with is entirely my business and none of yours."
"Kass is a bad influence. I have no doubt that eventually her violent ways will come to the attention of the police. You don't want to be associated with that sort of scandal."
"I'm thinking of hiring Kass as my bodyguard," Max declared. I grinned. I knew he was kidding, but doubted Amber would see the joke. In fact, it left her speechless for a few beats. Max didn't help her out; he didn't say anything. He simply let her stew.
"Be that as it may, but remember that I warned you, and that I have an infallible sense for these things. The reason I came today, Max, is to thank you and congratulate you... because you... that is, you and I have taken a big step closer. A step closer to reconciliation."
"No, we haven't."
"Yes, we have. I've been told that Elliot left you, that he moved out. Took all his things and left."
Max started laughing.
"Why are you laughing? This is important. It's significant. That interloper is finally out of our house."
"Our house?" Max repeated. "Our house? This is my house. I bought this house with my money, and the help of my parents. It has nothing to do with you at all. Nothing whatsoever."
"Oh, Max! I say our because I'm so used to seeing you and me as us."
"You should definitely stop doing that," Max said. "There is no our. There is no we. So get that out of your head."
"Oh, Max!" she exclaimed. "That's just your mind talking. It's not reality. Wake up, and see!"
Max didn't reply to any of that. He was silent for a moment, then asked, "Is that it? Or do you have any other crazy things to say?"
Amber made some sounds — a disbelieving scoff, a bleat of frustration — then told him, "I came here so that we could go have brunch together," she said. "We need to begin our reconciliation. The clock is ticking; time is wasting. We need to sew ourselves back together before Nessa's wedding. Now that Elliot is gone; now that he's done confusing you—"
Max cut in, brutally. "You're out of your mind," he told her. "Go find someone else to pin your crazy dreams on, and sew yourself into a cowhide with them. I'm not interested. I don't want to see you or hear from you. There is no way in God's great hell that I will go with you to Nessa's wedding, and I absolutely, definitely do NOT want to reconcile with you. Goodbye."
"Wait!" she exclaimed, and I heard the sound of her hand stopping the door. "I have a note for you from Nessa."
"I don't want it. I don't want anything from you. Not don't— Just— Goodbye!"
Her voice was cut off by the slam of the door closing.
Max, after a few grunts, groans, sighs, said to himself, "I thought that went *very* well." Then he laughed.
Okay. It was a great piece of eavesdropping; very satisfying to hear. The only thing that would have improved the experience would have been the tablet: I didn't get any of the visual component. Oh well.
And I didn't feel sorry for Amber, not at all. Not one bit.
Now at least I had an explanation for Amber's theft, Amber's purge of my belongings. She wanted to pretend that I'd abandoned Max in exactly the same way as she had — although her idea of Max and Elliot's relationship was way off base. It's funny, though: she must have sensed something between the two of us. It couldn't have been anything sexual or romantic, though. More likely what I represented in Max's life was a connection to reality; a counterweight to her flights of fancy, or delusion, or whatever you'd like to call it.
All that remained now was for me to make my getaway. It needed to be a quiet getaway. I still wasn't ready to face Max, after what I'd done last night.
The opportunity for me to slip out would have to come soon: Max would certainly need to use the bathroom — he had just woken up. While he was in there, it would be simple: I'd run downstairs, slip my dress on, and scoot out along the house's North side, were the windows were few and small, where Amber had hidden last night. A clean getaway. I'd call for an Uber once I was out of sight of the house.
Unfortunately, Max didn't seem to need the restroom. He wandered, almost pacing, between the front door and entry to the kitchen. He fiddled with his phone, muttering to himself. Then he tried to make a phone call. While he waited for an answer, he wandered farther into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, which is just around the corner from the basement stairs. He was less than five feet away from me. I couldn't see him, but I could hear him perfectly. I could even hear the voicemail message he was listening to. I did my best to sit perfectly still and not make a sound. I had to remind myself to keep breathing; for some reason I kept holding my breath. I wanted to brush or comb my hair, even with my fingers, but it would have made some kind of sound and given me away, so I folded my hands together on my lap.
Max hung up the phone and dropped it on the kitchen counter as he continued nosing around in the fridge. Absent-mindedly, he stretched out his arm and reached for the door at the top of the stairs, the door I'd left open, and tried to push it closed. The door wouldn't close, of course; it met resistance in the shape of my ass. I was sitting in the doorway at the top of the stairs. Maybe if I stood up he could close the door and I could remain hiding, but for some reason I couldn't move. I caught myself holding my breath again. Max gave another tug to the door. I covered my mouth with my hands, for no good reason. I still hadn't moved, so neither did the door. Puzzled, Max peeked around the corner and saw me sitting there.
"Hi," I chirped, feeling utterly and completely foolish.
"Hi," he replied, and a sunny smile filled his face. "You're still here! I thought you went home last night. I figured you'd be mad at me. Instead, here you are, doing a lingere ambush! Does this mean you forgive me?"
"For— forgive you?" I repeated, stupidly. "Forgive you for what?"
"For falling asleep while we were making out," he replied, his face reddening slightly. "I figured you'd be furious. I was just trying to order flowers, but the shop's not open yet."
"Flowers?" I repeated. "Max, why flowers? and why aren't you hungover? You were really... last night... so much..."
"I know," he said. "I mean, I know I had a lot. I'd like to blame Tamara, but she didn't put a gun to my head. I'm sorry, I don't have a good excuse. I have bad excuses, like I was nervous with you... about you."
"Don't worry about it, Max."
"You know I don't usually drink — not that THAT is any excuse."
I shrugged and gave a dismissive wave of my hands. His eyes traveled over my body, taking in all the naked skin.
"Oh, and flowers — I was going to get purple hyacinths, if there really is such a thing. Google says it's the flower that says forgive me."
"Oh, Max!" I blurted out. "You don't have anything to apologize for!"
"I fell asleep..."
"No, Max," I blushed crimson with shame. "That's not what happened."
Puzzled, he asked, "It's not?"
"No, I— oh, God. It was me."
"You? What? I don't understand." He scratched his head. "But wait— first, before anything else, why don't you get up from there? You don't need to sit on the floor." He reached down and took my hand. "And you don't need to hide — oh, wait!" His face lit with sudden realization, his mouth open in an oh. "You weren't planning a lingere ambush, were you! You were eavesdropping!"
"I didn't mean to," I protested, while he held my hand and guided me to my feet. I cringed a little at my nakedness, but resisted the urge to cover myself with my hands. My underwear was black, sexy, and lacy, but at least it wasn't see-through. I wasn't utterly naked; I was naked-adjacent. The bra did have a very deep V where Max's eye kept wandering in and getting trapped. He sat me on a stool at the kitchen island.
"I can't put this together," he laughed. "You're nearly naked, but it's not so you can surprise me. Did you have to get undressed to spy on Amber?"
"No, look: I was trying to make a quick getaway—"
"In your underwear?" He chuckled. "So... if you were in a REAL hurry, would you be stark naked? You know, the neighbors tend to notice things like this — naked or half-naked girls running down the sidewalk, or getting into cabs."
"No, I only came up here to brush my teeth..."
"Why not use the bathroom downstairs? Isn't your old toothbrush still down there?"
"Wait. Stop," I told him. "Stop asking questions. You're making me tell it all backwards and inside-out. Max, you make coffee and toast some bread. While you do that, I'll tell the story. From the beginning. But first I'm going to scoot downstairs and put some clothes on."
"Oh!" he said. "Do you have to? Please don't. Please. Can you? I mean, my God, you're so beautiful, and that's a killer outfit—" he grinned at his own joke.
"Max—"
"No, seriously, please? Just sit there, like a goddess, in your— what you're wearing— and tell me what you want to tell me."
"Okay," I acquiesced, turning red as a beet.
Max buttered the toast and poured the coffee and listened while I told him how I kissed him while he slept. Happily, he didn't seem to mind. In fact, he looked delighted, as well as enormously relieved that he hadn't done something to offend me.
Then, I went back a step in my telling to Kass' phone call and the unlocked door downstairs.
"That explains a lot," was his only comment. He look irritated, but not angry.
The bit about Amber's purge of my clothing, though, took us on a long tangent, but in the end we were both inclined to take it philosophically. And we laughed at Amber's crude attempt at painting her theft of my clothes as my abandoning Max.
"She has no idea how weirdly close and far she is from the truth," Max said.
I almost forgot to mention Amber's late-night appearance at the front door.
"Wow, a lot happened last night!" Max exclaimed. "I'm glad I missed it!"
Then, last of all, my dental hygiene dilemma, the baking soda, and Amber's arrival.
"I see," he said, and came up close beside me, wrapping his arms around me and pressing his body lightly against mine. "So you wanted to kiss me," he said. "You wanted it bad enough that you kissed me in my sleep."
He took my chin in his hand, and gently turned my head toward his. He kissed me: gently, warmly, fully. I wrapped my arms around him, and we stayed like that: embraced, kissing, eyes closed, communing. While we kissed, he slowly, tenderly, ran his hands over my back and sides, then down along the top and sides of my bare thighs.
"I love this," he whispered. "You should dress this way more often. As often as you can. Maybe I should hide your clothes, or hire Amber to steal everything but your underwear." He stopped after saying that, as if recalling something. "Wait a sec, don't move." Max opened the pantry, looked up at the letters P, S, V, then back at me. "One of these I'm going to give you now, and one of these I *want* to give you, but it could be a little weird because it was meant for Amber. I'm not sure how it would make you feel."
I shrugged. "How can I know?"
"Let's wait on that one, so it doesn't muddy the water. But this one—" He got the step-stool and lifted down the present with S on the bottom.
"I'll give you this present, but— it's— let's say it's a prize you have to win. To get this present, this prize, you have to guess the right answer to a question I'm going to ask you."
"Okay," I said. Honestly, I was more than a little nervous. I srunched my shoulders together and squeezed my hands between my thighs. Also, I ought to mention that my awareness of, and my feeling toward, my near-nakedness was coming and going. Sometimes I'd forget, and I'd relax as if I were fully clothed; at other moments I'd be vividly aware — especially when Max would look me over. Sitting on the stool made me feel like I was in a shop window, on display. Not that I minded; — well, I did mind a little, but it also felt dangerous and exciting. And after all, it was Max who was eyeing me with intent, and he clearly enjoyed what he was seeing.
"Okay," he said, smiling, grinning, holding the golden gift. "The question is this: will you come with me to Nessa's wedding? Will you be my plus-one? Before you answer, keep in mind that we'll be there for three days and two nights in beautiful Newport, Rhode Island. You'll have to sleep with me; that's part of the deal."
"I guess we'll have time to practice before then." I quipped.
The two of us burst out laughing, and I was red with embarrassment from my soles to my head.
Max shook the box, as if it were bait, and prompted me, "And the answer is—?"
"You idiot!" I fussed, and gave him a soft, playful punch in the arm. "Of course I'll go with you! I'd love to! I want to! Please and thank you, yes!"
"Oh, good," he breathed, pretending to be enormously relieved. "I was afraid someone else had already asked you."
"Oh, Max!"
He set the box the counter and stood behind me, embracing me lightly as I cut the ribbons and ripped away the wrapping paper. The box was eight inches on each side, but it contained mostly paper, festive crumpled paper, and an envelope there in the midst. I took out the envelope and fished around in the paper to see if there was any other loose gift-like elements.
"It's just the envelope," he said. "Look inside the envelope."
"What a novel idea," I joked. The envelope contained a beautifully printed card.
The S, as it turned out, stood for SPA: the card was good for was a deluxe, all-day spa package for two, including soaks, a facial, massage, mani-pedi, and other delights. "Is this for you and me?"
"Oh, no, no, babe!" he said. "This is a girly thing. It's for you and a woman friend — any one you please — so you can pamper yourselves before we leave for the wedding."
"Wow. Thanks, Max!" We hugged and kissed and looked each other in the face, smiling. "You don't mind if I call you 'babe', do you?"
"No... I like it. Do you want me to call you 'babe' too?"
"No, please. Just call me Max."
"Okay, babe." He laughed, shaking his head. "Call me whatever you want."
We kissed some more, and then Max said, "Now I have another question for you. You told me, on this very spot, a few days ago, that you have a problem. Do you remember?"
"A problem? I don't recall—"
He brought his lips close to my ear and whispered, "Are you still virgo intacta?" I nodded. His head was next to mine, pressed softly into mine, so he didn't need to see me nod; he could feel it.
"Yes," I whispered back. "Do you think you can help me? I have heard there might be a cure."
"I'm sure I can help," he said, picking me up in his arms. He carried me as far as the stairs, then red in the face he confessed, "Um, look — it's not as though you weigh anything at all, but um, my back—"
"Say no more!" I said, and wiggling out of his arms, I crouched on the stairs in a runner's pose. "Last one there is a rotten egg!" I shouted, and dashed upstairs, giggling. "You little cheater!" he exclaimed, bounding up, taking the stairs two at a time. I felt his fingers on my hips and sides, trying to get a grip.
I let him catch me before I reached the top step. He fell on top of me and the two of us rolled around, pressed up against each other, until we were too excited to wait any longer, and made our way to the bedroom in the same moment, all tangled up together, all arms and legs and lips and hands.
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
I'll confess -- I haven't had sex very many times, but it was always at night, when the world was already dark. Today was my first time in the light, with the early-morning sun pouring in the windows, illuminating the white bedsheets and brightening the entire room.
And Max -- I've told you Max is a good-looking man, but I'd never seen him like this -- naked torso, leaning over me, smiling, solicitous, eager, yet cautious.
Above all, this was my first time as a woman, as a literal virgin.
Max told me, "You're holding your breath."
"I can't help it."
"It's okay," he said. "Try to relax, remember to breathe. It's going to be okay. We're going to go slow and gentle. Ready?"
It was more than okay. It was better than good. It was a whole new world. To have gone from sex being something I had to perform, to something I could simply receive was a mind-blowing inversion. If that wasn't enough, the vivid, overwhelming sensation of someone inside of me -- my eyes could not have opened any wider. I felt astonished to the very tips of my fingers. I kept forgetting to exhale.
"I wish you could see your face," Max said. "It's incredible! It's so expressive and it's changing every second."
I could only grunt softly in assent.
At first it was frightening, exciting, and exhilarating. Then it hurt, but not massively, and once he broke through, it didn't continue to hurt. Thank God!
I had tried to read up, to know what to expect, but all the kind and otherwise helpful internet pages emphasized that the experience was different for everyone, which drove me crazy. I wanted a preview, not a list of possibilities! But now, I'd had the experience. I got the vaccination. No longer a virgin. It did mean something. It was a step, a big step, for me.
I let out a high-pitched oh! when it happened, and I held on to Max for a bit after that, my arms locked tight around his chest. I asked him not to move; to just stay, joined together, but still. I closed my eyes, recovering, until he said, "Babe, if you want to keep going, I'm going to need to start moving again."
I nodded and opened my arms. After that, it was fun. Awkward fun, but fun. Max certainly knew what he was doing, even if I didn't. Somehow, my past experience was not transferable.
You'd think there wasn't much to figure out, but thinking something and picturing something are not like actually doing something. It was all wonderfully new to me.
We did it.
Which is exactly what Max said when he, glowing with satisfaction, flopped back on the pillow next to me.
"We did it. We finally did it."
"Yeah, we definitely did."
"I think it's safe to say that we broke out of the friend zone," he said, turning his head to look me in the face. "I'm mean, I'm half-joking, but seriously, it's an awkward transition, to go from being friends to being--"
"Lovers?" I offered. "I mean, we are, we will be -- right?"
A little smile played on his lips. "You do want to do it again, don't you?"
"Oh, absolutely!"
"Then we're lovers."
He sat up and kissed me on the stomach. "I was hoping you'd stay last night," he confided, "but then I got drunk and blew it. I was planning on asking you to be my plus-one last night, as well." He sighed, but smiled down at me.
"This morning, not knowing you were here, I felt like an prize idiot. And then Amber came." He shook his head. "Spouting all her crazy bullshit. And I thought All the time I wasted on this woman... and all the time she was talking I was telling myself that I needed to make things right with you. I was going to get some forgive-me flowers, take you up to Sauerbrook Lookout, to apologize and ask you to go out with me, and to be my plus-one."
I smiled back. "That's a nice plan. Although, I think this worked out better." Then-- his mentioning Amber brought something back in mind. "Hey, Max -- didn't Amber say something about a note from Nessa?"
He looked irritated. "Yes, she did."
"What did it say?"
"I don't know. I didn't read it."
"Where is it?"
"She stuffed it in the pocket of my shirt." He gestured toward the floor, where his clothes lay in a crumpled pile. "It's there. But I wouldn't read it if I were you. It's no doubt some wacky shit that Amber wrote, and not from Nessa at all."
"Even so..."
I jumped out of bed and picked up Max's shirt from the floor. He followed my every movement. "I have to tell you, Lorelei: I thought you were beautiful with clothes on, but you're drop-dead gorgeous without them."
"Heh," I responded a little stupidly. I wasn't used to so many compliments.
I drew the note from Max's pocket. It was in a white envelope. The card inside had a printed border of silver scrolling curves. It was about one-and-a-half by three inches. The message was written in black ballpoint: "Can't wait to see your plus-one!" and it was signed "Nessa." I read it out loud, then held it for Max to see. "Is that Nessa's handwriting?"
He shrugged. "Could be. I don't know."
"But it doesn't look like Amber's handwriting, does it?"
Max shook his head. "No, definitely not Amber's."
"Do you know what's weird? This card looks like it's from a set of wedding stationery."
"How is that weird?"
"The envelope is way too big for the card. Which is wrong. In sets like this, every detail is perfect. Thank-you notes fit thank-you envelopes, Invitations fit the invitation envelopes, and so on."
We looked at each other and both of us got it in the same moment: "Nessa sent the note to Amber!"
"And Amber recycled it," I added. "She wanted to nudge you, to remind you that you needed a plus-one."
"Huh," he grunted. "Wouldn't it be ironic if Amber was the one stuck without a plus-one at the wedding?"
"Especially after weedling her way into getting an invite."
I put the note back in the envelope and set it on Max's bureau. Then I realized he'd been staring at me, making me conscious of my nakedness. I blushed. He patted the bed next to him, and said, "Come back here, you. Are you ready to go again?"
I hesitated a moment, and his expression changed to one of concern. "Are you sore? Is it too soon?"
"It's not that," I said. "I am a little... well, sore isn't quite the word, but I'm fine. Could we go again tonight?"
"Absolutely!" Max agreed. "It's not a problem!"
"Silly!" I said. "No, there's something we need to do -- we ought to pick up some condoms, unless you've got some already."
"Condoms?" He seemed genuinely confused. "But... are you saying you can... are you actually -- you can--"
"Yes, of course! What did you think? I'm definitely capable of getting pregnant, so I want to be careful."
He looked at me as though I was insane. "It's a little late for that, don't you think? I mean, a woman can get pregnant the first time. God! If I knew you could, I would have taken precautions."
"Oh, come on, Max, it's okay. I mean, what are the chances?"
"It doesn't matter what the odds are, Lorelei. It only takes one time."
"I know," I said. "But I wanted my first time to be that way. To be like that. From here on, we can be careful."
"Oh, my heart!" Max exclaimed. "You're going to give me a heart attack! I don't know... I just assumed that maybe, I don't know, that the change didn't change... everything--""
"I guess you haven't heard your mother going on about grand-babies, then."
"Grand-babies? God help us!"
I couldn't help it. He looked so genuinely alarmed, that I started laughing.
Max still had his hand over his heart, and he wasn't laughing. "Lorelei, can you just... just let me know as soon as you know, okay?"
"I will. But seriously, Max, don't worry!"
He groaned and shook his head. "And promise me this: make sure you tell *me* before you say ANYTHING to my mother, okay?"
When he mentioned his mother, unbidden the image of Melissa squealing grand-babies! popped into my mind, and I smiled.
"Lorelei, I'm serious! Swear to me."
"Okay, okay! I promise, I swear. Nothing is going to happen, but if on the crazy off-chance something does, you will be the first to know. Okay?"
"Okay," he said, calming down. "But this isn't funny and it isn't a game."
"Okay," I acquiesced. "You're right. But... speaking of your mother... can you drive me to your parents' house? I need to get some clothes, and fix my hair and everything."
In the car ride over, Max asked, "So when are you moving in?"
I turned to look at him. "Moving in? Just like that? You want me to move in?"
He frowned, puzzled. "Yes, of course I do. Don't *you* want to move in?"
"Of course I do!"
"Then what's the problem?"
"I don't know. It's so fast! What are people going to think? Everyone's going to wonder who I am, and where I came from."
Max shrugged. "What's the alternative? Are you going to live with my parents for a year, and then move in?"
"No, that sounds crazy, too." I sat in silence for a moment, thinking. Then, "Max, I would love to move in now, today, but like I said, it just seems so fast."
"It isn't fast at all. We've known each other our entire lives, and until about a week ago, you DID live with me."
I fell silent again, then said, "Max, why don't we do this? While I get dressed and ready, you can invite your parents out to brunch, just the four of us."
"Brunch? Isn't it a little late in the day?"
"No, it's only ten-thirty. We were up super-early this morning."
"That damn Amber," Max muttered, shaking his head.
"Any, the point is, we can tell your parents that we're moving in together, and see how they react."
"And then?"
"And then-- I don't know. I guess I just move in!"
"I hope that makes sense to you, Lorelei, because it doesn't make any sense to me."
"I'm used to relying on your mother's opinion. She's helped me out a lot."
"She's going to love the idea. Her and her grand-babies. You already know what she's going to say."
"True," I admitted. "As far as asking someone's opinion, your mother's the worst. But your dad, on the other hand -- he has no idea what's going on, or why I'm living in his house. I think he's completely bewildered. His opinion is the one I want to hear."
"Poor guy," Max commiserated. "He's in the epicenter of all kinds of craziness, but he hasn't got a clue. Does he?"
"No, he doesn't. He really doesn't."
I changed into a yellow sleeveless gathered dress that ended a few inches above my knee. It was a perfect dress for brunch, being all at once comfortable, cute, casual, and eye-catching. Without a belt it would have hung like a tunic, but the belt gathered it all together into interesting vertical folds and bunches. A pair of big round sunglasses finished off the look.
By the time I arrived back downstairs everyone else was more than ready to go, so after some perfunctory compliments we piled into Paul's car and took off. Max suggested the terrace restaurant at Sauerbrook Lookout, knowing it was one of his parents' favorite places.
The moment we sat down, Melissa leaned forward, eyes gleaming, hands clasped in excitement. She asked, "Should we order champagne?"
Paul, sensing an ambush, turned his head slowly to take in her expression. "Is there something that everyone knows but me?" he asked.
"No, Dad, no," Max assured him, "There's no call for champagne."
Melissa, not missing a beat, quickly followed up with, "Prosecco then. Prosecco."
"That's just like champagne," I pointed out.
Paul scratched his nose, but said nothing.
After the glasses were poured, Melissa raised hers, as if to make a toast. Paul eyed her expectantly, with a little suspicion. "What exactly are we toasting to?"
"What are we toasting to?" Melissa repeated, and appealed to the two of us. "Max? Lorelei?"
"Let's just toast to being together," Max told her, and clinked glasses with his mother.
It was a funny brunch. I mean, funny ha-ha, not funny weird. At times I had difficulty keeping a straight face. Melissa had grand-babies! written all over face, and it was the secret payload to every word that came from her mouth.
At last I threw her a bone. "Melissa, Max wants me to move in with him. Do you think it's too soon?"
I could have, and probably should have, chosen a more opportune time. Melissa let our a whoop! heard in every corner of the restaurant. Paul was sipping his drink, and was so startled by Melissa's outburst that a generous dose of wine ended on his plate. He shook his head and made the best of it.
"Oh, no -- Too early? Definitely not! It's not too early, at all!" Melissa replied. "When, today? Today? I can help. I want to help. I *will* help. Oh, my!" She squeezed herself and let out a more discrete, better-contained squeal.
Paul cleared his throat and asked, "How long have you two known each other?"
Max and I glanced at each other. Neither expected the question. "Uh, a long time," I replied.
"Yes, um, years," Max confirmed, nodding.
"Then why are we only seeing you now? It seemed as though you materialized only a week ago."
Melissa turned her head slowly, dangerously. "Is there a problem, Paul?"
"No, of course not," he replied. "I think Lorelei is a perfectly lovely young woman. She's a delight to have around. She's wonderful company and a welcome guest. But she did just ask our opinions, and I have one or two questions. It's just that... well, I think we've met most, if not all, of Max's friends. They've been over to the house for parties and such. I thought we would have seen Lorelei before now."
"Hmmph," Melissa said in a cagey tone, looking down as she sipped her water. She clearly didn't want Paul to frustrate the flow of events.
"Well, then, tell me, how did you two meet? I'm sure it's a cute story."
"We met through Vivianne, Max's aunt," I told him.
Paul wasn't ready for *that* curve ball. "My sister?" he asked.
"Yeah, good old Aunt Viv," Max replied.
"Well, that's certainly a name to conjure with," Paul muttered.
"Vivianne is friends with my mother," I lied. The lie came as a whole cloth: once I started, it flowed seamlessly out of me. Plus, I felt confident that Viv would back up whatever I said. "The reason you haven't seen me around is that my family lives in Omaha. I met Max when we were growing up, at Elliot's house. Elliot's my cousin, you know. And it's true... I never came to your house, and I wasn't around that much, but as you can imagine, Max made a big impression on me."
Paul smiled and nodded. He reached over and squeezed my hand affectionately. Paul nodded and smiled. I felt as though I'd passed the test. Then he reached over and gave my other hand a squeeze, and I was sure I'd passed.
Melissa and I bagged up my dresses, pants, tops, and outerwear into large clear plastic trash bags, and sealed them with tape. My shoes went into another bag. Melissa lent me a suitcase for all my intimates and pajamas. She had a set of pouches for my cosmetics and toiletries; they went into the suitcase as well. Everything else (meaning my Elliot gear: documents, laptop, and the last existing set of Elliot clothes) went into a cardboard wine box. All told, I didn't have much.
While we bagged up all my stuff, Elliot and Paul carted everything downstairs, one trip after another, and loaded up Paul's car, which Melissa drove. Max and Paul came in Max's car, and the two men hauled everything upstairs to Max's bedroom. I found it enormously embarrassing, and couldn't turn off the redness of my face.
Melissa smiled and gave me a playful hip bump. "Why are you suddenly so bashful?" she asked.
We were standing in the middle of Max's bedroom. It was a BIG bedroom, with a king-size bed. Paul and Max had each dumped a bag of my clothes on the bed and gone back downstairs for more.
"This is, like, a public acknowledgment that we're sleeping together," I told her, turning even more red as I spoke.
"Oh," Melissa cooed. "I understand. If it's that embarrassing, the two of you could just get married. I think *that* would definitely make you feel better." And she giggled. "You know the old phrase, to make an honest woman out of you."
"Oh, Melissa," I groaned. "Stop! Slow down there! You can't just make things like that happen!"
"Oh no?" she countered. "Look--" she gestured around the room, and at my clothes, lying on the bed. "Look! Look where my pushing got you. Huh? Huh?" She poked me in the ticklish spots in my sides.
"You're too much!" I cried, and burst out laughing. She hugged and hugged me. "I will be a great mother-in-law," she whispered. "You'll see! I'll be the best!"
"One thing at a time," I told her.
"Or two, if they're twins!" she quipped. I rolled my eyes and shook my head.
Once all my stuff was in the room, the men went out back to smoke cigars and indulge in "man talk." Melissa helped me organize and put away all my belongings.
"I feel like I'm taking over the bathroom," I confided.
Melissa responded, "That's what we do. We need the space." She nodded three times to emphasize the point.
Once the move was finished, Melissa and I checked the fridge and kitchen cabinets to see what food was on hand, and together we whipped up a cold rice salad, which apparently everyone liked. We heated up a frozen baguette and laid out a small charcuterie plate. Max popped open a crisp white wine.
We ate and drank and talked and sat, and after the sun went down, Melissa and Paul drove back to their house.
I stood in the driveway, watching their car grow smaller in the distance. Max came up and embraced me from behind.
"You look thoughtful," he said, holding me gently. "How do you feel? What are you thinking about?"
"I'm fine," I told him. "And I'm thinking about two things: One is that I'm going to miss the pool at your parents' house, and the other is that I need to talk with your aunt about... things."
"Things? What things?" he asked. "Should I worry?"
"No, of course not. I want to talk to her about the implications of staying Lorelei forever."
"Mmmm. But that's easy, though, isn't it? You don't have to do anything. It's not like the spell wears off or something, does it?"
"No, it's permanent. It's forever. The thing is, what do I do about Elliot? How do I make him go away? I think I need her help on that."
"I get it," he said.
"She's done this before, so... you know."
"Right," he said. Then he bumped his hips against my behind. Then he did again. And again.
"Hey," he whispered in a low, soft, breathy voice. "It just so happens that I have a few of those things you were talking about earlier."
"What things?"
"Condoms," he said. "I'm not quite ready to live dangerously -- at least, not just yet."
As he spoke, I could feel his excitement building. My breath caught in my throat.
"You're holding your breath again," he observed. "Does that mean you're getting excited?"
"Yes," I said, "but you know what? Before we go upstairs, I want to check out that Christmas present-- the one with the P. I've got a feeling about it."
"Oh!" he murmured into my neck, sounding surprised. "That sounds promising! But after the present--" he jiggled his body against mine, a soft, insistent human jackhammer "--we'll see what magic those condoms can provide."
I laughed. "You goof!"
"Okay. Let's go open a Christmas present! I hope you'll like it as much as I do!"
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
Back in the house, Max used a broomhandle to poke and push the Christmas present marked with P, until it fell from the high pantry shelf into his hands.
"Okay, have at it," he said, tossing me the box and grinning wickedly. "Remember, if you don't like it, or it doesn't fit, I'll change it. Or you can pick something else — as long as it's something similar."
I shook the box. It was surprisingly light. He talked about it fitting me, so it had to be clothes, right?
"I'm sure I'll like it," I promised, my eyes fixed on the red ribbon, which I cut, and the golden paper, which I recklessly tore open. When I lifted the lid, the inside was packed with light gift paper crumpled around a smaller, elegant-looking box with the imprint La Perla.
"The Pearl?" I translated.
"La Perla makes lingerie... and stuff," Max explained.
The lingerie in this case consisted of a super-light triangle bra, an impossibly thin Brazilian brief, and a transparent babydoll. Taken together, all three weighed practically nothing. I laid them out on the kitchen island, embarrassed beyond degree. Touching them made me glow red like a stop light, and of course my blushes delighted Max no end.
The bra and panties seemed spun from spider's gossamer into intricate, faint, butterfly designs. In color they were a pale red that rendered each piece shamelessly sexy.
"Do you like it? Do you like them?" Max asked, a little worried. "I can't read the expression on your face."
"Um, they're beautiful," I confessed, "But they frighten me. The expression you see on my face is fear. I'm afraid to wear these."
"Don't worry," Max joked, "wearing them won't make you pregnant."
Though I was looking down at the gift, I didn't miss the way his face went white at his own joke. In all sincerity, wearing those items could definitely make me pregnant, but I wasn't about to toss that joke back to him.
It would have been wonderful if I could have reassured Max that I wasn't in any way pregnant, not even a little. One of those pee-stick tests could maybe set his heart at rest, but it was too soon for that: we'd only had sex that morning.
Max and I fell instantly back into our old routine of living together: he went to the office each morning, and I stayed home. I cooked our dinners. Just like before.
Inevitably, I took on the other household tasks — which I didn't do last time. When I was still Elliot, the cleaning and the laundry were a bit too hausfrau (or hausfraulein, as Claus put it) for me. Now that I physically qualified as a fraulein, I didn't mind doing those traditionally female activities on Max's behalf.
So — In addition to repairs, adjustments, and small improvements (shades of handyman Elliot!). I also, with Melissa's help, got my initiation to the intricacies of sorting laundry (which cycles to use with which pile of clothes), the zen of ironing (and yes, I went so far as to iron our sheets!), and the endless task of cleaning.
"The more you clean," Melissa told me, "the more you'll see that needs cleaning."
"It's a weird twist on Sisyphus," I commented.
"If you say so," she responded.
HOWEVER — and naturally so — the biggest difference from "just like before," was the fact that we were sleeping together; sharing a bedroom and a bed. It was a difference that took a bit of getting used to — more for me than for Max. Being a woman by myself, or with Melissa, wasn't all that different from being Elliot. It was like Elliot with a few fleshy extensions.
Being a woman with Max, on the the other hand, was a complete and utter change. I won't say my world was turned upside down; it wasn't quite that. It was a dramatic inversion, though. I mean, I'd lived with Max before, and in some silly, naive part of my mind I expected things to be more or less the same as they were back then.
In Max's mind, it wasn't anything like that: for Max, a man moved out and a woman moved in. He had a smooth transition from "Hi, Elliot" to "Hey, babe." And the next thing after "Hey, babe" was always a throaty "Come here." I blushed more in the first two weeks than I had in my entire life before. Still, whenever he said "come here" I wanted to go there. His low, sexy voice infallibly evoked a visceral response in me. His wanting me, made me want him.
I didn't mind anything Max did with me or to me — I loved the way he touched me, the way he moved his hands — tantalizingly slowly — up, down, and all over my body. Whenever he slid his hands under my clothes, my desire for him switched on, like a hot, bright light. It was exciting as hell. I never told him to stop or slow down because I never wanted him to stop or slow down.
Still, being the object of that much and that kind of attention — it was a huge realignment, psychologically and physically. Nothing in my life prepared me for it.
And... it apparently lay completely outside my control.
It seemed that anything... everything... I did, aroused Max. I'd get out of bed and walk across the room; his eyes would follow me, then he'd groan and say, Come here, babe, come back to bed. Even if I was doing nothing, sitting and staring out the window, my passive state was enough to get his blood churning. Instead of saying come here, he'd glide over, to lie on me or drape himself over me. Let me hasten to say that it was always good! Afterward, on his part, he might fall asleep, or want to cuddle — or conversely, he'd jump up, charged to the brim with active energy. On my part, I'd often end up empty-headed, stupefied, smiling like a ninny, but in every case, he'd leave me glowing like an ember.
My life was teetering dangerously on the brink of the pornographic.
At the risk of telling you more than you want to know, the two of us were VERY sexually active during the lead-up to Nessa's wedding. VERY active. Max began waking up earlier in the morning and rushing home in the evening. We made a goal of doing it in every room of the house — a goal we soon forgot, since it was what were doing already.
I had no way of knowing this before moving in, but Max was a case study in sexual curiosity, with a vast desire for sexual adventure. I can't describe some of the things we did without venturing into (as I said) indecent prose, but I will say that he loved seeing me naked, making me naked, and in doing things in public that could easily have landed us — or at least me — in jail.
Why am I telling you all this? It's not to titillate you or to excite your prurient interest. I only mention this to give you a measure of the enormous upheaval my life underwent. My first transition — when I'd gone from being a man to becoming a woman — wasn't difficult, either mentally or emotionally. Maybe I was distracted by all the pretty — the clothes, the hair, the makeup, the shoes. Maybe I had so much attentive hand-holding from Vivianne and from Melissa. Maybe it was the nature of Melissa's support: everything was silly, it was fun. She made it all seem much like a game.
This second transition, where I was treated like a woman in a very sexual sense, and frankly, objectified — considered, regarded, and even used as a sexual object or a fleshy plaything, was more fundamental. It penetrated deep inside me. I finally began to understand what Vivianne told me at the start: that I wouldn't simply be playing a part. She insisted that the medallion would turn me into someone else, a different person. Now, at last, I got it: she was right.
But then, who was I now? It was easy to give myself the name, Lorelei. But who was Lorelei? Who was I going to be in future? A housewife? For the rest of my life? An add-on to Max's life? His live-in plus-one? Not that I would mind being either of those things... but the question Who is Lorelei? wasn't a question with an answer as simple as that. I wasn't just Elliot with breasts and female plumbing. I was a brand new human being who never existed before. I was more than the sum of my parts; more than my personal history.
As Elliot, I always had the option of finding a job as a programmer. It wouldn't have been hard, or taken very long. Lorelei could certainly do the work, but as Lorelei, I had no credentials and no CV. I didn't even have a high-school diploma! I was going to have to think about that — I mean, my credentials. Maybe I could earn my stripes by working on open source projects, and make a new name for myself there. Maybe.
I wasn't worried about settling all those questions quickly. I could work them out by living them, the way everyone does. The important thing I'm trying to communicate is my realization that I'd radically changed my destiny, my possibilities, my future.
With all that in mind, I went to visit Vivianne. We had tea, of course, and talked for three full hours. She was pleased by the way my life had developed, and by my recognition of my new personhood.
She gave me practical advice about dealing with my identity as Elliot. I took notes; I didn't want to forget any of it. In particular, she gave me a project to carry out after the wedding that would say goodbye to Elliot "for ever—" or as she said "—as forever as things can be in this world."
In spite of that, she instructed me to keep my last set of Elliot clothes. "You never know; you might have to change back for an emergency."
"Don't throw those clothes away in an emotional moment, or to make a statement, or to draw a line," she cautioned. "But, even if you do, there is still a way to get you back to being Elliot temporarily, if you need to. It's just more convenient to change when you've already got something to wear."
Max and I did the things all new couples do: we had dinner with his parents; we went out on weekends and embarrassed people with our public displays of affection, but mainly we were inside, together, huddled up in bed. It seemed we had a thousand things to talk about, as if we never knew each other before. We watched movies. We tried to jog together and other kinds of exercise together, but it seemed that exercise was the only activity we couldn't share.
"We might try riding bikes together, or kayaking," Max suggested.
"Sounds good," I agreed, and we put it on our sometime list.
One Sunday, Max's parents invited us to brunch at the Ludwig Hotel. "The Ludwig" meant dressing up: Max had to wear a jacket and tie. Melissa bought me a dress for the occasion: a cream maxi-dress with a coral-colored floral print. It was my the first floor-length dress.
"Pretty damn sexy, ma'am," was Max's comment.
"You clean up pretty well yourself," I told him — realizing as I spoke that my remark was nearly enough to get him going. I scurried out of our bedroom and down the stairs before he could say his magic words.
In case you're not familiar, the Ludwig is an old, ornate, high-end hotel. In these parts, it's our Plaza Hotel, our Ritz-Carlton. It's historically imposing, so I was already somewhat cowed when Max led me by the hand into the "tea room," where brunch was served. Imagine how much smaller I shrank on seeing not only our hosts, Melissa and Paul, but the two other guests, Vivianne and her husband Ken.
"Hello, Mr Errison," I said, shaking his hand. Everyone laughed.
"Why does everyone assume I'm an Errison?" he asked in good-natured bewilderment.
"People assume you took my last name," Viv quipped.
"I guess," Ken acquiesced with a small shrug.
"So, what *is* your last name?" I asked him. He told me, and somehow I immediately forgot. I didn't dare ask again.
It was an interesting lunch, though not so much for what was said. Max and I said very little, and not much conversational room was made for us. The "adults" did all the talking, mainly about people and places I didn't know. Max did an excellent job of hiding his boredom, and it struck me for a moment that were I still Elliot, I'd be bored out of my mind as well.
But I'm not Elliot, so there was a lot going on for me. I watched the interactions between the women — Melissa and Vivianne — and the men — Ken and Paul. Vivianne didn't relate to the men as an equal; she behaved as their superior, but in subtle ways. She never contradicted the men, not exactly. She had a way of stating things from a larger, higher point of view. I imagined her standing on a mountain top, seeing the world for hundreds of miles, and describing what she saw to the two men, who sat (as it were) on a comfortable ledge far below.
Melissa, on the other hand, was soft and agreeable. Funny, sometimes silly, but at the same time, surprisingly firm and decided in her opinions and her desires.
At one point near the beginning of the meal, Melissa reached out, placed her hand over mine and gave me an encouraging squeeze. Later, near the end, Vivianne did the same. It gave me a strong sense, that I've carried ever since, that the two women have my back; that they are with me, and want me to succeed and be happy.
Ken, at the start, insisted that everyone have a drink. All of us had a mimosa, except Ken, who ordered an amaretto sour. When the drinks arrived, he said, "I'd like to propose a toast — can I do that? If I may, a toast to our lovely young couple."
Max colored, all the way to his ears. I, for once, simply smiled, said "thank you," and didn't blush one bit.
When we got up to leave, Vivianne gave me a rather reserved hug, and told me, "You two make a wonderful couple. Treasure it. Nurture it."
Back at home, we trudged upstairs to our bedroom so we could change into more comfortable clothes. I was quicker about it than him: Max plunked down on the bed, loosened his tie and unbuttoned the three top buttons of his shirt. He kicked his shoes off and they randomly ended up under his bureau.
I smiled to myself but didn't say anything. My dress was about as easy to take off as Max's tie: being a wrap dress, all I had to do was untie the belt and unwind the dress, like a robe. As I went through the gyrations, I asked him, "I had a good time today at brunch. Did you?"
He shrugged and laughed and rolled his eyes. "It's family," he replied. "For you, it's a novelty. For me, it's the old folks — not that they're old! But you know, they were already adults when we were kids, so they live in whole 'nother world from you and me."
"I guess."
He gave me a cute, conspiratorial smile and said, "You know, I think the reason Dad wanted to do that brunch is because he's curious about your relationship with his sister."
"Vivianne?"
"Yeah. She's not an easy person to know or get to know, and she clearly likes you. That's unusual. I always thought she didn't like anybody."
"She can be a little cold and distant at times," I admitted. Max let out a quick bark of a laugh. "But I like her. It's great having her at my back."
Max replied with a wide-eyed, dubious, whatever-you-say look.
"Anyway, I'm glad she was there," I said. "And FYI — she said we make a wonderful couple, so there!"
"Hey, hey," he protested, holding up his hands in surrender. "I didn't say anything bad about her!"
"Okay," I admitted. "Well! I hope your Dad figured out... whatever it was that he wanted to figure out."
Max rolled his eyes and laughed.
I turned my back to him so I could hang my dress in the closet. As it was a very soft, flowing, loose design, it was no easy feat, making it stay on the hanger. It fell to the floor twice, consequently, I had to bend over twice to pick it up. In the end, I resorted to the expedient of folding it in half and draping it over the hanger.
Red-faced and flustered from my struggles and bends, I turned around to find a look of fascination and hunger on Max's face. I didn't need to look down at myself to know what he was staring at — what he'd been staring at this whole time. I was dressed in a pale peach bra and panty set — a color not far off from my skin tone — and my thigh-high stockings were nude. I still had a short string of pearls around my neck, and a pair of bracelets on my right wrist. I'd already taken off my shoes, so I stood there in my stocking feet.
"Do you want me to help you get out of those clothes?" he whispered.
"You're insatiable!" I breathed.
"Am I?" he asked. "Let's find out."
With a wicked, challenging grin, I shot back, "You'll have to catch me first!" And I ran from the room, shrieking with laughter.
A few odds and ends I need to tell you about before we get to the wedding, all jumbled up together in a short sequence of events:
On the last Thursday in April I went to talk to Melissa. I'd read everything that looked even halfway credible on the web about periods. I'm pretty sure I absorbed all the factual information pretty well, but I wanted to know what it felt like. Not emotionally; at least not so much -- I wanted to know the nuts and bolts of the experience. I wanted to know whether you can tell when it's coming. I wanted to know how bad it could be and how to mitigate the mess. I didn't want to be caught by surprise.
Unfortunately, each and every author finished up by saying "your mileage may vary" or "it's different for everyone" — which, at least to me, negated every single experiential point they'd made. No matter what I read, no matter which video I watched, none of it took away my horror of the idea of being suddenly surprised by an uncontrollable gush of blood. Every time I was out in public, I worried this might be the day.
Also, in spite of the fact that I'd done a number of pregnancy tests, I could tell that Max didn't really trust them. He was waiting for Aunt Flo to visited me. *That* was the proof he wanted. In spite of his sexual appetite, I could feel in his body and see in his face that when he played with me, he felt he was playing with a live grenade. (Except that if *I* exploded, a baby would come out.)
It wasn't a huge issue; it was a subtle, underlying tension, like a soft, almost inaudible soundtrack to our life together. No matter what I said, I couldn't convince him that I wasn't pregnant. For my part, I was sure I wasn't pregnant at all — if I *were* pregnant, I figured I would have to know. Wouldn't I? Max shook his head at that and gave it no credence whatsoever.
Of course, I didn't share any of our mutual anxiety with Melissa at all. I couldn't bear the squeals, the hugs, and the squeezes she'd inflict on me. Unlike Max, if she knew, Melissa would be cheering for the baby.
So, I kept her in the dark. My question to her was just elementary girl talk. And she was, as always, great. Eminently practical. She delivered a very comprehensive Periods 101, or What To Expect When You're Expecting Your Period. After our talk, I felt somewhat relieved, and greatly reassured, but for the first time, I calculated how far out my first period could possibly arrive. With that, I picked up a new worry: the red wave might hit during Nessa's wedding weekend!
My visit to Melissa fell on a Thursday. The next day, which was the last Friday in April, I went food shopping in Town Center. I wasn't in the grocery store long before I spotted Kitty in the aisles. I immediately felt sorry for her and guilty for myself. She used to be such a good friend, but the only time we'd talked since I became Lorelei was her interrogation of me at the mall. I'd replayed that conversation many times in my head, and it was clear that she was trying to be nice; besides wanting to find out who I am, and whether I was special to Max, Kitty wanted to reconcile her friends to each other. Unfortunately, one of those friends is Amber, so... it didn't go well.
I needed to patch things up with Kitty. Even if she had no idea who I am now, we've been friends for far too long. I bit the bullet and approached her.
"Hi, you're Kitty Dahlmann, aren't you? I'm, um, Lorelei Gight — Elliot Beekman's cousin."
She smiled a little uncertainly, and said hello.
"Listen, I got off on the wrong foot with you," I told her, "that time we spoke at the mall. I know you're a good friend to Max and Elliot. Could we try again to sit down together for coffee, as if it was the first time?"
She responded "Yes" — positive and immediate. She was a bit timid with me, but she smiled.
We set our groceries down, told the clerk we'd be back in a bit, and went next door to the cafe.
"First of all," I confessed, "You asked me whether I knew Max, and I made it seem like I didn't. I've known him since I was little."
"Why did you tell me that you didn't?"
"Because I didn't know you. You were asking me dozens of questions, and I'd just had that... experience... with your friend Amber."
"Right," she said. "But... are you just acquainted with Max? How well do you know—"
I cut in, "We're living together. Sleeping together."
"Oh!" Kitty feigned surprise. Even if Amber couldn't come and go like before, she could still spy on the house. I suspected one of our neighbors of being Amber's eyes.
Thankfully, in the conversation that followed, Kitty didn't pump me for information — or at least, she didn't push very hard. She did have questions, but unlike our previous conversation, she unfolded as much of herself to me as I did to her. It was a provisionally friendly give-and-take. The conversation remained very natural and agreeable — up to a point, as you'll see.
She asked why, if I'd known Max and Elliot for so long, she'd never met me.
"Mostly I stayed at Elliot's house or went places with our families when I visited," I told her, "I never went to Max's house." (Technically, that was true: I'd never been to Max's house as Lorelei back then.)
She asked me about Darcy. I told her Darcy is my cousin, which is pretty improbable if you think about it for very long. Vivianne suggested the lie, and said she'd back me up on it. "Cousin is a word that covers many sins," she said. "She doesn't need to be your first cousin. Darcy could be your second or third cousin, to say nothing of removals."
"Removals?" I had asked.
"Do you know the difference between a first cousin twice removed and a second cousin once removed?"
"Uh — I don't know what either of those things are."
"Wonderful! So if someone asks you how Darcy can be your cousin and Lorelei's cousin, remember that phrase, and you'll be home free."
In fact, the first cousin twice removed, etc., threw Kitty for a loop, and she abandoned trying to understand.
Kitty told me how she'd met Claus. She talked about her business — I said, "Yes! You dressed my uncle's house!"
She laughed and corrected, "I staged your uncle's house. He's a really nice man. I hope he likes living in Florida. It's kind of a strange state, I think."
"Oh, he's having a great time!" I enthused. "He loves it down there. He's trying to learn to sail."
"Is Elliot with him?"
That threw cold water over me.
"Yes," I said, as my enthusiasm abruptly cooled. "Elliot's down there, too."
"Is he coming back?" she asked in a gentle tone. She must have perceived the change in my mood, and known she was treading on sensitive ground.
"I don't know," I told her. "I don't think so."
Her face registered genuine surprise. She stammered at the start of her next question. "B—but how— what— How could he not come back? All his friends are here!"
I looked down at my lap. My eyes teared for a moment, but the tears rolled back inside. I looked in my heart, expecting to find an immense sadness, fed by self-pity. Instead I found a cold bitter anger, thick as caramel, bitter as bile.
"Are they?" I asked her quietly. "Are all of Elliot's friends here?"
From the look on her face, I think I scared her. In the moment I was glad of it, but at the same time I knew it was not a good thing. I needed to dial it back, to keep a lid on it.
"Yes," she answered. "Why would you ask that?"
"Because he told me," I said, leaning forward, "that nobody's called him."
"He's only been gone a couple of weeks," she pointed out. "I expected him to come back any day. If he wasn't coming back, why didn't he say goodbye?"
Only a couple of weeks... she was right, of course, though to me it seemed like ages. My anger took a step back, but I pushed it forward again.
"You're right," I admitted. "I guess it seems longer to him."
"Why?"
"Because he feels abandoned."
"Not by me," Kitty insisted, looking a little offended. "Claus and I have always kept in touch."
Damn. That also was true; I couldn't contest it. Anger took a step back; I pushed it forward again. "I didn't know that," I lied. "I guess it was everyone else."
"Elliot never was the most social person. I mean, he stayed holed up at that startup for years, and then he was doing renovations..."
It was true and true. I felt... cheated. I found myself struggling to stay angry. I wanted to start a fire, to burn something down, but every point I made, Kitty canceled out with something reasonable, and even kind. She wasn't even contradicting me; she was telling simple truths.
"Tell Elliot to come back," she said. "Tell him that Claus and I miss him."
"I'll tell him," I promised. Then I tried to resurrect my grievance: "But I don't think he will come back. Ever. Not after the lies Amber told about him. And Max."
Kitty appeared genuinely troubled. Her voice took on a kind, gentle, walking-on-eggshells tone, as if she was verbally defusing a bomb. "Lorelei, how do you know they're lies? I believe everything that Amber said about Elliot and Max. I was happy for them. I was glad they had each other."
"It wasn't true," I protested. "Any of it. None of it."
"How would you know?" she asked. "You weren't here."
"Elliot told me," I insisted. "I believe Elliot."
"Okay," Kitty said. "I understand. Tell Elliot that I believe him, too. Tell him that Claus and I believe him, and that he should come back home."
Another emotion welled up inside. I wanted someone to hold me while I burst into tears. I wanted to howl and cry. But I couldn't. I was so damn angry! I wanted to rage and break things. I've never felt that way before. The two feelings didn't cancel each other out. They rolled and flowed over each other in my heart, in my gut, in my brain.
Kitty reached halfway across the table. She was going to put her hand on mine, but stopped. She intuitively judged it a bad move. And it would have been. I'm not sure how I would have reacted, but it could have gone badly.
I took a deep breath. I didn't want to explode or rage or cry here. I didn't want to let myself fall to pieces in front of Kitty. So I said, "Thanks, Kitty. I will pass that message on to Elliot, and I'm sure he sends you his best wishes."
Kitty smiled. The genuine, open smile of a friend. "Tell Elliot we love him."
I nodded, confused as all hell. I managed to escape without acting out.
I trudged slowly home, experiencing with each step the strangest feelings I've felt in my life. I was angry, sad, weepy, raging. One emotion blended into another, rising and falling as they traded dominance. I barely contained myself until I got home. Max was there. He looked up at me, startled. "Babe, are you alright? What happened to you?" he asked, his voice loaded of concern.
For some reason, that was the final straw, the one that set me off.
"Nothing happened!" I snapped back, aflame with fury. "Why would something happen? Nothing happened, do you understand?"
"Yeah, yeah, sure!" he said, backing off quickly. "Sorry!"
"I need to go to the bathroom." I tried to slam the door shut behind me, but only managed a soft thud.
I stayed closed in a while, and there on the toilet the mystery resolved itself. I felt like a jackass, but at least now I understood what was going on.
When I returned to the living room, feeling much chastened, I said meekly, "Sorry, Max. I'm sorry for blowing up on you." I heaved a great big sigh. "I'm on my period. My period came."
Max jumped to his feet. He very nearly clapped his hands and whooped with joy and relief, but he caught himself in time.
"Oh, babe! Sorry, babe, so sorry to hear it. Anything I can do, tell me." I nodded.
He sat down in his recliner, and said, "Come sit with me — if you want."
I sat on his lap and he held me, wordlessly. Well, mostly wordlessly. As he cuddled me, he whispered, "I've heard that chocolate might help."
I shook my head. "I have everything I need right here."
Then, when he dared, when he felt enough time had passed, judging his moment and taking his chance, Max said, "So! You're definitely not pregnant."
"No, not pregnant," I agreed.
He nodded once, and wisely said no more.
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
After cuddling for a while, I needed to visit the bathroom, and while I was up I decided to check my phone — Elliot's phone, that is. I meant to check it at least once a day in case my father called or texted. Since he usually did neither, I often forgot to check.
This time, however, when I turned it on, I saw he'd sent a photo — a photo of a beautiful day with plenty of sun and a blue, cloudless sky. Dad was "out on the water" as he liked to say, on a long, large sailboat, standing next to a man who held a beer in his hand. The angle was high, typical of selfies. Dad — complete with razor stubble, wind-tossed hair, sun-burned cheeks and forehead — but of course without hat, sunglasses, or (apparently) sunscreen. To make up for all that, his smile was enormous, an expression of unalloyed joy. The man next to him was looking off camera, talking to someone I couldn't see.
Dad happy. That was the theme and the message. It made me smile.
I wrote back, "Looking good! Glad you're happy. Nice selfie!"
Then I added, "Put on some sunscreen," but I deleted it without sending it.
Before I turned my old phone off again, I stood there, alone in my old bedroom, for a single moment, as if waiting for something.
While I stood there, the phone in my hand began ringing. It was so unexpected, I dropped the phone as if it had burned me. It bounced softly on the bed.
Kitty was calling.
I watched the phone ring, not daring to touch it and somehow accidentally answer. A couple of minutes after the ringing stopped, a notification popped up: Voicemail message waiting. I pulled it up and listened.
"Hi, Elliot! This is Kitty. Haven't seen you in a while. Hope you're okay. Claus and I miss you, guy! Give us a call — or better yet, come back home. See you soon! Love ya!"
I listened to it a second time, considered sending a text reply, but instead shut the phone off and put it back in the bedside table.
When I returned upstairs, Max's voice came to me from the living room. Seems he'd gotten a phone call as well, and was near the end of the conversation. I heard him say "okay, bye" a couple of times, followed by "See you then! Great!" He ended the connection as I entered the room.
He looked up at me. "That was Claus. He and Kitty invited us over for dinner tomorrow. Is that okay with you? Sorry I didn't ask you first, but I can make an excuse if you don't want to go."
"No, it's fine," I told him. "I saw Kitty today. We had coffee. She's trying to be friends."
"Good," he said. His eyes searched my face. "That *is* good, isn't it? You want to be friends, don't you?"
"Yes, of course. It's just the Amber connection that bugs me sometimes."
Max nodded. "I understand. But try to forget about Amber. I don't want her living in my head or yours."
"Right," I agreed, but I felt like Amber had a sort of secret basement-door entrance to my mind that I didn't know how to secure.
The next day was Saturday. Max brought me along to his favorite wine store. "There's this guy Gus who works there," Max told me. I could see he was getting a little — well, not excited exactly, but enthusiastic.
"Gus?" I repeated. "Is he an old guy?"
"Naw. He's actually younger than us. I don't know where he got the old-timey nickname. Anyway, he's one of the buyers, and he's my main man when it comes to choosing wines."
"I thought you knew all about wines, all by yourself."
"No," he admitted. "I know a fair amount, but most ordinary people like me have at least one person they rely on to point out what's good. Gus is one of the buyers, and he gets to taste every wine they sell."
"Lucky Gus!"
"Yeah." Max turned and looked at me for so long that I exclaimed, "Eyes on the road! Eyes on the road!"
He turned his attention back to his driving. "So listen," he confessed, "I wanted to you to come so I could show you off a little. Do you mind?"
"You want to show me off to Gus?"
"Yes, do you mind?"
"Uh— I guess it's okay, as long he doesn't ask to look at my teeth or in my ears."
"In your— at your—" Max stammered, not understanding. "What are you talking about?"
"I mean that it's fine, as long as it doesn't get weird."
"Okay. You could have said *that* instead of the thing about the teeth and ears. You make it sound like you're a horse or something."
"Right. That was the joke."
"Ah. Okay. Good joke."
Meeting Gus didn't take very long and it wasn't weird at all. He was a very young man, maybe five years younger than us, but very professional. He shook my hand and kept his eyes on my face — at least while I could see him. Max told him that he wanted a Cote du Rhone that we could pretty much pop open and drink. Gus tried to sell Max something else instead, but Max insisted. "Look, Gus, you know I trust you implicitly, but our host specifically asked for a Cote du Rhone."
"What are they making?" Gus asked.
"Dunno, man. Can you just point to a bottle and we'll be on our way?"
Gus reached out, snatched a bottle from the rack, and set it in Max's hands. The two saluted each other and laughed. We paid and left.
Once we were back in the car, Max told me, "Gus was VERY impressed."
"I'm glad," I replied. "How do you know?"
"Gus is a master when it comes to subtle signals," Max confided with a grin.
"If you say so!"
At that time, Claus and Kitty were living in a small, two-bedroom bungalow on the edge of town. "It's temporary," Kitty explained. "We bought a fixer-up that's not too far from you guys. We're renting this place for the duration of the renovation."
"Still," I said, looking around me, "and I know it sounds cliché to say it, but I love what you did with the place! You really have a gift for making a house look homey!"
"Thanks," Kitty acknowledged, clearly pleased by the recognition of her skills. "I love my job. It's my creative gift, you know? To look at a place and visualize what it needs to make it comfortable and welcoming — without moving walls or hanging chandeliers."
Claus, who seemed a little wired, tugged on Max's arm. "Max, come, come — let's get that wine open. Do you think it needs air? We could decant it if it needs air." He led Max into the kitchen.
"Is Claus cooking?" I asked.
"Yes," Kitty replied with a smile. "That's why he's so anxious. He loves it, but he works himself into a tizzy every time. So far it's always come out fine. Well, actually, better than fine. Since he started, even from the beginning, he's been making amazing meals."
"Is this a new thing for him?"
"Oh, yes! Pretty new. He was insp— no, wait. I'd better let him tell you the story. Otherwise, you'll end up hearing it twice. He can't *not* tell it."
I smiled politely, and found my eyes drifting toward a large painting that hung near the front door.
"Oh, isn't that lovely?" Kitty said, following my gaze. "I picked it up for a song at a flea market in Anderville. I don't know anything about it, but I've put it in a lot of homes I've staged."
"So you don't know who painted it, or anything?"
"No, nothing. Sorry! But you're welcome to try to decipher the signature. It's that wormy squiggle in the lower right."
I walked closer. At first I couldn't find the squiggle. Then — "is that it?"
"Has to be!"
I squinted, I bent close, I used my phone's camera as a magnifying glass, but no joy. It was an impenetrable mystery.
"And it's not on the back?"
"Nope," Kitty replied. "I don't understand it. If I were a painter, I'd make damn sure my signature was legible. Scribbling an illegible splat is worse than not signing it at all."
As it turned out, the painting was a copy of a well-known French Baroque piece by Poussin called Et in Arcadia Ego. I only know because I looked it up through an internet image search. And I only mention it because it says something about Kitty, I think. There is something to say about the pastoral scene and the name of the painting... It's a little morbid, I think, a memento mori. What it says about Kitty is that she has an unerring eye for beauty and harmony, but her interest doesn't go deeper than the appearance. I mean, if that painting was on my wall, I'd be able to talk about it.
"Or maybe," Max offered, when I told him all this later, at home, "Kitty knows all those things that you just said, but she also knows that it's a downer. See, the painting is just four people hanging out somewhere out in the country — which is very nice. But you want her to point out that they're lounging over a tomb, and that the painting is a reminder that we're all going to die?"
"Yeah," I conceded. "When you put it like that..."
In any case, back to the dinner: Kitty and I talked easily, without any awkwardness or pauses. We chit-chatted about nothing in particular. All very easy and polite; all very surface. Until Kitty confided, "I'm glad you came tonight, Lorelei. You know, each time I met you, I felt like I was treading on your toes the entire time — without meaning to, of course! And somehow I couldn't find a way to stop." She smiled at me and I smiled back. "I'm glad you're giving me another chance."
"Thanks," I said. "On my side, I don't think I've been very nice to you, myself."
"So!" Kitty declared, "Let's start off from zero! Now, today. I hope we can be friends."
"I hope so, too!"
Right on cue, Claus stuck his head out of the kitchen and announced that dinner was being served. Kitty and I went into the dining room, where Max was pouring glasses of red wine.
Claus quickly set a sort of low, plate-sized bowl, filled with food, in front of each of us. Each serving seemed about half a chicken, fricasseed to a red-golden color, adorned with small white onions and sliced mushrooms. It smelled heavenly. Obviously, it smelled like chicken, but the herbs, wine, mushrooms, and all combined to a very full-bodied aroma. If I were a food critic I'd say it was earthy and aromatic. I'm not, so I'll just say that it smelled incredibly good.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you coq au vin!" Claus declared with a sweep of his hand. "And here—" he set two serving bowls in the middle of the table "—parsley potatoes and buttered peas."
It not only smelled heavenly, it tasted incredible as well. The chicken was cooked perfectly. Tender, juicy, full of flavor. The little onions were delicious little flavor-balls. It makes my mouth water, just remembering that meal.
"Where did you learn to cook like this, Claus?" I asked.
Max, after a discrete swallow, declared, "You have to give Lorelei the recipe!"
"You shall have this recipe and 500 more!" Claus laughed. "It's from Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. I'll get you a copy."
"Claus is working his way through the book," Kitty explained. "Like Amy Adams in Julie and Julia."
"Oh, I liked that movie!" I exclaimed.
"Except that I'm taking my time and savoring the experience," Claus said. "I do maybe one recipe a week, and sometimes I repeat a dish if I feel I didn't get it right."
"Isn't that what the woman in the movie did?"
"No, not at all! In the movie, and in her real life, she did ALL the recipes in the book in one year, in a little kitchen. There are more than 500 recipes in that book. So that's almost two dishes a day."
"She had a blog, right? And didn't Julia Child turn up her nose at it?"
"Yes and no. Not exactly. Do you know what it was that Julia Child didn't like?"
"That it was a blog?"
"No, not at all. What she didn't like is that Julie Powell seemed to concentrate on the effort and the difficulty, but not the results. She didn't say what the dishes looked like or smelled like, or — worst of all — what they tasted like."
"She didn't?"
"This is what I've heard," Claus admitted. "I haven't read her book or her blog. But I have read Julia Child, and what she says is this: All the techniques employed in French Cooking are aimed at one goal: how does it taste? That's the thing. If it didn't taste exceptional, what would be the point?"
"And this is exceptional!" Max enthused. "What about the wine... did Julia Child suggest the pairing?"
"Mais oui," Claus replied. We toasted Julia Child, Claus (our chef), the meal, and Kitty (our hostess).
After we'd eaten and drunk and chatted enough to relax with each other, Kitty turned to me.
"It's remarkable how much you look like Elliot. You must hear that a lot."
I smiled and shrugged. Elliot, after all, was supposed to be my cousin.
Now that the meal had come off as well as it had, Claus was very visibly relaxed. Relaxed and expansive. He loosened up his shoulders and, leaning to one side, threw his arm over the back of his chair. "Speaking of Lorelei's resemblance to Elliot..." Claus intoned, "Did you know — did you know that Amber advanced the theory that Lorelei is actually Elliot?"
Max laughed, and playing along, asked, "Elliot? In disguise? Or does she think Elliot ran off and had some quick operations?"
Claus mugged and shrugged. "She didn't specify. This is one of her emotional perceptions. I'm sure you know what I mean."
Max snorted and rolled his eyes. Kitty gave Claus a guarded look.
"Amber, confounds us; she doesn't offer any proof or reasoning. In fact, she says that her assertion doesn't need to be literally true, so she's taken a lot of latitude for herself there."
I was pretty surprised to hear Claus talk about Amber in this way. He wasn't drunk, as far as I could see. He was at home, relaxed, among friends — and maybe he wasn't afraid of Amber, the way I was.
"So, she believes that Elliot somehow magically turned in Lorelei?" Max prompted, playing dangerously near the truth. I felt a little uneasy — but just a little. I wanted to fire a glance that said quit it! in his direction, but I had no doubt that Kitty would see. Claus went on.
"One of Amber's so-called proofs was that if you rearrange the letters of one name, you arrive at the other — which is both absurd and incorrect." He took a sip of wine. "Even if it were so, it would prove nothing."
I sat up straight and blinked a few times. Kitty said, "Claus..." in a warning tone, but he ignored her.
Max leaned back in his chair and watched Claus, as if Claus were a comedian, or an actor reciting his monologue.
"Of course it's impossible for the lovely Lorelei to be Mr. Elliot in disguise! Any fool can see that! Elliot's head is much bigger. His shoulders are wider. His hips are narrower. His feet are bigger. He is taller. Along with a thousand other differences."
"Claus—" Kitty tried again to derail him, her tone a big more dangerous now, but Claus, now on a roll, was nearly impossible to stop.
"Let him go," Max told her, amused.
"Does this bother you?" Kitty asked me, her hand on my arm.
"No, not at all," I answered truthfully. I wondered, honestly, how close Amber — or even Claus — could possibly come to the improbable truth about who I was.
Claus went on. "I, on the other hand, have a premise — or if you'd rather, we can call it a fantasy: Suppose for a moment that this, our lives, is a movie, perhaps a rom-com, perhaps a sci-fi — or perhaps even a rom-com sci-fi. And in this formulation, we discover that you, Lorelei, are the product of a very advanced laboratory, situated of course in Omaha, Nebraska. And what does this laboratory do? It does nothing but churn out clones of Elliot Beekman, clones that come in every age and gender, from the little Darcy, to—"
"Why would anyone do that?" I asked him.
"Why? Why? See, you do very well to ask why? It shows you're already hooked: you continue watching because the why is the core of this film, of this TV series. Arriving at the why of it is the raison d'être of this work. Certainly they do it because they can, but it doesn't stop there. You see, at first we're confused. Then we begin to understand. And then... the twists! One twist after another! Naturally, we'd start off thinking Elliot was simply Elliot. Then, once we learn about the clones, we assume that Elliot is the original, but only because we met him first. Perhaps in reality it's Lorelei who is the original, and Elliot one of the clones. Elliot is now in hiding — or perhaps his search for answers has led him to Florida, where his father provides some helpful, albeit puzzling, information. In any case, he has grown suspicious of the Omaha laboratory's motives."
"This is a VERY elaborate fantasy!" I exclaimed.
"And it's beginning to sound like Orphan Black," Max observed.
"Yes," Claus admitted. "The more I go along, the more it sounds like Orphan Black. Oh, well. In my head it all seemed far more engaging and fantastical." He looked down at the table, thinking, twisting his mouth one way and the other, and then, with a sharp intake of breath, he abruptly sat up straight and asked, "What about music?"
What about music?
No one knew what the make of his question, coming as it did out of nowhere, so he explained. "Nessa's wedding, you know, the music — she asked me to set up a playlist. Would you like to have a little preview? Not the whole thing, of course — just one or two songs?" There was a general vague assent, since we were all still bewildered by the recitation of his Elliot-clone fantasy. Not seeing the reaction he hoped for, Claus asked me directly, "Lorelei, do you like to dance?"
"I don't know... I haven't danced..." I replied, a little lamely.
"Of course! You're a clone, so all experiences are new to you!" He winked. "Let's try then!" He fiddled with his phone for a bit. Then saying, "At the wedding, this will be the first number everyone can dance to, and it's a foot-stomper." A speaker in the next room kicked into life with the old Chuck Berry hit C'est La Vie. Max slapped the table and began tapping his foot. Kitty smiled. She nodded and swayed with the infectious beat. Claus stood and held out his hand to me. "Let's cut a rug, sugar!" he cried. After a glance at Kitty, who nodded and said, "Go on," I stood up and danced with him.
Claus danced well. Really well. He had all the swing-dance whirls and throws. I've never been much of a dancer, but Claus made me feel like Ginger Rogers. He led me, he twirled me, he put his hand on my waist and rocked me... He made it all so easy. At first I was awkward, but once I let him take control, he tossed me around like a ragdoll. It was wild and fun.
When the song ended, we sat back down. "I really like that song," I said. "Thanks for that, Claus."
"You're all red-faced and out of breath," Max observed. I nodded, grinning.
There was no dessert and no after-dinner drinks. Instead, we took a walk around the block. It was a nice way to end the meal and the evening. The streets were quiet and the air was cool. The four of us sauntered at an easy pace.
Max and Claus walked ahead; Kitty and me behind. They weren't very far ahead of us, but we couldn't hear their conversation, and I'm sure they were both too busy talking, they couldn't hear us at all.
"This was nice," Kitty declared. "I hope you had a good time. I hope you'll want to come back." She paused and gave me a remorseful look. "I apologize for Claus and his whole clone fantasy-thing — he goes off on these things... I try to hold him back, but— it's like — you know the old vinyl records? Claus is that way: you put the needle at the edge of the record, and it doesn't stop until it plays all the way through."
"It's fine," I said. "I know he means well."
Kitty shrugged helplessly.
"There's one thing, though — how does he know that I'm from Omaha?"
In case you've forgotten, Omaha is where the real Lorelei's mother ended up, so that's where me, the fictitious Lorelei would have grown up.
Kitty stopped short. "Oh," she said. "Crap. Looks like I'll be stepping on your toes again." She frowned.
"No, no — I'm just curious. It *is* where I grew up, but... it's not just a coincidence, is it?"
"Remember my friend Amber?" Kitty asked, "You know she dated Max for a couple of years, and, um, I guess it's safe to say that she's obsessed with him."
"So... Amber's been checking up on me? Why? What does she hope to find?"
"Yeah. Sorry. I admit... I mean, Amber's always been my best friend, and she's a wonderful person, but this thing about Max is just off the rails. Claus and I have been trying to, um—" she paused and took a deep breath.
"Trying to what?"
"Trying to get her to see someone."
"Like a therapist?" I figured therapist didn't sound as drastic as psychiatrist.
"Right. So, she figures with Elliot gone, she had a clear path to Max, but then *you* appeared."
"So she wants me out of the way?" I laughed. Kitty shrugged in assent.
"You don't think she'd actually try to hurt me, do you?"
"No," Kitty sighed. "I think it's all in her head and what comes spilling out of her mouth. I will say she's started to get distant from Claus and me. We stopped listening to her crazy talk, and that really pissed her off. It's hard."
"You mean... it's hard to lose your friend?"
"Yeah."
We trudged in silence for a few yards.
"Anyway," I said after a bit, "I had a great time tonight. The food was amazing! And, you know, you and Claus are an incredible couple. I've never seen two people who suit each other so perfectly."
"Thanks," she acknowledged. "Of course, we have our ups and downs, but we clicked pretty much from the start, and we've never un-clicked."
"That's very rare and nice," I said.
"We're soul mates," she said. "I know some people don't believe there are such things as soul mates, but I've found mine."
"I believe in soul mates," I told her.
"You know what?" Kitty confided, linking her arm through mine. "I've never met another couple that seemed to mesh the way Claus and I do — except for one: you and Max."
I turned to look in her eyes. I saw the sincerity there, but I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say.
"You know, Max and Amber dated for a few years, and I had hopes for them." She was silent for a moment, pondering. "She used to say they had a shared destiny. But... This is hard to say, because she and I were really close. The thing is, she and Max never had anywhere near the kind of closeness and understanding that you and Max have. Your cousin Elliot used to say that me and Claus were an irreversibly covalent molecule — it took me a while to memorize that phrase — but it means a bond that, once it's made, is impossible to break. I think you and Max are like that, too."
"Here's to being a molecule!" I said.
"Yeah," Kitty agreed. "It's a wonderful thing."
We walked in silence for a while then, watching Claus' animated conversation and Max's laconic replies.
"I'm glad those two are such good friends," I said.
"I hope you and I can be as well," Kitty proposed.
"I think we can — we will be," I replied.
"You know," Kitty said in a tentative tone, "after we spoke yesterday, I tried to call Elliot. But he didn't answer. Have you talked to him lately?"
"It's been a while," I confessed. Then, after a pause, I told her, "I think I've let Elliot down somehow." I'm not sure why I said that, but I felt it in my heart.
"Me too," Kitty said. "I think that we all have. I should have listened to him better."
We took a few more steps in silence. Her arm was still threaded through mine.
"Do you have his Dad's number?" she asked. "I did some work for him; I think he liked me. I think he might talk with me."
"Oh," I said, and felt my open, warm feelings halt with a sense of dimay. Kitty sensed the change; she looked me in the face. "I've stepped on your toes again, haven't I?"
"I don't know," I said. "Don't worry about my toes. Just... let me ask first, okay? I think Elliot's... I think he's off the grid for a while, licking his wounds. I'm sure he'll come back when it's time."
"Do you think so?" she asked. "I hope so. If you talk to him, tell him that he absolutely cannot disappear. We love him."
"I know," I said. "I feel that."
"I swear," Kitty told me. "Claus and I have already talked — if he doesn't give some sign of life, we're driving down to Florida to find him."
I nodded. There was nothing I could say.
Okay. One last thing, the absolute last thing, and then I'll tell you about Nissa's wedding.
On the drive home and in our bedroom after we'd arrived home, Max and I shared our perceptions of the dinner with Kitty and Claus.
Max had enjoyed it — the food and the company — maybe even more than I did. He liked Claus a lot, and in a different way than he like me — me as Elliot, I mean. Claus was expansive, fun... maybe a little nuts, but that was part of who Claus is, as a person.
The central thing, the big feeling, the important part, is that both Claus and Kitty have good hearts. Sure, they were bamboozled by Amber — and probably still are, to some extent, but Kitty and Amber have been friends as along as Max and Elliot. You can't just throw that away.
When I told Max about Amber checking into my past, he dismissed it out of hand. "If you're worried about that, talk to my Aunt Viv," he said. "She's hella devious, and I don't think she'd give you a life with holes in it."
"I guess not," I said.
"Besides, you have to quit worrying about Amber. It takes two to tango — if we don't play her game, all her crazy schemes will just die on the vine."
"Way to mix metaphors," I commented.
"Huh?"
"Nothing. I guess you're right."
"Don't give that woman any space in your brain. If you find yourself thinking about Amber, change the subject. I did that for a while, and now I don't think about her at all."
"Okay, I said. So, pink clouds, angels, unicorns..."
"Whatever," he agreed, laughing. "Come here," he murmured, and pulled me into a hug. We snuggled and rocked together, standing close, leaning into each other, until I broke off so I could get ready for bed.
"Oh, there was one other thing..." I hazarded, and told him about Kitty wanting my Dad's phone number.
"Hmmph," he said. "That's not good."
He showed even more concern when I told him Kitty and Claus talked about heading to Florida, if they didn't hear from Elliot.
"Don't worry," I said. "Your aunt has a plan, a little project for me, for after Nissa's wedding. It's a send-off for Elliot. It's something I have to do... alone, I guess. I don't think you want to be part of it."
His mouth twisted in a lopsided frown.
"Anyway," I continued, "after that, I'm all yours... if you want me."
"Forever Lorelei?"
"If you want me," I said. "but even if you don't, I'm Lorelei, for good."
"Good," he said. "Just quit with that if you want me talk, okay?"
I nodded.
"So... is Elliot going to send Kitty a text, to keep her happy and here?"
"Uhhh," I replied, in a tone of uncertainty.
"What does that mean?" he asked, a little sharply.
"It means I'm not sure, but probably not."
"You're not going to send a text? She'd quit worrying and quit planning to go find you. Find Elliot."
I sighed. "Look, I stalled. There's not enough time for them to go to Florida and back before Nessa's wedding."
"You stalled? How did you stall?" Max sounded a little testy.
"I told her that Elliot was off the grid." Max frowned. "I said he was licking his wounds." Max's eyebrows went up at that.
"Licking his wounds?" he asked, incredulous.
"Yeah, licking his wounds," I shot back, defensive.
"Elliot has wounds to lick? What wounds does Elliot have? What about Max?" he asked. "What about me? Don't *I* have wounds to lick? I think all this crap mainly came down on me."
"I think you came out of it pretty well!" I told him, hotly.
"Oh, do you?"
"Yes, I do!" I nearly shouted. We glared at each other for a few moments. Then I said, "Look at me, Max. Look at me." I sniffed. "Look at me and tell me you didn't come out of it pretty well."
His expression softened. "Yeah," he said. ."I did. I did come out of it pretty well. Did I ever thank you for what you did?"
"Not in so many words," I replied, "but yes, you've thanked me over and over, in many ways."
"Well, thank you. In so many words." He smiled. "I hope you feel like you came out of it pretty well. Didn't you?"
"Yes," I said. "I do. And I don't know why we're fighting. I really like the way things are now."
"Me, too," he said. "We're fighting because we're passionate people. We're fighting because we care."
"Oh, fuck you," I laughed, and ran into his open arms.
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
On the drive down to Newport, Rhode Island, Max and I had a comically confusing conversation. We were at cross-purposes about where we were staying during Nessa's wedding weekend. It was comical to Max, but confusing to me.
I won't give you the blow-by-blow, but if I did, every "blow" would be a swing and a miss. By way of example, when Max breezed by Bellevue Avenue, my head jerkily tracked the turn that was there... back there... way back there. "Max, you missed it."
"Missed what?"
"The turn for the Newport mansions — Bellevue Avenue was that turn, back there..."
"Did you want to see them now?" he asked. "I thought we could check in, relax, take it easy before the big dinner tonight."
"Check in? How can we check in?" I asked, gesturing lamely off... in that direction... behind us on the left.
"How can we check in?" he repeated. "You've been in hotels before, right? We walk up to the desk, we say hello, we have a reservation, etc., etc."
"It's the same?" I asked.
"The same as what?"
Bewildered, I said, "The same as a regular hotel."
He gave me a strange look and replied, "It *is* a regular hotel."
"Oh, I didn't know that," I said.
"Are you okay?" Max asked.
"Yes, I'm fine. I just don't understand..."
Max grinned. "I'm sorry, I forget sometimes that you're a clone. This is all new to you, isn't it," he teased.
"No, Max, I can't understand how we can check into a... hotel... or whatever, if we're driving away from it."
"We're not driving away from it. We're driving toward it."
It wasn't until we pulled up in front of our hotel that I finally got it. "Ohhhh! We're not staying in one of the mansions?" I asked.
After all the talk of "destination wedding" and "Newport mansions," it seemed quite natural to assume that we would be staying overnight in one of them.
"Are you kidding?" Max scoffed. "All of us? It would cost a fortune! I don't think they even allow ordinary mortals like you and me to sit down, let alone sleep over. Not even my Aunt Viv could wrangle a night in one of those places. It's like staying overnight in a museum."
After a pause, Max conceded, "Nessa is getting married in one of the mansions, but even then, I'm pretty sure the reception and all the dancing and whatnot will be outside, on the grounds."
"But... I had the idea that Nessa was staying someplace... someplace with Castle in the name, I forget what it's called."
"Yeah, Nessa and her maid of honor, they're staying somewhere special and a little apart, but not in a mansion. Not even them."
"And Tag?"
Max sighed. "I'm pretty sure Tag and his boys will be out all night, in a last-minute bar crawl."
"Hmmph. Hope he'll be in shape for the wedding."
"Heh. All he has to do is show up, stand there, and smile."
"And not throw up or faint," I added.
"That, too," Max acknowledged. "If he forgets his one line, the minister will feed it to him."
I considered all this in silence for a few moments. For two weeks I'd been looking at pictures of the mansions and wondering what it would be like to wake up there. I kept meaning to ask Max which one we'd be be staying in, but hadn't gotten around to actually asking.
Max reached over and squeezed my hand. "Don't worry, this is a very nice hotel. You'll like it. As an added bonus, most of my family is here, so you'll get to meet pretty much everybody in one shot. And don't forget, your pals — Aunt Viv and my Mom — will be there, in case you need backup."
"And you'll be there," I added.
"And I'll be there," he repeated.
I didn't dare ask whether Amber would be there. I didn't want to hear Max tell me yet again to forget about Amber. Unfortunately, there was no way to evict her out of my head or to shake the feeling of impending doom. To quote Obi-Wan, I felt a great disturbance in the Force. In his case, it was a planet dying. In mine, it was Max's crazy ex scheming.
Then another name occurred me — or... not a name, but another person, someone I could ask about. "Hey, Max, is that, um, cousin of yours coming? I don't know her name... the wild girl that—"
"Oh my God," he said, interrupting. "Yes. Delphine will be there. We'll see what crazy shit she'll pull this time. Someone else's wedding is the perfect platform for her shenanigans. At a moment when all the attention is supposed to focused on someone else, you can be sure Delphine will do something outrageous and steal the show." He blew out a big breath of air. "Well! We'll have to keep our distance, stay at arm's length, so we don't get sucked in, or immortalized in infamy by being included in an embarrassing video." He glanced at me and saw my amusement. "You can laugh now, Lorelei, and you can you laugh afterward — but if you want to laugh while she's raising hell, you need to be well out of striking distance. It's only funny if it happens to somebody else, and sometimes not even then." After a momentary silence, he added, "Listen: if you happen to be anywhere close to her and you notice that she has a maniacal grin, don't even bother to make an excuse. Just get the hell out of there. You'll thank me later."
Max had such an earnest, almost fearful expression, that I burst out laughing.
"You'll see," he warned. "You'll see."
The hotel was nice — that's all I need to say about it. It seemed anticlimactic after my visions of the mansion, but it was perfectly fine. Everything clean, well-appointed; the staff was uber-professional. Our room was great; high up, with a view of the harbor. I was nervous, though. Nervous because I had a surprise planned for Max that night, and nervous because I'd be meeting all his closest family, all at once. Up till now, I'd only met his parents and his Aunt Viv. Or so I thought.
Tag's parents sprang for a dinner in one of the hotel's conference rooms. The room was filled, nearly wall-to-wall, with tables for four. The overall impression was white tablecloths as far as the eye could see.
"This must have cost a fortune," I murmured.
As we commandeered an empty table, Max pointed toward the door with his chin and said, "Hey! Look who's here!"
"It's Robin and Lana!" I exclaimed. Max happily waved them over.
Robin is a tall, geeky, gawky, fun and friendly guy. He has a mop of thick, straight, dark brown hair, a nose that's slightly oversized, big feet, and long, spidery fingers. He's very outgoing and engaging.
Lana is a good six inches shorter than Robin, even in heels. Melissa always described Lana as "big-boned" — I think she was trying to be kind. Lana is a big girl. She's also a fiercely intelligent and successful lawyer. Robin is some sort of engineering consultant, although no one seems to know exactly what that means. "Don't worry about it," Robin always says. "It's too hard to explain."
The four of us were friends in high school.
Max and Robin greeted each other enthusiastically, agreeing that it was "great to see a face they knew" and that they "no idea who anyone else in the room was." Lana and Max hugged each other. I was on the other side of the table, suddenly realizing that — as Lorelei, I'd never met either of them. I'd have to feign ignorance. Apparently, Max had forgotten that I was supposed to be a stranger, and he didn't catch the head gestures Lana was making in my direction, clearly asking Max to introduce us.
At last Lana, exasperated, exclaimed, "Max, who is this exquisite creature?"
"Oh," he said, turning to me, "You know Robin and Lana." I bit my lower lip and shook my head.
"No, she doesn't!" Lana scoffed. "How could she possibly know us?" Reaching her hand across the table, she said, "Hi, I'm Lana Knockwell and this is my husband, Robin McLanahan. He's the brother of the bride." Robin, grinning, extended his hand.
"I'm Lorelei Gight," I told them.
Lana scrutinized my face. "You must be related to Elliot Beekman. The resemblance is just uncanny!"
"He's my cousin," I explained.
"Is he here?" Robin asked. "I haven't seen Elliot in forever!"
"He's visiting his father down in Florida," Max informed them.
Which reminds me: I had a third reason for feeling nervous. My dad was coming up for a visit. Vivianne had planned for it, though I didn't expect it to happen so quickly after Nessa's wedding.
Dad's visit, in Vivianne's plan, filled two purposes: one was to publicly say goodbye to Elliot, and the other was to explain my new situation to my father. The idea was that I'd return to being Elliot for an evening so I could call my father on the phone to invite him up. Instead, my father jumped a few moves ahead by sending me a text yesterday. A telegraphic, all-caps, text:
COMING TO SEE YOU WED. PLANE LANDS 11:05AM. PICK ME UP?The message seemed uncharacteristic, almost as though someone else had written it. Then again, texting itself was uncharacteristic for Dad.
I texted back,
Sounds great! See you then!and he responded by sending his flight details.
So... that was behind the horizon, soon to appear.
As soon as we sat down, a waitress took our drink orders and made sure we noticed the menu card on the table.
I turned to Robin and asked, "You're Nessa's brother? But you're not in the wedding party?"
"No, thankfully! Tag plays lacrosse and some other sport, and so — no matter how many bridesmaids Nessa whips up, Tag can always produce a trim, muscular groomsman to match." The drinks arrived, and Robin raised his glass to us before taking a sip. "And so, that leaves me free and clear: a simple civilian with no other duties than to eat and drink—"
"—and dance—" Lana cut in.
"—and dance," Robin agreed, nodding, "And to ding on the glass to make the newlyweds kiss."
I nodded. "Doesn't the brother of the bride traditionally give a speech?"
Robin, chuckling, put his index finger to his lips and shhh'd me. "Nessa didn't want that, so I'm off the hook."
"Your secret is safe with me," I assured him.
"I like this one," Lana told Max, gesturing in my direction. "She's a keeper! I'm so glad you dumped that crazy bitch Amber."
Robin coughed, and said, "Let's not go there, hon."
In a bid to change the subject, I asked, "How long have you two been married?"
"Two years," they answered in chorus.
"And it's great," Lana told me, "except for one thing. Our last names."
I frowned, not understanding. Robin rolled his eyes.
"I hate my last name — Knockwell. There aren't *really* any funny jokes or remarks to make, based on that name. But yet and still, people try. And fail. Anyway, I hate that name. Ever since I was a little girl I DREAMED that I'd fall in love and marry a man with a cool last name, and save me from this Knockwell curse." She turned to look at Robin, who grinned and shrugged. "So who do I fall in love with? Who do I marry? A man with a worse last name than mine."
"What's wrong with McLanahan?" I asked.
"By itself, nothing. With the right first name, it could be fine. But if I took his last name, I'd be Lana McLanahan." Robin began to open his mouth, but she raised a warning hand. "I swear to God, if you say banana-fanna-fo, I will scream."
Robin closed his lips, nodded, and said, "Point taken."
"So I'm stuck with Knockwell." She took a sip of her wine, glanced at Max, then nodded at me. "You're lucky. If you two get married, you'll be Lorelei Errison." She smiled wistfully. "That's a pretty cool name."
"Whoa, babe," Robin cautioned. "Let's cut these two a little slack. You know they're going to get dumped on all weekend."
"Oh, yeah, sorry," Lana apologized. "Wasn't thinking."
"What are you talking about?" Max asked, frowning.
"Oh..." Robin began, and turned his head to look around the room. "Do you see any other young couple here? Any young, unmarried couple, other than yourselves?"
"I don't think so," Max replied as he studied the room. "I guess not."
"So... ALL the relatives, all the guests, probably the DJ, too, if there is one... EVERYBODY will lean on you and tease you and ask you when you two are getting married."
"Ah," Max groaned, getting it.
"You have to suck it up," Lana advised. "It's all part of the deal. Don't answer, just smile. Laugh if you can. Don't fight it; there's no point."
Robin added, "You can say, We haven't talked about it. That's about the best you can do. You can't tell them to fuck off."
The four of us laughed.
Our dinners arrived at that point, and once the waitress left, I asked, "So... Max and Robin, you're cousins."
"Yes," Robin answered. "But more than that, we're friends. The three of us were in high school together." He gestured to me, saying, "Along with your cousin Elliot. And um — have you met Kitty and Claus?"
"The Dahlmanns?" I ventured, as if trying to recall. "Yes, they're nice, we've had dinner a few times."
"They're friends from high school as well. Which reminds me — I've seen the seating chart. We're at the Friends table."
"Friends like the TV show? Is it a theme?" I joked.
"No, heh — there's a Friends table and a Singles table, and the Grandparents table, and so on..."
Lana leaned in toward the table and confided, "By the way, Maxwell, I saw that your crazy ex weasled an invite out of Nessa. I thought THAT was pretty damn nervy. It's not as though anyone ever has wedding invitations to throw around." After a dramatic pause, she added, "And she's bringing somebody! She's got brass! She's not even family, and she's no friend of Nessa's. I'd like to know what exactly she said or did to pull that off!"
Naturally, I was dying to ask whether Amber was also at the Friends table, with us, but didn't dare.
Almost as if reading my mind, Robin proposed with a wicked grin, "Would you like to know who else is going to be at our table?"
"No," Max said decisively. "Why borrow trouble from tomorrow?"
"Oh, that's a nice turn of phrase!" Robin observed. "It rhymes, so it must be full of wisdom. But it's too bad, because I'm going to tell you anyway." He held up four long fingers. "There are four couples." Bending back one finger, he said, "Me and Lana," bending back the next, "You two," bending back the third, "Kitty and Claus." Then, holding the last finger and waggling it, he tried to prolong the suspense. "Last of all... the remaining couple..."
"Oh, damn it," groaned Max.
"You don't know who it is yet," Robin protested.
"You're giving it away," Max complained.
"Who is it?" I cried, almost desperate.
"Amber and her plus-one."
Max shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he said. "It doesn't matter." Turning to me, he said, "Don't worry, babe."
Lana grinned at that, and smiling at me said, "That's right, babe, Your big, strong man will protect you from the crazy, evil witch."
In spite of myself, I laughed.
"Now, her plus-one..." Robin continued, "is a wildcard. He's a man of mystery."
"Why is he a mystery?" I asked.
"Because no one knows who he is," Lana explained. "It's not a mystery, it's just a..."
"An unknown," Robin said, "A cipher. The unbidden guest at the feast. Banquo's ghost."
"Now you're making it sound creepy," Lana protested.
"I've seen the man's name, but it means nothing to me," Robin reported. "In fact, it almost sounds fake, like a made-up name."
"What is it?" I asked.
"Oswald Chamberlain," Robin pronounced, shaking his head. "Come on, now. Seriously?"
Max shrugged and shook his head.
Lana asked me, "Have you ever met her?"
"Do you mean Amber? Yes, I met her briefly. We had a strange encounter in a store. It was pretty unpleasant."
Robin grinned, and teasing, asked, "Uh-oh! Is there going to be a cat fight at the Friends table tomorrow? Me-ow!"
Lana looked around her, saying, "Where is a rolled-up newspaper when you need one?" She pulled her wallet from her bag and used it to give Robin a loud whack on the arm.
"Ow," he observed. "That hurt! I was only joking."
Lana leaned forward and put her hand on mine. "Don't worry, hon. The big girl will protect you." I grinned.
Robin said, "Of course, there's no telling which side Kitty will fall on. She and Amber are pretty tight."
"Will you guys quit it?" Max interjected, sounding a little peeved. "Nobody's going to fight anyone at this wedding."
"We know. We know that," Robin answered, with mock solemnity. "Speaking as the brother of the bride, I have seen the program, and nowhere does the entry Catfight at the Friends table appear." He looked over his shoulder at the door, as if he'd heard something. Then: "Of course, a late entry of All Hell Breaking Loose could always be added."
Lana chuckled. "Seriously, Lorelei, don't worry about Amber. If she tries anything, or says anything, the key word will be de-escalate. We'll blow out the match before it starts a fire."
"On the other hand," Robin added, "If it *does* get physical, the three of us will tackle her and stuff her mouth full of wedding cake."
"Thanks," I said. "That does make me feel better."
Robin turned again to look over his shoulder at the door. He must have remarkable hearing, because all I could hear was the conversation in the room and the clink of cutlery and plates.
A man appeared at the door, a short man, late twenties, with owl-eyed glasses. It took him three tries — three tentative hand-raises and excuse-me's before he was able to get the attention of a waitress. At first she regarded him with her tired, way-too-busy face, but when he smiled, his smile must have been full of charm, because the waitress smiled right back. She relaxed. The two spoke a bit, but in the end her message was clear: No, I'm sorry — it's family only. And she seemed sincerely apologetic. My lip-reading took me that far. He nodded and smiled again: I understand. Thanks for your time.
Then he was gone.
Max watched the entire exchange with rapt attention, and after the fellow left, Max asked, "Does anybody know that guy? Who is he? I'm sure I've seen him somewhere before."
No one had.
Lana chuckled. "Maybe he's Oswald Chamberlain."
Robin, mock sententiously, said, "Aren't we all Oswald Chamberlain, in our own small way?"
"Oh, stop it," Lana complained, laughing in spite of herself. "You're too goofy sometimes."
"How disappointing," Robin sighed. "Only sometimes?"
The fellow with the owl-eyed glasses was soon followed by a more insistent apparition: Nessa, the bride to be, in the flesh. She was dressed in neon-green sneakers, a loose pair of sweatpants held up by a wide ribbon tied in a big, floppy bow, and a tight pink tank-top that showed off her belly button — to say nothing of her flat abs and enhanced breastwork. The front of the shirt read HERE COMES THE BRIDE... and the back ... ZILLA. Bridezilla. Her straight, glossy hair was pulled back and held by a jet-black scrunchie, leaving a loose ponytail falling down her back all the way to her waist. With the eyes of a lynx she surveyed the entire room, compiling her hit list as scanned. Her appraisal ended at our table, and now that her target was fixed, she glided like an arrow through the room, ignoring all the greetings and well-wishes thrown in her path.
Nessa stopped at our table and gave a dramatic pause, to be sure that all of us were looking only at her. She tilted her head to one side, and in a cheerful sing-song, said, "Hello, Lana." Lana nodded and raised her glass in salute.
Nessa moved quickly behind Robin's chair and put her hands on Robin's shoulders. She leaned all her weight on him until he let out an involuntary soft grunt. "Brother," she said, "My big, dear brother, is your speech ready?"
"My speech?" he queried. "You told me you didn't *want* me to give a speech. You said no one wanted to hear it."
Nessa scoffed and rose up on her toes so she could lean in harder. She switched from using her hands to resting her elbows on Robin's shoulders, until his eyes and mouth opened wide in astonished pain. "Why would I say that?" she demanded, wiggling back and forth or put pressure first on his left, then on his right. "It's traditional! Are you going to rob me of the most traditional... traditions at your own sister's wedding? Your ONLY sister's wedding?"
"No, of course not," he assured her. "I will have a speech ready, full of laughter, pathos, and tears. Ow..."
"It better be!" she exclaimed. "I want everyone to laugh... and then cry!" She abruptly let go. He gasped in relief. She smiled a perfectly lovely, well-practiced smile, and sang out, "Love you!"
"I love you, too," Robin perfunctorily replied.
Next she moved on to me. She stood next to me, just one head taller than my sitting height. I could see why Max had called her "Kim Kardashian" — she seemed cast in the same mold: the symmetrical, perfectly portioned face, the long, silky hair, the ponderous breasts and oversized backend. Nessa was beautiful, and striking so — there was no doubt.
"This must be the mysterious Lorelei," Nessa observed, her eyes glued to my face as she shifted back and forth ever so slightly, like a cat. Then she leaned in close, her face inches from mine. She opened wide her mouth and eyes and cried out, "WHO ARE YOU?" Then she laughed and skipped back a step.
"Who am I?" I repeated, startled.
"Yes, who are you? Amber, that wicked witch calls you a homewrecker—" she guffawed and gave Max a backhanded swat on the arm. "Aunt Viv LOVES you! Aunt Viv! Love!" Nessa looked around her, gaping, right and left, as if seeking an explanation. She spread her arms downward, palms out, in bewilderment. "I heard that Aunt Viv hugged you and smiled at you. Is that true?"
"Yes," I replied. "Yeah, she did."
Nessa studied my face with exaggerated attention as I spoke, as if she were watching an uncanny natural phenomenon. "OH-MY-GOD!" she declared. "She hugged you more than once, didn't she! I can see it in your face."
"Yeah, I guess so..." I lamely admitted.
"You don't understand, do you! Aunt Viv doesn't smile at anybody! She never smiled at me, and she's friends with my mother!"
Nessa suddenly grabbed my chin with her hand and tilted my face one way and the other. "Have you had any work done?" she asked, in a tone filled with suspicion.
"No, none."
"Hmmph." She turned my face a few more times, then sbruptly let go. She gazed at my breasts for a moment before telling me, "I've had a fair amount of work done. My lips—" here she did a fish-face "—my butt, my boobs, my chin, my forehead, ..."
"But you're so young!" I exclaimed.
"Never too early," she replied. "Anyway, perfection is the goal. Kim-perfection."
She leaned in close, conspiratorial. "Do you want me to throw you the bouquet?"
Startled by the unexpected question, I said, "No, thanks."
"I can do it," she whispered.
"No, that's fine. Please don't bother."
She nodded slowly, cannily, her eyes still fixed on my face. "Okay, I get you. You want it. I know you do."
"I don't, Nessa. Really."
"Ha!" She chuckled quietly, then abruptly turned her attention to Max.
"Max, Max, Max," she said. "Max!"
"What? I'm right here."
"Max!" she cried one last time. "Have you seen Delphine?"
"No, why would I?"
Nessa smiled wickedly. "Wasn't she almost your date? Your plus-one?"
"No!" he said. "Never. Where did you hear that?"
Nessa stroked her chin. "A little bird told me. Seriously, though, I need to find Delphine and straighten her out."
"What's she done?" Max asked.
"She hasn't done anything yet, but Delphine is threatening to wear a white dress tomorrow. A white dress to MY wedding!"
Nessa took a deep breath and rose up to her full, tiny height. "It's bad enough that she's coming," Nessa complained, "I've worried myself sick, wondering what bullshit she's going to unleash. Do you know, she actually, honest and truly, called my baker to ask if she could jump out of the wedding cake?"
A laugh burst out of Robin, but he stifled it immediately, under the glaring, punishing gaze of his little bridezilla sister.
"She told my baker that it was MY idea, and — thank God — he had enough sense to call me to check."
"Anyway," Nessa went on, looking at Max, then at Robin, "I might need you two guys tomorrow. Are you with me?"
"With you for what?" Robin asked, suspicious.
Nessa huffed impatiently, as though her unstated request was the most obvious thing in the world. "In case we need to throw Delphine out. In case we need to eject her from the reception." Her eyes grew in a sudden, panicked thought: "Or even from the wedding! She's the kind of person who, when the minister says, speak now or forever hold your peace — Delphine might jump up and say something!"
"Oh, seriously?" Max asked, skeptically.
"Yes, seriously! You two might need to pick her up bodily and toss her over the hedge or the wall or whatever is there to keep out the riffraff." She glanced behind her at the rest of the room. "You might need help."
Nessa straightened up, took a breath, then slowly drew her hand down in front of her face, as if closing a curtain. She raised her head, looking regal and sublime, then turned to Robin. "Remember, that speech: don't let me down. You need to make everyone laugh, then cry. If you're going to say something embarrassing about me, I need to clear it first."
"Understood," Robin acknowledged.
The whole time, Max had been giving furtive glances around the room, looking for someone or something to distract Nessa's attention. He found it. "Hey, Nessa," he told her, "I haven't seen Delphine, but her mother's over there, to the left of those flowers, see?"
Nessa swiveled her head, focused on the new target, and was off.
"Whew!" Lana said, relieved. "She's a handful and a half!"
"Tell me about it," Robin said.
"What are you going to do about the speech?" I asked him. "Can you come up with something tonight?"
"Oh, yeah," he said. "No problem. I wrote it three weeks ago, but I haven't told her. I knew she'd go back and forth. She'd want to read it and make changes." He laughed. "I'm ready to go or to not go." He shrugged.
Then we sat in Nessa's silent aftermath, watching Nessa expostulate with Delphine's mother, on the far side of the room.
"That poor woman," Lana observed. "Nessa can tell her whatever she likes, and Delphine's mom can promise Nessa the moon and the sky, but in the end Delphine will do whatever the hell she pleases."
"Speak of the devil," Max said, looking at the door.
There, on the threshold, stood a young woman with narrow eyes and a permanent smirk. Her hair was a reddish-blonde, and fell in waves down to her bosom, where they framed two healthy breasts, laid out for all the world to see. Obviously, her breasts weren't fully exposed, but her cleavage was so generous, it took little imagination to picture the small portion that was covered by her dress.
Delphine reminded me of a young Lindsey Lohan. She appeared to be capable of anything, good, bad, or indifferent; her presence alone appeared to threaten mayhem. Her figure wasn't as extravagant as Nessa's, but it was absolutely striking. She clearly spent a significant amount of time in the gym, molding her body and working off the effects of her dissipation. Unlike Nessa, who scanned the room with active intent, Delphine casually let her eyes roam, as if she had all the time in the world.
If Nessa was Kim Kardashian, Delphine was Cleopatra.
Delphine's eyes came to rest on our table, and — while Nessa glided like an arrow, Delphine came on cat's feet; a slow, casual stroll.
"Hello, Lana," she drawled. "Hi, Robin." Her eyes swept over me, but she didn't greet or acknowledge me. She moved behind Max, and leaning one hand on his far shoulder, pressed the side of her breast against his head. She smiled as she toyed with his hair.
"Delphine, what the hell?" Max growled. "Get off me! What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm trying to recruit you," she purred, and continued to press her body against his, and to run her fingers through his hair.
"Well, knock it off!" Max demanded. Smirking, Delphine took three tiny steps away from him. "Yeesh!" she observed. "Somebody's a little touchy! I'll tell you, Maxwell Errison — right now, I'm sure as heck glad you didn't ask me to be your plus-one!"
"I was never going to ask you to be my plus-one," Max informed her.
"Oh, really? That's not what I heard." Again, she smirked, then looking down, she pushed out her lower lip in a pout. Then, in an annoying little-girl voice, she asked, "Anyway, will you two big, strong men, help poor little me?" she looked from Max to Robin and back again.
"Probably not," Robin said. "Help you with what?"
Delphine glanced across the room, where a very animated Nessa was talking to one of her relatives. "Nessa has exploded into a full-blown bridezilla, and I'm afraid she's going to have me thrown out — bodily! — tomorrow, or arrested — whichever comes first."
"Why would she do that?"
"I don't know," Delphine replied, sighing dismissively. "Hormones?"
Lana scoffed loudly.
Delphine tilted her head back and looked down her nose at me. I looked back, keeping my face neutral.
There was movement in the background, to Delphine's left. It was Nessa, single-mindedly flowing across the room, gliding like war-canoe, her focus laser-tight on Delphine.
"Delphine," Nessa growled. "What the hell, Delphine?"
"What the hell to you, too," Delphine replied, with a mild smirk.
"I heard that you're planning on wearing a white dress tomorrow," Nessa said, her voice loaded with tension. "Is that true?"
"If you tell me that you heard that, I believe you," Delphine replied.
Nessa growled with impatience. "Are you going to wear a white dress tomorrow? To my wedding? Yes or no!"
"I don't know," Delphine replied, calmly. "If you want me to, I will."
"No, you idiot! Of course I don't *want* you to! I want you to wear any other color. You can wear the entire rainbow! Just, not white! Anything but white! Only the bride wears white."
"Dua Lipa wore white to a wedding," Delphine informed her. "Didn't you see?"
"You're not Dua Lipa!" Nessa hissed.
Delphine looked down at herself, unconcerned. She pretended to brush something off her breast. Then, after interminable seconds, she lifted her head and looked Nessa in the face.
"Don't worry, Nessa, I was only joking. I don't even own a white dress."
Nessa, molified, nodded. "Thanks," she said, and shaking with the after-effects of too much adrenaline, she slipped out of the room and away.
"Wow, that girl is wound up way too tight," Delphine observed. Before any of us could reply or comment, Delphine slowly sauntered toward the bar. Once she arrived, she stood and twisted in a way that the poor bartender's eyes fell into Delphine's cleavage and stuck there. She had the poor sap hypnotized.
"Do you think Delphine's going to wear white tomorrow?" I asked.
"Bet on it," Lana said. "Put all your money on white."
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
There was a lot of milling around after dinner: cousins, aunts, and uncles catching up with each other. Max introduced me to more people than I can ever remember. Regardless of who they were and what their relation, one true line ran through virtually everyone in his family: My friendship with Vivianne seemed a matter of great astonishment. It was like an unsolvable puzzle, and it gave me a huge cachet among Max's relatives.
Another line of inquiry that came up with nearly every family member was, as Robin predicted, questions about the wedding status of Max and me. "When are you two getting married?" and "Have you set a date yet?" were the most common openers. A few asked Max "When are you going to make an honest woman of her?" (once accompanied by a literal re-enactment of the grin, grin, wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more routine). A few gave a more philosophical, almost wistful comment along the lines of "We'll be back doing this for you two next year."
I naively assumed that the whole when-are-YOU-getting-married would be a succession of one-liners, delivered and dropped right after, but a few customers were pretty insistent on wanting an actual answer, diving into a discussion. Two younger female relatives who seemed bent on becoming internet influencers, assumed that we, too, would have a destination wedding — and wanted to send a list of their preferred destinations.
When I'd point out that Max and I weren't even engaged, people took that as a hint that Max intended to propose during Nessa's wedding weekend, at the reception itself or soon after.
By the time we got upstairs to our room, my feet were a little sore from standing in heels for so long. The interrogations were a little wearing. It would have been nice to have at least a short soak in the tub before bed, but as I said, I had a surprise planned for Max.
I wasn't sure how to get my surprise past Max and into the bathroom, where I meant to change, but Max obligingly sat on the edge of our bed, then fell back with a groan. He covered his eyes with his hand.
"Are you okay, Max?"
"Yeah," he replied in a low voice. "I'm just thinking about something."
"Okay," I acknowledged. "I'm going to be in the bathroom for a few minutes."
I was pretty sure that my surprise would cure whatever was bothering him.
What was the surprise? If you recall, one of Max's Christmas presents — the one marked "P" — consisted of a super-sexy lingerie set: a tiny triangle bra, a skimpy Brazilian brief, and a sheer, transparent babydoll. The fine lace seemed spun from gossamer, and were so light they seemed fragile and unreal. In my hands, on my body, they seemed airy and insubstantial, I could crumple them to the size of a ping-pong ball without wrinkling them in the least. The outfit was so diaphanous and ethereal, the pieces seemed to bond with my skin when I put them on. Wearing them, I felt more naked, vulnerable, and exposed, than I felt when I wore nothing at all.
My heart pounded as I regarded myself in the bathroom mirror. I felt a mad mixture of emotions; heady and terrifying: I was frightened, amazed, energized, and embarrassed — all at once. I'd never tried to be sexy before, and these garments were an exaltation of feminine sexual appeal.
I felt powerful. I blushed crimson with that power, as if ashamed of having it, of wielding it.
Back at home, before we left, I'd debated and experimented with adding jewelry, heels, and stockings, but in the end, I stayed with the basic three: the bra, the panties, and the babydoll. I wished I could have asked another woman for help, but I didn't dare. In the absence of real, living help, I restored to the internet for suggestions about hair, poses, and movements.
In the end, I simply tied my hair back with a red ribbon, so I could let it loose while standing close to Max. The moves and poses I practiced in secret, filming my attempts — I wanted to be sure of producing the right effect, which was seduction. I didn't want to make him laugh unintentionally, and by God I didn't want to look silly.
Of course, I deleted those videos as soon as I was happy with what they portrayed. I didn't want them floating around for anyone to see — or worse yet, ending up on the internet, where there'd be no hope of deletion.
When I emerged from the bathroom, Max was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor between his feet. I was about to call his name softly, but before I did, his head rose to face me. I had one foot slightly behind the other. My hands were raised tentatively. My lips were slightly parted.
As his head came up, he opened his mouth to speak, but when he saw me, he lost the power of utterance. His mouth hung open. His eyes stared unblinking. He opened his hands, helplessly. He blinked several times, and his lips moved, but no sound came out.
I turned slowly, rocking my hips, then grinding them in a long, protracted circle. I slowly spun my back toward him. After a teasing look back over one shoulder, I bent down with straight legs wide apart, and peeked at him, smiling, from behind one knee. I posed, I twisted and turned. I stood, turning again, working my hips, until I faced him and bent forward, seesawing my shoulders so my breasts swung and swayed.
Max looked at me, hungry, wild, and somehow — confused. I moved slowly forward, grinning with power, until I rested my hands on his thighs. The softest groan I have ever heard escaped his lips, just before I bent into close to kiss him. I kept pressing forward, my hands sliding inexorably up his thighs, until he fell back heavily upon the bed.
Then he came into action, decisively. He grabbed me by my hips and using his elbows and heels like an upside-down commando, he planted himself in the very center of the bed, carrying me atop him. Then, intermixed with inarticulate cries, frantic movements, and frantic need, Max moved enough of our clothing out of the way so we could couple.
We did it with a fierce passion — powerful, explosive, nearly mad. It would have frightened me were it not so all-consuming.
It lasted a long time — the longest we'd had yet — and when Max was done, the two of us lay side by side. Me, satisfied to an extent I'd never before experienced, and wide-eyed with surprise and success, still shocked, uneasy, and yet exulting in my new-found sexual power.
Before I'd gone into the bathroom, Max was in a kind of funk — I didn't know why. I expected that our love-making would neutralize his negative feelings. After all, he often slept after we'd done the deed.
This time, instead, he lay there aware, alert, on fire. He gave the vibrational signature of a boxer, panting in his corner of the ring between rounds, studying his opponent, ready to go again.
I rose on one elbow and looked at him. Somehow I didn't dare touch him. Once again, he had one hand over his eyes.
The question Max, what's wrong? stood poised on my lips, but he spoke first, after clearing his throat.
"I've been thinking and wondering," he said. "How is it that everyone seems to know I considered asking Delphine to come here as my date? How is that possible?"
He sniffed and swallowed before he continued. "See, the weird little thing about it, is that I only considered asking her for one small moment, when I'd had too much to drink. That was the one and only time that idea ever entered my head. And I only told one person." He lifted his hand from his eyes and turned to gaze into mine. "The only person I told was you." His face reddened, but more from embarrassment than anger.
He asked me, "Who did you tell, Lorelei?"
"No one," I said, mystified. I thought for a moment. "Maybe Amber put microphones in your house, and—"
"No," he said, flatly. "No. Just stop. Do you hear how crazy that sounds? You give her too much credit — too much power. Just— Just forget about Amber, will you?" He took a deep breath and let it go. "Who did you tell?"
"No one," I said again.
"No one?" he repeated, his eyebrows lifting. "Are you sure? You didn't tell a living soul?"
"Oh," I said, getting it, suddenly remembering. "I told your mother. She was the only one."
"You told my mother? WHY? Don't you know she's a terrible gossip?"
"No, I didn't know," I replied in a little, small voice.
He growled softly, but at the same time his eyes passed over my chest. As subtly as I could manage, I rolled my shoulders back and sat up straighter. (Clearly I needed all the help I could get.)
"My mother is the worst," he explained, and sighed heavily. Then he exclaimed, "Women! You can't keep a secret! None of you!"
"Well, to be fair," I interjected, "I wasn't a woman at the time."
He gaped at me, incredulous. "Seriously? Seriously now? That's your excuse? That's supposed to somehow make it better?"
I shrugged and spread my arms, feeling my breasts bob as I moved. "I'm sorry, Max, I didn't mean to hurt you."
"You didn't hurt me," he replied, as his eye roved over my legs. "It was more embarrassing than anything else. I'll live."
"Oh, good," I said, stupidly, rising up to sit on my heels.
He looked me in the face. I could see he was calming and getting excited at the same time. He wanted to be angry and chastise me, but at the same time, the spiderweb woven into that pale-red lingerie was catching him, pulling him in.
"Oh my God," he groaned. "You are driving me wild, do you know that?"
"In a good way or a bad way?" I teased.
"Both," he said, coming closer, nearly standing, resting one knee on the bed. "Both, at the same time, God help me." He grabbed my shoulders, gently but firmly, and pushed me down on the bed.
I looked up into his face and smiled. It took a little nerve to smile that smile, but it came, naturally enough. "For a minute there," I told him with what I hoped was a seductive smirk, "I was afraid you were going to spank me."
"I'd never," he replied. "I couldn't spoil that perfect ass of yours. No, no spanking. There are a thousand other things I'd rather do with you and to you."
In the morning when I woke, at first I didn't know where I was. Max and I were lying on top of the wrinkled, rumpled bedclothes. We'd hadn't gotten as far as turning down the bed. Max was naked. My panties were gone, but I still wore the sheer babydoll. My bra was pushed up over my breasts in an uncomfortable way. I rolled a little on my side, toward Max, and tried to get my hand up my back to undo the clasp. My movement was less than slight; still, it didn't pull Max from his slumber. Instead, it switch on a kind of autopilot in him. He didn't open his eyes or come fully awake, but his hand moved to the side of my thigh and slid smoothly up my body. Encountering no resistance, it kept rising, higher and higher. He breathed a long, unconscious sigh until his hand encountered my bra strap and stopped moving.
Hmmph he grunted softly, and with no effort or thought whatsoever, his fingers squeezed the bra strap, popping it open.
"Ohhh!" I exclaimed in a mixture of surprise and relief. Then I tried to slide away from him. His hand coasted down my back until it rested on my derriere. Even in his sleep, he held me.
"Where you goin', babe?" he whispered, eyes still shut.
"I need to pee," I whispered back.
"Can't you hold it?" he whispered back. "Feel how smooth you are."
"No, I can't hold it, and I need to get out of these clothes."
"Uhhh," he grunted. "No, no — leave them on. Never take them off."
"Okay," I promised, as I peeled his fingers off my nether cheek. He stretched and moaned.
"Don't wake up yet," I whispered. He nodded, and said, "Promise."
"Promise," I repeated, unsure which of us was promising what.
On the way to the bathroom, I found the red, gossamer panties hanging from the back of a chair, thrown or kicked in a moment of passion.
After using the bathroom and taking a big drink of water, I fished a cute but more conventional set of pajamas out of my luggage and slipped into them. The pale red lingerie got quietly folded and surreptitiously hidden in a pocket of my suitcase. "These things are like dynamite," I whispered to myself. I filed a note for the future, in case I ever wanted a secret weapon or needed to cast a spell over Max. Clearly, judicious use was recommended.
Max was disappointed in not finding me dressed in red transparent lace, but he didn't complain. He knelt over me. His face was tired, but his manhood was turgid. He said, "If you tell me to stop, I'll stop, but I am so hungry for you."
He undressed me as I lay there smiling and we made love once again. This time, though, it tired him, and he spent a long time in the shower in the hot steam, recuperating.
We both dressed in shorts, t-shirts, and walking shoes, and armed with hats and sunglasses, went down to breakfast. Robin and Lara were already there. They, along with some other guests, were dressed for a mansion tour. Max and I were apparently the only ones who opted for the Cliff Walk.
If you don't know Newport, you might consider visiting for the Cliff Walk alone. It's a three-and-a-half mile path that runs along the rocky sea shore. It passes most of the Newport mansions from behind, but they don't look any less spectacular from the back. There are a few spots where you can carefully descend to the water, but not to swim. Some adventurous souls surf at certain points, but even if I knew how to surf I'd avoid that stretch: if you wipe out, you won't wash up on the beach, you'll be thrown upon the black, pointy stones.
"Do you think the rocks down there qualify as boulders?" I asked Max.
He glanced down below us. "Some of them, yeah."
That was pretty much the extent of our conversation in the first hour of the walk.
We passed through a pedestrian tunnel. A handful of preteen kids were shouting and hooting, listening to their echoes. When we emerged on the other side, we had to step out of the way of a young couple who came from the opposite direction, the wife pushing a double stroller. Max leaned his back against the rock wall, and I squeezed in next to him. The young mother eyed the two of us, and as she passed me, she gave me a secret, smiling wink. Yeah, yeah, I thought. I get the message. Max and my future together was one of the themes of the weekend — at least for everyone else, everyone who wasn't Max or me.
After the couple with the stroller passed, Max began to shift away from the wall. I put my hand gently on his chest and he stopped. We looked each other in the face. He gave me a quick glance, and in that moment I somehow saw myself and him through Max's eyes. He, taller, muscular, leaning his back against the wall; me, smaller, slenderer, my shoulder against the wall so I could face him. I stood close to him, so close that the backs of his fingers rested on my thigh. The tips of my fingers were lightly on his chest; a light, gentle request for him to wait and listen.
It's weird how quickly I've fallen into this female role, I mentally observed. Aloud I said, "Max, are you still upset with me? You know I'm sorry."
He smiled and shook his head. "No, babe, I'm not upset with you."
"But you're so quiet," I protested, nearly whining.
His smile broadened. A light breeze lifted a stray tress on the side of my head. He asked me, "Is it strange to you, how quickly you've fallen into this female role? It's amazing. It's like you were born a girl."
After a sigh, I replied, "I was just thinking the same thing. Sometimes it is a little weird. Sometimes it's like I'm watching someone else, but that someone else is me."
"Are you still okay with it? You haven't freaked out yet, at least when you've been with me."
"No — I mean, yes, yes, I'm more than okay with it. I love being me. Being me is being Lorelei. I never want to go back to being Elliot."
"But you have to for a few days, right? So you can talk to your father."
"Yeah. I'm not looking forward to it." Hearing how that sounded, I quickly added, "I mean, I'm really looking forward to seeing my Dad. For that, I can hardly wait. But... to have to put Elliot back on... not so much."
He nodded. Then: "I'm not quiet because I'm upset. I'm kind of tired or out of sorts. We've been going it night and day, you and I."
"Yeah, we have." I smiled.
"Mmm," he nodded again, smiling. "About the Delphine thing... I'm just... embarrassed, mostly. I know that for the rest of this weekend people will hassle you and me about getting married, and they'll tease me about Delphine. I hate being teased. It really bothers me. I know it's nothing, but it bugs me." He frowned. "At the same time, in my head, I know: family is family. Teasing is big part of what families do."
"For lack of other ways of showing affection," I suggested.
"What a very girly thing to say!" he laughed, and squeezed me around my waist.
A little boy and his mother came out of the tunnel at that moment, and the boy, big eyed and amazed, looked up at the two of us.
"Mommy," he asked, "Are they married?"
The mother smiled at us, tried to spy our ring fingers, but couldn't. So I said, "Not yet" in the same moment Max said, "No." The boy's mother smirked, and the three of us laughed while the little boy's head swiveled back and forth, trying to figure out where the joke was.
It would be difficult to say which of the Newport mansions is the most imposing, but the prettiest and most ornate is Clarethorn. The facade was constructed of pale-pink terracotta blocks, ornamented by huge windows and columns, inspired by one of the palaces of France's Louis XIV.
Nessa's wedding ceremony took place on a marble terrace on the back lawn, with a wonderful view of the ocean. The soft hush of the surf provided a lovely calming background. A small arbor, decorated with flowers and vines, provided the frame for the bride, groom, and the minister who'd marry them. Between the arbor and the mansion stood an array of white chairs for us, the guests. When Max and I arrived, half of the seats were already filled. There were four ushers; one of them let us to the fifth row. Max sat on the aisle and I sat down next to him. I looked around, taking it all in. The weather was lovely: cool, but not cold; light clouds shielded us from the bright sun. You could not have asked for a more perfect day.
"This is incredible," I whispered to Max. He nodded in assent.
Suddenly there was a flurry at Max's elbow. It was his mother, Melissa. She smiled at me, then bent anxiously, grabbing hold of Max's arm. "Max, you have to come and help your father carry a present inside."
"Huh?"
"Come on, hurry, before the ceremony starts!" She shot another smile at me and tugged at Max. He looked at me, shrugged, and followed his mother down the aisle.
While I waited, two of the ushers led two older women up the aisle — I think they were the respective grandmothers. At first one, then both, of the women didn't like their assigned seats. There was a lot of pointing, demands, and frustrated gestures. The young men tried to be patient, and the other two ushers came rushing up, hoping to help in quickly resolving the situation.
It probably nothing more than a coincidence, but it was exactly during that moment of mild confusion, that Delphine came drifting up the aisle, sauntering casually, blissfully unaware not only of her own assigned seat, but probably not knowing that seats were assigned at all. During her slow progression she swept her gaze left and right and back again, taking in everyone and everything, smiling like a little girl with a secret.
Her slow flow came to a halt next to Max's empty chair. Delphine tilted her head to one side and let her eyes rest on me, as if she were sizing me up.
She didn't wear a white dress, thankfully. Her dress was an autumn print: predominantly dark reds and browns, with images of fallen leaves gone yellow, gold, red, and orange. It was outrageously unseasonal in terms of color and design, but of a fabric so light that it fluttered gently in the merest breeze. It hugged her curves almost like a second skin. I'm sure that many men found their breath caught in their throat when she appeared.
She plopped down into Max's empty chair.
"Uhh... Delphine," I began.
"Uhh... Lorelei," she replied, echoing my intonation perfectly.
"You can't sit there," I told her. "That's Max's seat."
"He won't mind," she said, with a dismissive shrug. "There are plenty of seats."
"Yes, he will mind!" I insisted. "And *I* mind! Come on, Delphine."
"Come on? Okay, where are we going?"
"Delphine," I told her, my tone getting more urgent, "You can't sit there."
"Fine." She stood, rising in a flounce. "Since you asked so nicely," she pushed in front of me, only to plop down in the chair on my right. "Is this better?" she asked.
"Yes, thanks." I didn't know whose seat it was, but at least Max's chair was free.
"I'm not a bad person," Delphine informed me.
"I didn't say you were," I replied, and she laughed as though it was all a joke.
"Okay," she said, slipping her arm through mine and wiggling close, "I have a question for you. This is my first-ever wedding. Can you believe that? Anyway, there's something I've been wondering. My question is this: do people really do that thing where they ask speak now or forever hold your peace and all that?"
"Yes, that's pretty standard."
"Do you think they'll do that today?"
A middle-aged woman dressed in beige was seated in front of me. I recognized her as Max's Aunt Doris. Doris was stirring in her seat, obviously provoked by Delphine's question, and probably fearful of where those questions were leading.
"Yes," I replied. "I expect the minister will ask that question."
"Hmmph," she acknowledged, thoughtful. After a pause, she asked, "Are you going to stay anything?"
At that, Doris stiffened and stirred. I don't know whether Delphine didn't notice, or whether she pretended not to notice.
"No, of course not." I responded. "I'm not going to say anything." After a pause I asked her, "Are you?" (I could almost see Doris' ears perking up, to listen better, the way that dog's ears do.)
Delphine frowned. "I'd need to be inspired," she confessed.
At that, Doris could endure it no longer, and she turned around in her chair. She gave a serious look at Delphine, and then to me. At that moment I realized that Delphine was probably aiming exactly at this, all along: she wanted to get a rise out of Doris.
In a very firm tone, very much like a schoolma'am, Doris addressed us both. "Excuse me, girls. I couldn't help but overhear." Delphine raised her eyebrows and made an expression of mild interest. Thus encouraged, Doris went continued: "You're talking about a very serious portion of the ceremony. Very serious. It's not an occasion for making jokes or having fun. It's not something to be taken lightly."
Delphine frowned as if mildly confused. "So it's not a general discussion?"
Doris' jaw dropped for a moment, but she quickly recovered. "No, absolutely not! It's for serious issues!"
"Such as?"
"Well, such as bigamy. That would be the classic impediment. What if one of them is already married to someone else? Or what if one of them isn't who they pretend to be? Suppose the bride or groom was a criminal of some sort, living under a false name?"
Delphine tapped her chin, processing the information. She nodded, and in a mock-serious voice told her, "Thanks, Aunt Doris. Those are top-notch suggestions. I'll take them under advisement."
Doris, seeing at last that she was being made fun of, frowned. She pressed her lips into a tight line. Her jaw set, and with an offended harrump! she turned her back to us.
Delphine squeezed my arm, squinted her eyes, and opened her mouth wide in a silent howl of laughter. She leaned into me, giving me with her shoulder the sort of pokes most people do with their elbow.
"I've always wanted to use that phrase in conversation," she whispered. "The one about taking things under advisement."
"Good for you," I told her.
"Ooh, sarcasm," she whispered, tickled. "It burns."
Then Delphine raised her head, scanning the crowd. After she finished her survey, I asked her, "Hey, did you really call Nessa's baker and ask if you could jump out of the wedding cake?"
Her eyes crinkled in delight. "No."
I was confused. "But Nessa said—"
Delphine waved her hand dismissively. "What I did was so much better than that. I had no idea who her baker is or was. But anyway, I didn't need to call him. I got a friend of mine, a guy, to call Nessa. He acted like he was the kind-of slow-witted assistant to the baker. He asked Nessa in an irritating, dopey voice whether she still wanted the traditional wedding cake, now that her order had changed, because there would be an additional charge."
"I don't understand."
"Neither did Nessa, so of course, she got all agitated and started asking questions. My friend told her that if she only wanted the cake for her cousin to jump out of, that was one thing, but if she ALSO wanted the traditional cake from the original order, it would cost more."
"Oh, God."
"Nessa was incandescent. I'm surprised she didn't burst into flames. My friend kept her on the phone for fifteen minutes, until she felt sure she'd straightened it all out with the baker. Also, she asked which cousin was supposed to jump out of the cake, as if she couldn't guess."
I took a breath. I wasn't sure what I wanted to say.
"There's more," Delphine chuckled, and leaned her head on my shoulder for a moment, as if weakened by laughter. "I told my mother that Tag had asked me to jump out of the wedding cake in a bikini. I showed my Mom some of my most scandalous bathing suits and asked her to help me pick one. She was shocked and horrified." Delphine was overcome by a fit of laughter at that point. Doris, her back to us, muttered Disgraceful!
When Delphine was able to go on, she said, "I pretended to let my Mom convince me that it was a bad idea. I told her I'd tell Tag to ask someone else. Anyway, when Nessa called, full of wrath, my mother thought she had a secret, shameful backstory about Tag, but out of a sense of delicacy she didn't say it until she felt that Nessa had driven her back against the wall."
"Ohh," I sighed. "Delphine, that's awful!"
"There was a lot more confusion than I expected, but you know, it will help make this wedding memorable, don't you think?"
My mouth fell open, wordless.
At that moment, Max returned. I turned my face up to his. He looked from the expression on my face to Delphine, then back again, and his own face went white. An usher ran up and asked him to take his seat, so he did.
The wedding ceremony was lovely. Nessa's was, of course, beautiful, and so was her dress, which was very white, very sparkly. The bodice was super-tight, showing off her flat stomach, her perfect posture, her trim waist, and her magnified breasts. From the waist down, it was a tulle skirt in the ballroom style, sprinkled with blingy bits. Topped by a crown-like tiara, Nessa seemed a princess. A Disney princess, to be specific. Her hair flowed down in tiny dark curls.
"A lot of that is hair extensions," Delphine muttered to me. Max, hearing her speak, but not understanding, turned to give her a suspicious glare. When he looked away, Delphine gave me a conspiratorial smirk and squeezed my arm lightly.
Inevitably, when the minister arrived at the phrase, "If anyone here present knows any reason these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, let them speak now, or forever hold their peace," I saw Doris' back stiffen and tense. Nessa held her breath, and tried to find Delphine with the corner of her eye. I found myself tensing up as well. What should I do if Delphine tried to speak?
Delphine shifted, straightened, and stretched her shoulders. She took a breath and looked at the sky and the trees around us — she was the very picture of innocence.
Then she put her face next to mine and whispered. "Go ahead, say something. You know you want to." It struck me that I was looking into the wicked grin Max had warned me about.
I froze for an eternity of seconds.
Then the moment passed. Delphine's smile softened. I relaxed. Doris relaxed. Nessa smiled, and at last we arrived at "You may now kiss the bride."
After Nessa and Tag swept victoriously down the aisle, they were followed by the wedding party. The rows emptied one by one, starting from the front.
While we waited our turn to leave, Delphine, who had kept hold of my arm this entire time, asked me, "Lorelei, can I hang with you? You have this calm, neutral energy that I need right now."
"Do I seem calm to you?" I asked her, surprised.
"Yes. Aren't you?"
I sighed. Leaning closer so Max couldn't hear, I confided, "Max and I had a fight last night. A little argument."
Delphine's eyebrows rose in interest. Her eyes twinkled. I could see the gears turning in her head, and I feared for a moment where those gears might stop, but then Delphine seemed to drop it.
While the bridal party went off to take pictures, the rest of us milled around on the terrace and the lawn. Waitpersons circulated with hors d'oeuvres and glasses of champagne.
"Horse doovers," Robin said, by way of hello.
"Horse doovers to you, too," Max said, raising a canape in salute.
Robin and Lana eyed Delphine up and down. Then Lana observed, "I see you didn't wear white, Delphine."
"Yeah," Delphine acknowledged, looking away. "I might change later. If Nessa changes her outfit, I have to see if her wedding dress fits me. I call dibs."
(Spoiler: Neither Nessa nor Delphine changed outfit that day.)
Then, it seemed as though the crowd of persons parted to make way for an imposing figure, who headed our way.
"Uh-oh," Delphine breathed. "Here comes Aunt Viv. Oh, shit."
Vivianne approached, smiling. Her husband Ken followed a few feet behind her. His face was already red from the exertion of drinking.
"Hello, Lorelei." She greeted me with open arms. As she hugged me, she murmured, "I couldn't be prouder of you. You've turned out so wonderfully well."
She let me go, then nodded to Max, Lana, and Robin in turn.
Delphine, nervous, worked up the courage to tease Vivianne: "Aren't you going to hug me, too, Auntie?" Her voice cracked on the word Auntie.
Viv turned and regarded the girl in silence for a few moments, then smiled and opened her arms wide. "Come here," she said. "Of course I want to hug you." After the hug, she put her hands on Delphine's arms and looked her in the face. "You're such a strikingly beautiful woman, Delphine, but I'm sure you know that." A small frightened smile appeared and disappeared on Delphine's lips. "Something you might not know..." she paused "... has anyone ever told you, Delphine, that I was very much like you, when I was your age... and younger?"
"No! You? Were like me?"
Vivianne laughed. "Of course, I was much wilder and more frightening, if you can imagine..."
"The frightening part I can imagine," Delphine blurted out. "But wild? Wilder?"
Vivianne looked from me to Delphine and back again. "I can't tell you how pleased I am to see the two of you together."
She gave one last smile to the five of us, then moved off, towing Ken away with her.
Delphine was actually shaking. "Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod," she babbled. "I think I'm going to pass out! I actualled TALKED to Aunt Viv, AND LIVED! can you believe it? She talked to me!" She lifted her hands, which were trembling. "Oh, God, I need a cigarette."
Before anyone could answer about the cigarette, Melissa came over. She pounced on me and hugged the hell out of me. When she let me go, she looked warily at Delphine.
"I don't bite, Aunt Melissa," Delphine told her. "And no hug for me? Aunt Viv just hugged me now."
"Yes, I saw," Melissa admitted quietly, with a feeling she'd been trapped. She lifted her arms, opening them a little unwillingly, tentatively.
Delphine rushed into the opening, cackling, and grabbed Melissa. She hugged her, laughing, rocking, and she wouldn't let go. Melissa tried to tap out, but Delphine ignored her signal.
At last she stepped back, releasing her hold on Melissa. With a huff, Melissa ran a hand through her hair, and said, "See? That's why I wasn't sure about hugging you! You always go too far!" Delphine smirked, pleased with herself.
"Hey, Melissa," I said. I don't know why I chose that moment to ask, but that's what happened. "Did you tell everybody that Max was thinking of inviting Delphine as his plus-one?"
Melissa didn't respond, but she turned dark red and gave a furtive guilty look in Max's direction.
Delphine let out a disgusted scoff. "Am I really that bad? That people have to be embarrassed about wanting to be with me?"
Melissa defensively shot back, "It isn't that! It's that Max was reduced to asking his cousin—"
"—by marriage," Delphine tossed in.
"Mom," Max muttered dangerously.
"Even so!" Melissa exclaimed.
"I would have gone," Delphine declared hotly. "There's no law against it. We could even get married, if we so desired."
Max let out a choking sound. Melissa looked distinctly uncomfortable, and reached out to grab my hand.
Delphine, seeing that gesture, looked me in the face and nodded. "So that's how it is, is it? Congratulations, Lorelei. I hope you and Max have dozens of children. More than you can count. Ugly little children." Melissa's mouth fell open in shock, but Delphine found a way of sending me a smirking wink that no one saw but me.
She stalked off in a pretended snit.
Robin nervously rubbed his jaw over and over, as he said, "Hmm, well, I think I see... over there... the uh—"
Lana cut him off by saying, "We'll see you guys later," and she led Robin away.
"Oh, Christ," Max swore. "I'm going to go look at the ocean." With that, he walked away.
"Well, hmmph," Melissa said, disconcerted. "Just you and me, then." She clung to my hand, in case I was thinking of heading off as well. Then, in the spirit of payback, she told me, "You know, there's something I wanted to talk to *you* about."
"Seriously?" I asked her, and started laughing at the absurdity of it all.
"Yes," she said. "And it's not to change the subject. Or not JUST to change the subject. Do you remember when you came to me two weeks ago to ask about periods and all that?"
"Sure, I do."
"You had a pregnancy scare, didn't you, you wild little thing! Why didn't you tell me?"
"How did you know?" I exclaimed.
"Well, I didn't know for sure until a second ago," she smirked. "But it came to me later... the way you asked some of your questions about Aunt Flo..."
She let my hand drop, then raised both hands, fingers crossed.
Laughing gleefully, she skipped away.
Slightly disconcerted, I decided to go find Max. It wasn't hard; as he said, he was standing at the wall at the edge of the property, looking out to sea.
I came up beside him. He was quiet, calm. He smiled at me and draped his arm over my shoulders.
"I told you, babe: that girl is a roving land mine!"
"Mmm," I replied. "And she's not the only one!"
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
Often at weddings there's a lull between the ceremony and the reception. It can last a good hour or more, while the bridal party and the closest family are whisked away to pose for formal photographs.
While it might seem like the worst, most inopportune moment for taking pictures, it really has to happen exactly then. That's the moment when the bride's appearance is at the apex of its perfection.
Hence, for the guests, it means champagne, canapes, and a period of mixing and milling and mixing, greeting and visiting. It's a distraction, a bit of misdirection, an attempt to disguise what's simply a period of waiting...
Gradually and naturally, once the smalltalk is exhausted, a feeling spreads through the crowd of guests; a sense of having waited long enough, an expectation that the bride and groom should speedily return so that time can flow normally once again.
Also, the guests are getting hungry. Hungry for something more substantial than finger food.
A slow migration begins. The dining room exerts its magnetic pull. The guests don't even pretend to resist, although in this case, the dining room is still off limits. There are tables and chairs; there is a place for every guest, but no one is allowed to take their place and perhaps tear into a breadroll — or, even better, snap off a breadstick or two. Not yet! The red-velvet rope is as impenetrable a barrier as a steel door. The velvet rope has an advantage, though, of letting the guests see, even if they cannot touch.
There is a concession, though: one more tease before dinner, and this tease is both satisfying and engaging. It's something everyone can sink their teeth into. It's posted in two copies, one on either side of the entrance. The last tease before dinner, is the seating chart.
The seating chart is one of the most complex artifacts produced by man. It is the product of many sleepless nights, and headache-inducing days. It is at once a juggling act, an exercise in diplomacy, and a laboratory for defusing potentially explosive familial combinations. No map ever drawn, on earth, on sea, or in outer space, has ever presented a cartographer as daunting a challenge as the seating chart for a wedding reception.
At some point during its contruction — or more likely, during the adjustments that inevitably follow — the list of who-will-not-sit-with-whom is broken on the rack of necessity. The bride and her mother, along with anyone else involved in creating the constellation of guests, holds her breath as she sets two names at the same table — the nitro to someone's glycerine — and prays that manners and the fear of "making a scene" will prevail; that no food will be thrown, no hair will be pulled, no voices will be raised.
And all the people said Amen.
Perhaps I experienced this universal tension, this perturbation in the Force; maybe that's why I found myself holding my breath. What reason did I have, really, to patiently and opportunistically (no pressure!) wend my way toward the seating chart? I didn't need to see it; Robin had already told us the composition of our table, the Friends table. I guess I wanted a confirmation in black and white, and I did want to know where in the dining room our table was placed, and what tables (and people) were near.
And of course — and at this thought I found myself holding my breath once again — I wanted to see how close, physically, I'd be, vis-à-vis Amber.
I also hoped and nearly prayed that Kass and Tamara would end up at the very next table, exactly at our backs, so I had only to lean back in my chair to find company and encouragement. If I was lucky, just the sight of the lithe, diminutive Kass and her iron fist would be enough to keep Amber in line.
On my way there, I didn't run into Kass or Tamara in the flesh, but suddenly out of the blue, I found myself standing next to Kitty, of all people. "I love your dress!" I truthfully and spontaneously exclaimed. "It's so cool and dramatic!"
"Do you really think so?" she asked, full of uncertainty. "I love it, but now, seeing what everyone else is wearing, I'm afraid my choice is just too much." Her dress was definitely NOT too much, but it was a lot: she was sheathed in a jet black, floor-length dress. The material had a little shine to it that was more apparent when she moved. It was also less opaque that it seemed at first glance. Certainly the neckline was daring, but even more daring was the split up the length of her right leg. "You can't wear any underwear with this one," she confided. "Can you tell?"
"I guess it depends on how far that split opens at the top," I told her, smiling. She giggled. "What material is that?" I asked her. "Can I feel it? It looks super-light."
"It's called georgette," she replied, "it's a silk blend. Silk and something synthetic. Are you sure I didn't go too far? It's not over the top?"
"No, Kitty, honest and truly, I love it. It's not too much. You look amazing."
"I like your dress, too," she told me, looking me up and down. I was wearing a tea-stained floor length dress with long, tight, lace sleeves. The collar showed a lot of clavicle — which is to say, it was pretty generous with my cleavage.
"I had my doubts about it, especially this part—" I guestured at my chest "—but Max was so enthusiastic—"
Kitty laughed. "Men are such dogs, aren't they?"
"Speaking of," I posed, "Where is Claus?"
She rolled her eyes and gestured through the crowd behind me. "He's got his nose buried in the seating chart. He thinks he's some kind of archeologist — I mean, anthropologist, not that it makes any difference. Come on, quick, the Red Sea is parting." There came an unexpected gap in the wall of people, and with a few quick steps, we found ourselves on either side of Claus, who crouched low with his face inches from the oversized card. He studied the chart with a surprising amount of focus and attention.
"You look like you need a magnifying glass, Mr Holmes," I quipped.
"Oh, hello, Lorelei—" he glanced up at me for a quick moment, then returned his eyes to the chart. "I was just commenting to some young lady — where did she go? — that these seating charts are a fascinating socio-anthropological construct. At best they're designed to minimize or even neutralize nascent conflicts — to prevent arguments or outright fights."
"Is that so?" I asked. Kitty frowned and shook her head. "Don't encourage him," she whispered in a good-natured tone.
"And at worst?" I prompted.
"At worst, they provide material for rom-coms." He laughed. Then, he scratched his head, reminding himself. "Do either of you know the name Oswald Chamberlain?" he asked, pointing at it. When we both responded in the negative, Claus explained, "He's Amber's plus-one. I thought you'd know him, Kitty. You and Amber are so close. Anyway, with a name like that, he could be a politician or a basketball player." After a pause, he added, "Or both, I suppose."
"Robin calls him a man of mystery," I offered.
Claus nodded sagely. "Perhaps he is a cat's paw."
"What's a cat's paw?"
"To tell the truth, I'm not quite sure. The phrase just popped into my head. I'm sure I've looked it up in the past, but at the moment I can't recall." He nodded, making a mental note to himself. "Perhaps Mr Chamberlain can tell us himself."
"Oh, Claus," groaned Kitty affectionately. "Why would he?"
"Ah," Claus observed. "You mean that if he is, in fact, a cat's paw, he would likely be the last person to know."
"No, Claus, that's not what I meant at all. I mean, why not ask him the capital of South Dakota? Why would he know? It's so irrelevant!"
Claus blinked several times at her apparent non sequitur before he was gently pushed away from the seating chart by other interested and curious parties.
During all this, Kitty had stepped forward and put her finger on the Friends table in the diagram. She leaned closer and read the names. After a deep breath, she compared the room layout to the chart, locating our physical table. Then she stepped back to give me a chance to do the same. The names were just as Robin had said.
Before I had a chance to locate Kass and Tamara's table, I saw Kitty's demeanor change. In a moment, she'd gone from social and chatty to serious — with a dash of urgency. In any case, she wasn't smiling now.
"Um," she began, tapping the chart as she spoke. "I see they sat Amber right next to Max."
"Yeah, I saw," I said with a shrug. "I think I'm pretty well resigned to bumping into her. After all, what can I do?"
"I'd think someone would know," she replied.
"Do you mean someone would know there was a potential conflict?" I asked. Kitty gave a series of quick nods, yes.
I wanted to tell her that I doubted Nessa was au courant with Max's affairs of the heart, but something else occurred to me instead. "Maybe Amber asked Nessa to seat her exactly there," I suggested. "I heard she got pretty close to Nessa."
"Good point." Kitty's lips were drawn in a tight line. "Still..."
She took my arm and pulled me aside, in hopes of not being overheard.
"Listen, Lorelei, I have to tell you something, and it really pains me to say it, because — as you know, Amber is one of my oldest and best friends."
"What is it?"
"I feel like I'm betraying a confidence, do you understand?"
"Kitty, don't worry. I know about Max and Amber. They have history."
Kitty, clearly uncomfortable, shook her head. That's not it. She struggled for a moment before she was able to say it out loud. "Amber... she... has never really let go of Max." She looked me in the eye, to see how her news was landing.
"Okay," I acknowledged. "I think I knew that."
"She... sees you as an... interloper. She says that you're the interference, and she's the signal."
I smiled, and would have laughed, if Kitty's expression were not so full of concern and inner conflict.
"She's the meat, and I'm the potatoes," I joked. "Or... I'm the appetizer and she's the main course."
"Oh, Lorelei, come on, I'm being serious!"
"Sorry."
"Anyway... many times, Amber has said that Max is her destiny, and she is his. His destiny, I mean." Another uncomfortable pause. I nodded.
"Amber says that this wedding will be a kind of kamikaze mission for her." She rubbed her cheek nervously as she said the word kamikaze. "Do or die. She said she's going to challenge her destiny, and see how it responds."
"She's going to challenge Max?" I asked, not quite getting it.
"No, not Max — destiny. I don't know what that means. Amber kind of operates in another realm. She... lives..." Kitty released a painful sigh. "Amber lives in her own world. She's very mystical. She believes that this world has to correspond to what she feels and sees in her inner world. Microcosm and macrocosm."
I struggled to find a funny word that rhymed with -cosm, but nothing came to me. So I shook my head. "Is she going to challenge me?" I asked. "I mean, what? Is she going to beat me up?"
"No," Kitty replied, looking a little annoyed. "Look: she feels like — okay, I got it. She feels that her destiny is a promise. That's a thing she says: Your destiny is a promise from the universe. It's a kind of guarantee of how the future will be."
I scrunched up my face and shook my head. It wasn't making sense. "So, she's not going to challenge Max, and she's not going to challenge me? What else can she do?"
Kitty scoffed in frustration.
"Kitty," I told her, "I don't understand, I'm sorry! What does challenge her destiny mean in practical terms? I'm sorry, but I've never heard that phrase before."
Kitty took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. "No, I'm sorry. I felt like I had to warn you, but honestly, I don't know what to warn you about. I have no idea what she has in mind. I'm guessing she wants to stage some kind of showdown, some kind of comparison, I guess, where Max will be forced to choose." She looked me in the face again. "He'll have to choose between you and Amber."
I smiled and shrugged. I felt pretty confident that Max had already made his choice. His choice left Amber in his rear-view mirror, and there was no way for her to break out of it. Even so...
"She's not going to pull some kind of shit at the reception, is she?" I asked.
Kitty looked at me in disbelief. "She's not that kind of person!" she exclaimed.
"Okay," I said once again. "Thanks for telling me. Thanks for the warning."
Kitty's shoulders moved in a kind of half-shrug. "You're welcome." Then she looked me in the eyes with an almost pleading look, and asked, "Can I hug you? I feel really uncomfortable, and I don't want to be alone in this feeling."
"Of course," I replied, and opened my arms.
I didn't know what to make of Kitty's warning. It sounded like she was telling me that Amber was gunning for me, but only in some cosmic sense that didn't matter at all.
Somewhere in the milling and churning, Delphine and I crossed paths again.
"Hey!" she called out. "Did you have any ugly babies yet?"
"Oh yeah, dozens," I shot back, laughing. "What about you?"
"Oh, yeah, me too," she replied. "But I left them with an old woman who lives in the woods. I'm hoping she can provide them with the kind of life that I'm not able to give."
Aunt Doris unfortunately happened to be close enough to hear our exchange, and she exclaimed, almost spitting, "Disgraceful! You girls are simply disgraceful! If your mothers could hear you... Oh!" and she strode off before Delphine could cook up a hot bon mot.
Instead, watching Doris storm off, Delphine bent over sideways, laughing silently, until she came close enough to grip my arm.
"You're really, really, good," she said. "Most people — if I wished dozens of ugly babies on them — would think I was just a mean-spirited bitch. But you—"
"Oh, Delphine," I chuckled. "Poor Aunt Doris! She's going to have a conniption fit before the day is over."
"A conniption— what?"
"Oh, it's something my Dad used to say," I told her. "Never mind."
Delphine nodded. Then she scoffed and waved Aunt Doris out of consideration. "She goes looking for it!" Delphine declared. "She haunts me, hoping I'll say something that will keep her blood pressure up."
In fact, Doris was eyeing the two of us as we spoke. "Can Doris read lips?" I asked.
Delphine, caught up short, blinked at me. "What?" she asked, distracted and confused.
"Never mind," I told her. "Dumb joke."
"Uh, okay," she said, and drew closer to me. "Seriously, though. I was looking for you. There's something I want to ask you."
"Okay." My eyes were twinkling, wondering what new outrage she was preparing. Delphine, gave me a little impatient shake. "Hey! This isn't a joke. I can be serious, too, you know."
"Okay," I conceded. "What did you want to ask me?"
"I heard you have this cousin, Elliot. That's his name, right? Elliot Beerman?"
"Beekman," I corrected. She nodded. I wondered where she was going with this; what kind of joke or prank she was building toward.
"I heard that he's good looking. Somebody said he's like a male version of you — which I honestly cannot imagine, but whatever. I also heard that he's a really nice guy. Is that true? Is all of that true?"
"Uh, yeah, it's true."
She nodded several times. "Nice," she commented.
Then she moved in for the kill: "Is he single?"
THAT was a question I really didn't expect.
"Um, yeah, he's single," I replied.
"Nice," she said once again, nodding as she moved on.
Kass and Tamara were next in my series of random encounters. Tamara was holding forth about the fashion choices of the guests in general, much to Kass' guarded amusement. "You're too severe," she chided Tamara, though she smiled as she said it. "And you ought to keep your voice down. Your voice really carries, you know." Clearly this was well-worn ground for both of them.
"It's what I do," Tamara replied. "It isn't just what I do for a living. It's who I am. I'm resigned to being myself. You should be as well."
When I first met Tamara, she was celebrating the celebrity sale of one of her outfits for a red-carpet event. That night, her Texas accent came out in a slow drawl, but today, in this sunlit afternoon, she was a lot crisper and quicker — to the point of being downright chirpy. It took me a few moments of listening until I finally figured out that when she spoke more quickly, she sounded like Kelly Clarkson, y'all. A catty Kelly Clarkson. Kass' face alternated between expressions of surprise, horror, and laughter.
"Oh, darlin', catch this one — bless her heart — chiffon and mothballs. Oh my."
"Looks like the Salvation Army marked that donation RETURN TO SENDER AND DON'T LOOK BACK."
Kass protested, "Someone will hear you, hon, and they're going to take offense."
"Do you have anything disparaging remarks about what I'm wearing?" I challenged her.
Tamara suppressed a small smile. "It'd be a sin if I did!" she declared. "That's one of mine!" Her critical eye traced me from toe to head and back again. "Twirl for me, hon, slow twirl." I did, and she nodded, grudgingly. "It looks good on you, of course it does, but it's one of my more conventional creations. I wish you'd gone with a bolder choice. You could have made a real statement."
"You mean the one with the silver hot pants, the eighteenth-century corset, and the hoop skirt that was open in the front."
"Exactly!" Tamara agreed, wagging her finger at me. "I have it in my van, if you come to your senses and want to change."
"Tamara, I couldn't wear that dress! I want to fit in here, I don't want to be noticed."
"Hmmph. That dress you're wearing is too good to fit in with the mess most of the people are wearing here."
"Oh, come on, Tamara..."
Tamara sighed. "Fine, fine! I've indulged myself enough, I guess. I can set a rock on my tongue for the rest of the party."
Kass' dress, another of Tamara's creations, was a step out of the norm — very eye-catching, but not too far out. It was a dress that ended a few inches above the knee, made of a dark violet silky cloth that was gathered in large vertical folds. It seemed as though the dress was made from the petals of an enormous flower. The long sleeves that ran from her shoulders to a pair of tight cuffs, were split, so that — depending on how she held herself — her arms where sometimes bare, sometimes hidden. The front was open from neck to waist, but two columns of cloth, carefully bunched together, completely covered her breasts. It was an amazing outfit. It was hard to take your eyes off her.
Tamara's outfit, on the other hand, was far and away the most... um... distinctive dress in the place. Talk about a bold choice and making a statement! She essentially was wearing her own take on a zoot suit. The material was black, with faint, light-brown pin stripes running vertically through the jacket, which descended to the middle of her thighs. The shoulders of the jacket were padded, making her seem even wider than her big-boned frame. She wore a mannish white dress shirt under the jacket, and a pair of bulky, too-wide pants that piled up around her black stiletto ankle boots. A long watch chain hung from the waist of the pants.
"Check this out," she said, letting the watch descend along its chain until it nearly touched the ground. Then she bent her knees, keeping the rest of her body, from knees to head, straight as a board, as she whirled the watch on its chain in a slow, lazy circle.
"How 'bout that, huh?" she demanded. "Pure Cab Calloway, right?"
"It's amazing," I told her. "You are totally unique."
Tamara grinned, straightened up, and slipped the watch back in her pocket. A lot of the guests were watching her now, which seemed to please her.
"Tamara," I asked, "You said you had that eighteenth-century dress in your van — why?"
"What do you mean, why?"
"Did you bring it because you hoped I'd be wearing it?"
"No," she said. "I would have brought it even if you weren't here." She seemed puzzled by my questions.
Kass jumped in. "Tamara always brings a load of dresses."
"Yes, yes, of course!" Tamara affirmed, getting it now. "See? An event like this opens people's hearts and wallets to the world of fashion, of haute couture and even maybe the avant garde. It's important for someone like me to be ready to showcase my creations. Do you know how many connections I've made — how many sales I've made — by letting people see my creations and touch them with their hands? My van isn't a van — it's a traveling showroom. I use it a lot." She thought for a moment, then said, "You've seen everything that's in there. Otherwise I'd let you have a look."
"Oh!" I called, suddenly remembering as I walked away. "Where are you guys sitting? I didn't get a chance to find you on the seating chart. Somebody shoved me out of the way."
"We're stuck in the far corner, way in the back on the left," Kass said. "Somebody told me it's the Singles table, which kind of pissed me off, since we're a couple." She gestured back and forth between her and Tamara.
Tamara grinned. "Now that she's finally out, Kass gets angry when somebody doesn't know."
"Well..." Tass conceded with a shrug.
"Oh, hey!" Tamara exclaimed. She'd suddenly remembered something as well. "Did you see your girl Amber? What she's wearing?" Tamara rolled her eyes dramatically. "Dear Lord. That girl came to a wedding reception — a wedding reception HERE, in a literal mansion — wearing an old tennis dress. Can you believe that? An old tennis dress."
"It's not a tennis dress," Kass protested.
"It certainly looks like a tennis dress. It hangs like a tennis dress. A tennis dress that used to be rust-colored, before somebody left it out in the sun all summer long."
In spite of myself, I burst out laughing. "What's she wearing on her feet?" I asked. "Sneakers?"
"No. She's wearing these transparent sandals." Tamara shrugged. "That girl is lucky she's got a killer body. If she didn't, they would have laughed her out of the place... wearing a faded old rag like that." She shook her head. "You see a woman dressed like that, at an event like this, you know something's shaken loose in the attic. She's not right in the head."
"She's sitting at my table," I told them. "On the chart, she's sitting right next to Max."
"Oh, hell no!" Tamara said. "Hell no! This will not stand! Let's go right now and change those name cards! Right this instant! We'll stick her and her... myrmidon at the Singles table. Kass and I will sit next to you guys! Come on! What do you say?"
"We can't do that," I responded lamely.
"Oh, girl, that woman will pull some kind of shit. You know she will."
I thought about Kitty's warning. I looked at Kass' and Tamara's faces. They were ready to go, ready to act. Kass nodded at me encouragingly.
"No," I told them. "Thanks, but I have to let it play out. I think the only way I'm ever going to be done with this thing is to go through it."
Tamara growled. "Famous last words." She put her hand on my shoulder. "Well, God bless you, Lorelei. You've got a pure and noble heart. Just remember, if you need backup, you know who to call."
Kass grinned. "All you gotta do is whistle."
Max came to find me. "We can go inside now," he said. "The dining room is open." I slipped my arm into his and we walked together.
I couldn't help but ask: "Hey, Max — do you know where Delphine ended up sitting?"
Max laughed. "She's in Purgatory," he said. "Nessa wants her to pay for her sins. Delphine is sitting at a table, alone, with my oldest aunts and uncles." When I responded with a puzzled expression, Max clarified: "It's Nessa's revenge. For the cake, and the white dress, and probably for other things as well. In this space of three tables, Delphine brings the average age down to 68. Nessa actually calculated it."
"Ouch."
"And all the old ones sitting at Delphine's table are hard of hearing, so it doesn't give much range for Delphine's cracks and pranks."
"Yikes!" I reacted. "Clearly, if Nessa ever needs a job, she could help the Devil design torments in Hell. Custom torments. Bespoke retribution."
Max got a good laugh out of that, which I appreciated, but I told him, "Please help me to never, ever get on Nessa's bad side."
"How could you ever do that?" he scoffed, grinning.
We were the first to arrive at our table. "I'm surprised Claus wasn't here first," I said.
"He's over in the corner, making final adjustments to the music system," Max pointed out.
We found our seats, placed between Robin and Lana on our right and Amber and Oswald on our left. "Hmm," was Max's only comment when he saw the arrangement.
I didn't know what to do. I couldn't move the names around without it being obvious — and I didn't want to appear afraid of Amber. It smacked of desperation. I looked at the cards from left to right: Amber, Max, me, Robin, ...
"Max, switch seats with me," I told him. "Let's leave the names where they are, but I'll sit next to Amber."
He looked at me, considering. He made a noncommittal sound. I couldn't tell what he was thinking.
"Please, Max?"
"Okay," he agreed, after a pause. "It's probably a good idea."
"Great!" I exclaimed, and pulled his chair out.
"Wait," he cautioned. "Promise me one thing. Just ONE THING, okay?"
"Sure."
"It's important. Do NOT fight with that woman. Do not argue with her. If she says crazy BS that sets you off, do not respond. Just chill and let it blow on by. If she makes you blow your top, she wins. If she makes you angry, if she makes you fight with her, no matter how it ends, you lose. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand."
"Do you promise?"
"Yes, I promise," I told him. Then I plopped down into his chair, and he sat in mine. Immediately he stretched out his hand for a breadroll.
Robin and Lana came steaming up to the table. They looked a bit frazzled. "Thank God those photos are done!" Robin said.
"I never want to pose for another picture ever again in my life," Lana added.
"Do you think we can order drinks from the table here?" Robin asked. A waitress overheard, and asked what they'd like. After she left, Robin scanned the names, and saw that he'd end up sitting next to Max. He pulled his chair back, offering it to Lana. "Here you go," he said.
After she sat down, she picked up the name card. "This is your seat, Robin."
He sat in her chair and explained, "Those two swapped. We can swap. It doesn't matter."
Claus and Kitty rolled up next. Kitty scanned the cards and said, "Oh," pointing at our mismatched seating.
"I see," Claus said, taking it in. He pulled his chair back, offering it to Kitty. Then he sat in her seat.
"Seating cards are really for people who don't know each other," Claus opined. "Like the poor souls at the Leftover table."
"Is there a Leftover table?" Lana asked.
"It's called the Singles table," Claus explained. "Same thing. In any case, we're all friends here; we can mix and match as we please. We could even play musical chairs."
"But we won't," Kitty announced. "Will we, Claus?"
"No, of course not," he laughed. "It was just an observation."
"Ugh, there's that damn photographer again," Robin groaned. "I hope those drinks get here soon. I'm going to need one if he comes over here."
The drinks did arrive soon after, but the photographer continued to eye our table. As it turned out, he was waiting for people to sit down. As soon as a table was fully seated, he'd run over and snap their picture. Since we were among the last tables to be filled, the photographer kept passing by if he wasn't giving us impatient looks from across the room.
Robin shook his head. "I've got to say, Nessa is a handful. She is VERY demanding, but that photographer fought with her about every single picture. I don't know what the hell he was thinking."
Lana shook her in agreement.
Robin continued, "She would tell him exactly what she wanted — exactly, to a T."
Lana added, "And there was absolutely nothing wrong with anything Nessa wanted. Nothing. It was all very normal, standard wedding stuff. If he just did what she asked, we'd have finished in half the time."
"But this photographer," Robin went on, "had to have his own ideas. He'd insist that he compose the shots his way."
Lana: "Nessa would say, I want these people with this in the background, shot from over there. And the guy would act like she was an idiot, and say, why don't we try blah blah blah blah blah?"
"No wonder you were gone so long!" Claus exclaimed.
"So, what happened?" Kitty asked. "Did they take two of everything?"
"No," Robin sighed. "Nessa took the photographer aside and talked to him for a couple of minutes, and after that he was fine. He just did what she asked."
Lana laughed. "I think she threatened to sic Tag's groomsmen on him. At one point his face went white and he kept glancing at them."
"No," Robin shook his head. "Nessa wouldn't do that." Lana gave a knowing smirk.
Then, while Robin was looking down, Lana mouthed the words OH YES SHE WOULD.
Then Amber arrived.
Suddenly she was standing next to me, looking at her name card. She didn't say hello to anyone. She looked around the table, taking stock of the situation, as if she was in charge and we were her subordinates.
"You're all in the wrong places," she informed us. "I'm going to need every couple to swap seats." Then, pointing first at Max and me, then Robin and Lana, and finally at Claus and Kitty, she made a movement with her fingers, making her middle finger jump over her index finger, to show us how to switch places.
"Not gonna happen," Lana said, and Robin shook his head. "Just sit there," Robin said, gesturing to Oswald's place, "or sit there," he gestured to Amber's place.
Amber didn't react to this little rebellion. She tilted her head so she was looking at me, while I looked up at her.
"Do you want to sit next to me, Lorelei?" she asked in a cool tone. It didn't *sound* confrontational, but the intention was definitely there.
"Do we know each other?" I asked her. "Have we met?"
Her eyebrows went up oh-so-slightly, almost imperceptibly. Max put his hand on my thigh to remind me of my promise. Do not fight with that woman. His gesture wasn't lost on Amber.
"Oh, you're funny," she said. "I didn't know that. Like Carrot Top in a dress. Desperate for a laugh." She took a breath and smiled. "Too bad! Men don't like girls who are funny."
"Then they must love you," I retorted. Max squeezed my thigh. Don't fight with her.
Amber smiled. "Yes, you're right. They do. They do. But it's really the love of one man that we want, isn't it? No woman wants universal adulation. She wants one man to love. To have and to hold. One man to build a home for."
"Excuse me," the photographer interrupted. "Would you mind sitting down, miss? And not there—" he pointed to the seat next to me "—but there." he pointed to the seat next to Claus. In a condescending tone he added, "It's boy-girl, boy-girl. Pretty standard."
"Everyone is in the wrong seat," she told him. "This is my seat. The rest of them need to switch." She made a stirring motion with her hand around the table; a gesture meant to show that three swaps were needed.
"Look, miss," he said, and clearly his patience was wearing thin. His pride had taken a beating at the hands of Nessa, and he was not about to lose this minor skirmish. "I have a lot of photographs to take, and the more time I spend on this table, the less time I have to spend taking pictures of the bride. I can tell you, this bride is not going to care whether you are sitting on the left or the right of your date. She's going to want pictures of herself, smiling and looking beautiful, walking in here on her brand-new husband's arm. So would you please sit down? Right there?" Again he pointed to the seat next to Claus. Amber didn't move.
"Okay," the photographer said, and flustered, played his last cards. "I'm sure that most of the time, in most places — any place other than right here and right now — you're used to being in charge and telling people what to do. But this is a wedding, and here, the bride is the boss, and this bride... well, she is the scariest boss I have ever had."
Robin chuckled. "I believe that!"
"If your issue with the chairs is so overwhelmingly important, I will go find that scary little bride and tell her that she's going to have to wait to make her grand entrance because *you* are holding up the table pictures. Would you like me to do that? I'll just go and talk to her ri—"
Amber didn't wait for him to finish. This wasn't the hill she wanted to die on. With an ill-tempered grimace, she sat next to Claus, and Oswald sat next to me.
"Beautiful!" the photographer exclaimed. He snapped three shots and moved quickly on.
I leaned into Max, resting my shoulder against his chest, and whispered, "My God, Max — it just hit me: this wedding reception has a really high concentration of crazy, scary women! It's almost like a contest to see who's the scariest of them all!"
He looked at me with a facial expression I couldn't decipher. As if he was wary or incredulous; I couldn't decide which.
"Max, what's wrong?" I asked.
"Uh, this contest you're describing," he whispered, "You're not planning on making a late entry, are you?"
My eyes, my mouth gaped in astonishment. "Max! What a thing to say!" I whispered, shocked. "How can you say— how can you even think a thing like that?"
He gave my thigh a gentle squeeze and leaned his head in, putting his mouth close to my ear. I felt his warm, moist breath on my ear and neck as he whispered, "Don't fight with Amber. Please. I'm begging you. Don't play her game. She wants to get a rise out of you. Please?"
As he pulled away, straightening up, I saw Amber's smirk of superiority.
"Everything okay, Lorelei?" she asked in a sweet, polite tone. "Everthing copacetic?"
I hate that goddamn word, copacetic. It really bugs me when people say it. It sounds like mouthwash. I knew it would be too much to imagine that she had somehow discovered that the word irked me, but I wondered anyway.
Max must have read my mind, because he gave my thigh another gentle squeeze.
I simply nodded in reply, not looking at Amber.
"Awww," Amber cooed. "Lorelei, you poor little thing! Your insecurity is showing. You're beginning to realize, aren't you, that you're out of your depth? Max just needed a date for the wedding, and that's what you are: a placeholder, a temp — at best, you're a rebound; not destined for the long haul."
I couldn't help it. I (stupidly) shot back, "A placeholder for what?"
She pulled back, as if surprised by my question. "A placeholder for me," she replied, "Isn't it obvious? Max and I have a shared destiny. You're just an also-ran."
"Hey!" Claus protested, albeit feebly.
But who came to my defense? Not Max or Robin, or any of the women at the table. It was Oswald who spoke up.
"Amber, there's no call to talk like that. This is a wedding, and you're being deliberately rude."
"And you," she snapped, eyes afire, "Are not supposed to talk!"
"I never agreed to any such thing," he contested, but not hotly. Oswald kept his cool.
Amber huffed and puffed, furious at being contradicted.
I took another look at her dress. Honestly, it wasn't bad. She wasn't the best dressed at the table — even Lara beat her there — but it did show off her body pretty explicitly. And — as even Tamara had to admit — Amber's body was killer. Dressed as she was, there was no mystery as to what she looked like naked; you had only to mentally subtract the color of her dress.
But, yeah, if you were catty (and I was feeling pretty catty!), you could call it a tennis dress.
And I was pretty sure I would, before the evening ended.
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
A half-smile played on Claus' lips. He leaned forward, his eyes set on Oswald, our mysterious guest. He half-opened his mouth, ready to speak. I figured he was about to introduce himself to Oswald, but his attention broke and his intention derailed by a sudden change in the music. Claus' head jerked to attention.
The song began with a gentle, rhythmic plink-plink-plink plink-plink-plink over and over, a piano chord that soon was giving the backbeat to a soft, twangy guitar. "Max, what is this?" I asked. "How did you put this on? Where's your remote control?"
"I'm not in command of the music," he confessed. "I only compiled the playlist. The best man is the real MC. He has the app on his phone: he can pause, go forward and back, skip songs... whatever he likes."
Amber fell oddly silent during Claus' explanation. She appeared to be totally focused on his words, and when Claus finished, Amber's expression grew thoughtful. I didn't know what to make of it. But anyway, back to my question...
"So, Claus, what song is this?" I repeated. "It sounds so Sixties, with that twangy guitar."
"You're right," he replied. "It's the Ventures, Theme From A Summer Place."
"I'm surprised that Nessa would pick a song like this. She seems such a modern girl, I wouldn't guess she liked this kind of music."
Amber shot me a dirty look, apropos of what? I didn't know.
"My mother must have slipped this in there," Robin explained. "It's one of her favorite songs."
Claus added, "Yes, it was her. She thought it would be a nice interlude; she figured it would introduce a little calm before the bride comes in."
So, the bride was about to make her appearance. I raised my head and looked around the room. It wasn't clear which door Nessa would enter by. She had several magnificent frames to appear in. Just so you understand the scene, we the guests were seated at tables set in an enormous ballroom. The floor was only slightly smaller than a football field, and the ceiling so high that even a quarterback or a pitcher with a strong arm would have trouble hitting the ceiling — could it be thirty feet high? Higher? The head table was long and straight and stood at the foot of a fabulous divided staircase. In front of it, in the midst of all our tables, a large area had been left open to make room for dancing. Counting the possible entrances: there were two doors, each one massively tall and wide, three floor-to-ceiling windows on the scale of Versailles, and a smaller door that led to the dining room; a room that was smaller than the ballroom, but still large enough to accommodate all of us. The wedding cake was tucked away in a corner of that room.
If I were Nessa, I'd want to come down one side of the divided staircase while Tag descended the other. Then, a dramatic kiss on the landing, finishing the last few steps hand in hand. It seemed the obvious choice, but try as I might, I didn't see any signs of life at the top of the stairs.
Quite abruptly, Amber sat up straight in her chair at full attention. She seemed to be studying the best man — one of Tag's tall, muscular friends — as he strode confidently, dramatically to the center of the room, accompanied by the maid of honor. In one hand the best man held a microphone; in the other, a cell phone — the phone that controlled the music. With practiced coordination, he stopped the music, gave a three-second pause for the talk to die down, and then called for everyone's attention. He pointed out that the waitstaff were charging everyone's glass with champagne. He cautioned us to "not drink it yet! Don't drink it right away! We're going to toast the bride and groom. So just hold your horses! It won't be long." He swept his eyes over the room until he got the nod from one of the staff: everything was ready. Everyone had a glass of bubbly.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, raise your glasses! I present to you for the first time ever, in any time or place, Mr and Mrs Tag Curran!"
Heads swiveled right and left -- which door would they choose? In the end, the pair suddenly, almost shyly, entered through the least obvious, least ostentatious choice: the door that led to the dining room. Perhaps they were admiring the wedding cake before they made their grand entrance?
In any case, they were greeted by applause, cheers, and more applause. Then the best man led us in a toast to the newly-minted couple.
"Robin," I asked, "Is his name actually Tag? Isn't that just a nickname?"
Robin shrugged and shook his head. "I've never heard him called anything else. On every document I've seen, that's his only name. He doesn't even have a middle name, as far as I know."
Amber shot me another look. This one was more intense than the last. She stepped up the intensity: she seemed appalled by me. What is your problem? I muttered to myself.
"And now," the best man informed us in a softer tone, "The happy couple will dance for the first time as man and wife to a song they've chosen as the theme of their wedding." The best man touched his phone once again. He and the maid of honor stepped back, leaving the floor to Nessa and Tag, who faced each other, smiled, and took each other in their arms, ready to dance. Softly at first, then growing gradually louder, the music began.
I recognized it almost instantly, but wasn't 100% sure. "You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin'?" I asked. "That's what this is, isn't it? That's the theme of their wedding?" I swear, I was only asking a question. No judgment intended or expressed.
Amber scoffed loudly. "You don't like anything that anyone does, do you? Nothing is good enough for you, Miss High-and-Mighty. Do you think you know better than everyone? That you're some kind of princess, looking down your royal nose at everyone? I have news for you, girlie, you're not."
"No, of course — I don't think anything like that. I'm just surprised. The song is about a failed relationship, so it just... I don't know..."
"That's right: you don't know. You don't know anything about romance, Lorelei. This song positively drips with romance. Don't you know that Tom Cruise sang this song to Katie Holmes at their wedding?"
"Yeah," I shot back. "Yeah, I did know that. And look how well that turned out!" I regretted it the moment I said it, and so did Max: I felt him gasp quietly, and he gave my thigh a prolonged squeeze.
Amber gestured with her chin toward Max's arm. "He's tugging on your leash, Lorelei. He wants to bring you to heel." She chuckled to herself. "I wonder if he knew how out of control you are when he invited you here. Max, did you know that your date would nothing but criticize? What a shame."
I began a mild protest: "I wasn't... criticizing," but Max whispered, "Let it go," and I did, though I nearly choked on the things I wanted to say to Amber.
The next dance was for Nessa and her father. They danced to Love Is Blue, another Sixties hit.
"Mom chose this one, too," Robin murmured.
"Any objection, your majesty?" Amber asked me in a lofty tone. I shook my head, although honestly, it did strike me as an another odd choice.
Next, Tag danced with his mother, then Tag and Nessa once again danced together, joined by his parents and her parents.
Now that the ceremonial dances were done, and a temporary cease-fire had been called between Amber and me, Claus turned his attention back to Oswald. "Oswald," he called out in a jovial, welcoming tone, "we have you at a disadvantage here. Everyone at this table knows everyone else except for you. So let's all go round the table, say hello to our new friend, and tell him our names." Claus grinned. "You see, until now, for us, you've been a man of mystery!"
"Oh, hardly!" Oswald protested with a laugh.
Claus and Kitty introduced themselves, then Lana and Robin, and finally Max and me. Max leaned forward, wagging his finger at Oswald. "I'm sure I've seen you before—"
Amber interrupted by abruptly standing and declaring that she "hadn't come for all this senseless chitter-chatter." She frowned and shook her head. "It's just mind activity!" She made a cutting motion with her hand, as if to say she wanted none of that.
And then she was gone.
Once she was safely out of earshot, Robin asked, "What the hell does that mean? What's wrong with mind activity? Most of us call it thinking, don't we? She makes it sound like it's a bad thing."
"I've heard her say that a lot," Max said. "But it doesn't mean a thing to me."
"Same here," Claus and Kitty echoed.
Oswald cleared his throat and told us, "I'm pretty sure I know what she means. Like the rest of you, I've heard her say it endlessly, and once I happened to catch her when she was in a talkative mood, so I asked her what she meant by mind activity. She didn't say where she got this idea, but Amber believes that each of us has in our heads something like a radio station. This radio is on all the time. Sometimes it's talk radio. Sometimes it's music. Often it's the same song, played over and over. When Amber talks dismissively about mind activity she means that we've just opened our mouths and let that inner radio play. It's not... intentional. It doesn't serve any purpose — according to her. It's our brain on automatic. Old tapes, repetitions of things we've heard. That's what she means."
"You're an excellent explainer," Claus complimented him.
"Another thing I've often wondered," Lana threw in. "Was Amber ever in a cult? Is she in one now? I kind of think she has the earmarks."
"Ah," Oswald said, taking off his glasses for a moment to polish them. He looked down as he did so. "I wouldn't know. And honestly, as her friend, if she ever was in such a group and I knew it was so, I wouldn't say."
There was a moment of silence. I think we were all impressed by Oswald's loyalty and discretion.
Kitty looked surprised. Claus commented laconically, "That would explain a lot."
Max shook his head, and returned to the question Amber had interrupted by leaving the table. "Oswald, I'm sure I've seen you before. You stuck your head into the family dinner yesterday, didn't you?"
"Yes," he admitted. "Amber wanted to get in, so I asked on her behalf, but of course it was for family only."
"Right," Max acknowledged, "but I've seen you somewhere before that."
A big grin broke out on Oswald's face. "Yes, yes, I wasn't going to say — but you have an excellent memory! I was at the Celestial Lamb on Valentine's Day."
I opened my mouth in a big Ohhh! getting it at once. So did Max. He asked, "You were Amber's date?"
Oswald nodded and smiled. "It was quite an eventful night."
"I'll say!" Max agreed.
Now it was Claus' turn to wag his finger at Oswald. "Oswald, you remind me of someone — of a character in literature. Have you read The Great Gatsby?"
"Oh, I see what's coming," Oswald chuckled. "Yes, I have. Several times."
Claus was pleased with that response. "You put me in mind of the owl-eyed man — do you remember that character?"
"Yes, I do, but Fitzgerald called him the man with the owl-eyed glasses."
Claus, astonished by Oswald's ready response, for once fell silent.
He was revived, though, by the very next song — Chuck Berry's You Never Can Tell (C'est La Vie). Jumping to his feet, he cried, "Come on, Lorelei, dance with me — this is our song!"
Kitty shot him a side-eyed glance and put her hand on his arm. "Down, boy," she cautioned. "If you're dancing with anyone tonight, you're dancing with me."
"Your wish is my command, liebling," he told her, and the two scurried off to the dance floor.
Delphine suddenly appeared, standing behind Amber's empty chair. "Oh my God! Maxie Max Max Max! You have to dance with me! You must! My God! I'm dying! I'm stuck at the Hell table with all the oldies, AND THEY AREN'T EVEN BREATHING! I'm not sure if they're alive or dead!"
"I don't dance, Delphine," Max told her in a quiet, serious tone.
"Oh come on!" she whined. "Just one dance! Just a part of a dance — this one already started, see? Lorelei can lend you out for just one song, can't you, Lore?"
Max shook his head.
"I need to move, so I can feel young and alive again!" she cried. (Such an actress! She seemed genuinely desperate!)
"I'll dance with you, Delphine," Oswald told her.
She turned head and give him a doubtful look. "Can you actually dance?"
"Do you want to discuss it or do you want to move and feel young and alive again?" He challenged her. Without waiting for an answer, Oswald was on his feet and led her away by the hand.
"You know," Robin observed, "Just looking at him, you'd never guess he was such a smooth operator."
"Holy crap!" Lana exclaimed. She'd been watching the pair over her shoulder. "That Oswald sure can cut a rug!"
In fact, Oswald really had moves. He and Delphine were stamping and spinning. He tossed her onto his hip. He tossed her on his other hip. He spun her. He flipped her. He had the whole jitterbug repertoire down pat. The other dancers spread out to make room. Delphine smiled and laughed.
"Max, will you dance with me?" I asked, excited by their performance.
"Didn't you hear what I told Delphine? I don't dance."
"You don't? You mean you won't dance."
He shrugged. "Won't, don't, can't, shan't — whatever."
"But Max, nobody knows how to dance. We all just get out there, jump, wave our ams, and shuffle around."
He shook his head.
The song ended, and a beaming Delphine returned to our table. "Oh Maxie Max Max Max!" she crowed, pummeling his shoulders playfully with her fists. "Have I got a secret to tell you!"
"If it's secret, you shouldn't share it with me, because then it won't be a secret any more," he told her.
"Wow, why are you such a wet blanket?" she asked. "Listen, you will love this one. I guarantee it."
"No, I won't. Women love secrets. I'm a man, so I don't care."
Delphine, taken aback, laughed in disbelief.
"Where is Oswald?" I asked.
Delphine waved her hand dismissively. "He went to look for that idiot Amber." After a quick glance around, she leaned in. "Listen to me, Max! Do you want to know who Oswald is? Do you want to know why he's Amber's plus one?"
Robin and Lana perked up. "*I* want to know!" Lana declared.
"So do I!" I added.
Then it hit me — I understood why Delphine was so excited to tell it.
"He's Amber's cousin!" I guessed.
Delphine opened her mouth wide in a silent howl of laughter. She touched the tip of her nose with her left index finger and pointed at me with her right. "Ding! Ding! Ding!" she cried. "We have a winner! You got it in one!"
"What an irony," Lana observed.
Max just shrugged.
"Oh, my God!" Delphine exclaimed. "What do we have to do to raise a smile on poor old Maxie Max's sad old face?" She pouted, and in a baby-talk voice said, "Oh, come on, Maxie Max Max Max, come on! Won't you gib a widdle smile for us? A widdle widdle smile? A widdly liddly smiley wile?"
Max's stern exterior broke, and after a chuckle, he gave us all a nice smile.
"It's a good thing I'm here to do the heavy lifting," Delphine quipped.
Claus and Kitty returned to the table, followed soon after by Oswald.
"Oh, Oswald!" Delphine called. "You didn't find Amber? No? Maybe a little girl threw a bucket of water on her, and she melted away."
Oswald didn't rise to the bait. "She's trying to get the best man to play some song."
"Really?" Claus interjected. "That's not going to work. If I knew that's what she intended, I would have told her."
"It wouldn't have mattered," Oswald told him. "She would have tried anyway."
Robin twisted in his seat until he could see the head table. "Oh, yeah — there she is, talking to the best man."
Amber was standing directly behind the bride and groom, rattling nonstop to the best man. Nessa gave a few impatient looks behind her. The photographer came near, and it was clear from Nessa's irritated gestures that she didn't want him to waste shots with Amber in the background. He managed to find a creative angle that played up Nessa's profile and left Amber completely out of the shot.
Oblivious to the complications and bridal distress she was creating, Amber did her best to charm the best man. She smiled, she gestured, she posed, she touched his arm, his chest... He stood there, not talking, just... listening?
"He's not listening at all," Lana observed. "He's just looking at her breasts. He's not making the least effort to be subtle. He'll let her talk all day as long he can look down her dress. He probably thinks he's going to get lucky."
I watched Amber for a moment, then had a thought.
"Hey, Max, did you and Amber have a song?"
"A song?"
"Yes, you know: couples — I guess sometimes — they have a song. The first song they danced to? The song that was playing when they first met?"
"Nope," he replied.
"Are you sure?"
He shook his head. "Do you and I have a song?" he asked.
"Uh, no, I guess not. But — does *Amber* think that you two have a song?"
"Who knows? Probably. I wouldn't know."
"Max, why are you so irritable?"
He sighed. "Sorry, I didn't realize that it showed."
"Seriously?"
"Hey." He took me in his arms and he hugged me, rocking me gently. Then he rested his hands on my shoulders and touched my forehead with his own. He spoke so quietly only I could hear. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to take it out on you. But... there's so much... there's way too much female craziness all in one place all at one time. It's overwhelming."
I frowned, not getting it.
"Look, there's my mother, who is nuts. There's my Aunt Viv, who is, uh—" he scratched the back of his head "—something unpredictable straight out of Harry Potter. There's Amber, who is an entire circus — animals included — in herself. There's Delphine. There's Nessa. It's like there are hand grenades rolling everywhere, ready to pop their pins and explode if you happen to touch one. You have to watch your every step."
He stopped for a moment and looked me in the eyes before continuing. "And then, there's you, too, Lorelei. I don't know how on earth you managed to adapt so quickly to all this chaos and these secret wars. It seems for you, it's all natural, which is what I don't get. You see all this insanity as part of the girl-world you women live in — the world you live in now. For me, this is like a girl-power convention that's gone off the rails. I keep wondering whether someone will call in the National Guard."
"Oh, Max," I murmured in what I hoped was a comforting voice.
Just then, the maid of honor walked up to our table and approached Robin. She clutched her cell phone in her hand. "Robin," she told him, "Nessa doesn't want you to give your speech today."
"Okay," he agreed in a chirpy voice. Then, realizing he sounded too happy at her news, he added, "Tell Nessa that I'm disappointed, because I worked SO hard on that speech, but I'll do whatever it takes to make her happy."
The maid of honor's face lit up. She asked if she could say "the whole disappointed thing" again on camera. "Sure," he said.
She fiddled with her phone for a moment, then stepped closer to him. "I'll give you the line, and then you just say what you just said," she told him, "but remember to really sell it, okay? Don't overdo it, but be sincere."
"Got it," he said, and added with an irony that blew right by her, "I can do sincere."
She pressed her head next to his, holding the phone at selfie distance. "I'm here with Robin, the brother of the bride, and I have to give him some bad news!" she exclaimed with a pout. "Nessa doesn't want him to give his after-dinner speech. She doesn't think there'll be enough time."
"I have to say I'm disappointed," Robin recited. "I really put my heart into that piece. But... if NOT giving that speech is what it takes to make my little sister happy on her wedding day..." he nodded significantly "... then I won't give the speech."
"There you have it!" the little maid of honor exclaimed, and stopped the video. "That was perfect!" she told him.
"Happy to help," he told her, stifling a smile.
After the girl was gone, Robin told us, "That girl and my sister are doing this thing of trying to mutually boost their online presence. They want to be influencers, you know?" He shrugged. "I'm getting used to being their straight man. Most of the time, it's cute."
Now that the video was complete and the maid of honor gone, servers rushed in to serve our dinners. I noticed that Delphine was sitting next to Oswald, in Amber's place.
"What's up with Amber?" I asked, turning to look.
"Oh, she's in trouble," Delphine announced. "Nessa's mother and my mother are clearing her away from the head table. Those two are terrible when they gang up on somebody. Watch — they keep pushing her back, first an inch, then another inch... I don't think Amber's even aware of it. It's a shove on the installment plan." In fact, they'd already moved Amber two full yards away from Nessa, who was smiling once again.
My attention was so strongly drawn to Amber's spectacle, that I very nearly missed Delphine's next antic. Her hands were poised over Amber's knife and fork. She looked around the table, smiled, and said, "It's so nice of Amber to let me do this. I couldn't bear to eat at the old-age table."
"Delphine!" I exclaimed, genuinely shocked.
"No, Delphine, that is definitely uncool," Robin weighed in.
Delphine's hands were still in the air, hovering over Amber's cutlery. With a tone of utter distress and pleading, she whined, "But it's awful over there! It's like Mar-a-Lago — everyone's a thousand years old!"
A snorted laugh almost escaped from Max, but he stifled it.
Robin leaned in. "It's your penance, Delphine. You made that girl believe that you were going to jump out of her wedding cake."
Delphine hesitated, pulled back her hands a millimeter or two, then Robin added, "... in a bikini."
Delphine gave a tiny whining noise. Robin pressed on, "You made her think that Tag asked you to do it."
Delphine looked up, surprised. "Did she really believe it?"
Robin nodded. "She asked him if he really did ask you." He paused for effect. "She was really upset."
"Oh," Delphine acknowledged in a small voice. "I didn't mean— I just—" Her mouth twisted to the right in rueful surrender. "Okay," she murmured, and like a chastened child got up and walked away, her head down.
"I almost feel bad for her," I said.
Robin scoffed and shook his head. "With her, everything's an act."
Kitty said, "Wow, Robin! I wish my brother stood up for me the way you stood up for Nessa there."
"Yeah," I added. "I wish I had a brother like you."
"But, Lorelei," Kitty pointed out, "You have your cousin Elliot. Isn't he like a brother to you?"
"Oh, yes, I guess he is," I agreed, weakly.
"When is he coming back?" Claus queried.
"Ah, yeah. Wednesday."
"Wednesday?" Kitty repeated. "You mean this Wednesday?"
"Yes, Elliot and his dad will be in town. They're arriving Wednesday."
I could see that Kitty wanted more details, but Amber chose that moment to return. Looking at the disordered angle her chair was left in, she groused, "Somebody's been sitting in my chair." Max nearly spit his water — barely managing not to — then broke into convulsive laughter — he couldn't stop.
"What is so funny?" Amber asked, but not in an angry way. Her mood was changed, strange. Perhaps her encounter with the two mothers caused her to dial down her aggression. She seemed puzzled, uncertain. A very un-Amber look.
"I get it," Robin, shaking his head, showed a slight grin. "It's The Three Bears."
"What?" Amber asked, still on her feet, straightening her chair.
"You know, Momma Bear, Poppa Bear, Baby Bear? Somebody's been sitting in my chair." Robin explained. Max had quieted, and was using his napkin to dry his eyes and nose.
"Oh," Amber acknowledged, getting it, but not laughing. Then, more to herself than to us, she muttered, "Why is everything going the wrong way? Why is everyone being so difficult?"
Oswald quietly answered, "Perhaps it's a sign."
She looked down at him, her jaw working, and for the first time, I almost felt sorry for her. I expected fury from her. I expected lava-intensity anger. I expected her to melt Oswald down to scrap and have someone cart off his remains. Instead, she had an almost vulnerable expression. It was a look that said if one more thing goes sideways, I'm going to break down and cry.
But... she didn't cry. The vulnerable expression was short-lived. It was there, then it was gone, replaced by the usual haughty, condescending Amber face. She sat down, surveyed her dinner, and took a sip of wine.
The food was excellent. It was consumed mostly in silence, punctuated at intervals by guests tapping their glasses with a spoon, so the bride and groom would kiss.
I don't know how many times that ding-ding-ding rang out before it began to seem tiresome, at least to me. Of course I didn't complain, it would have been rude, to say nothing of the ammunition I'd be giving Amber to use against me. However, Tag, the groom, seemed sensitive to it — he led Nessa out to the middle of the floor, took her in his arms, and swept her off her feet. He carried her down, held her horizontal, a foot above the ground. Her mouth opened in astonished delight and he kissed her. Both of them closed their eyes and melted into each other. It was a long, passionate kiss. The room filled with hoots, cheers, and applause — that only increased, the longer they stayed there, lips locked. Nessa's hair spread like a halo around her head, and her skirt had the effect of a three-dimensional snow angel. Tag held her, effortlessly, while cameras flashed and clicked. The photographer, in a wild moment, slid in on his knees and caught a low, dramatic angle.
At last the happy couple stood to their feet. Nessa, blushing, breast heaving as she tried to catch her breath, touched her hair, her dress, here and there, as if it were possible for anything in her look to be even slightly out of place. Tag held her with one hand, and raised the other high, calling for our attention and silence. He then made a pretty little speech about having many, many kisses to give his lovely wife, and so on and so forth, and yet, could we consume the rest of our meal without the calls for a kiss? There was much to follow, he reminded us all. The cutting of the cake, the bouquet, the garter...
"That was cleverly done," Robin commented approvingly.
"That was pretty damn hot!" Claus exclaimed. "And did you see the slide from that photographer! I hope someone got a picture!"
The waitstaff began to circulate, some of them collecting plates, knives, forks, while a second group laid out dessert forks and coffee spoons.Some guests took the opportunity to visit.
From the corner of my eye I perceived Amber stiffen. She sat up a little straighter (thought that hardly seemed possible) and she touched Oswald's arm. He nodded in acknowledgment.
She was reacting to the approach of Tamara and Kass. Kass, if you recall, had stunned Amber with an uppercut to the stomach on Valentine's Day. Tamara arrived with a smirk on her face, but Kass studiously avoided reacting in any way to Amber's presence. Introductions were made.
Tamara commented, "This looks like a lovely table. Everybody friends, every one of you known to the others. And see? None of you feel the need to rise up and circulate. You're perfectly happy with your company."
"Does that mean that you are not?" Claus asked.
"In the first place," Kass replied, "and I don't want to complain, but they stuck us at the Singles table. We're a couple!" Tamara smiled as she gave Kass a quick sideways squeeze. It clearly wasn't an issue for her, and Kass let it drop.
"No, the real problem is a clown named Edison," Tamara told us. "He started off with inappropriate remarks to every woman at the table, and when he realized that Kass and I are lesbians, his rudeness knew no bounds." She shook her head in disapproval.
"Edison went to school with most of us." Max said. "I didn't realize he was such a creep."
"Well of course you didn't know," Tamara answered. "He wasn't trying to get into your pants."
"I remember Edison," Claus commented. "He was usually polite, but he was never kind."
"Edison is a pig," Kitty said. "Period. Exclamation point."
Amber then declared, "No one cares about this Emerson creep. We're lowering ourselves by talking about him."
"Edison," Robin corrected.
"Whatever," Amber replied.
I didn't add my own unpleasant experience with Edison, back at the mall, where he openly stared up my skirt, then came to talk to me about it. I didn't see any point in mentioning it.
Delphine wandered up and joined the party. We all engaged in what Amber would call mind activity. While we chattered, the wedding cake was cut and pieces distributed. A wave of waitstaff poured coffee and tea.
Our conversation was very entertaining, and would have continued, were we not interrupted by the best man, who stood in the middle of the dance floor. Next to him stood Nessa, who smiled a devious, devilish smile. She held her bouquet.
"Oh, no," I groaned softly. Delphine was the only one who heard me. She rolled her eyes in solidarity.
"I'd like to ask all the single women to come down here," the best man intoned. "Come on down, don't be shy! It's time for the bouquet toss."
Amber stood up and brushed off the front of her dress.
"Oh, you know, I was wondering..." Tamara said, her eyes on Amber's dress, but speaking to no one in particular "... did anyone see a tennis court on the grounds here? You'd think in the midst of this opulence, there'd be a tennis court."
"I'm going to give a hard pass to the coin toss," Delphine declared.
"Me, too," I agreed.
"I'm married," Kitty said, taking Claus's arm. "Me, too," Lana agreed, taking Robin's.
"I am not available," Kass announced, hugging Tamara's arm.
Once six or seven girls assembled on the dance floor, doe-like blondes with long, straight hair, Amber made her way into their midst. The girls flexed their arms, elbowing, jostling for position.
We would have missed out on the experience entirely — exactly as we intended — if it weren't for the meddlesome mothers in attendance. Delphine's mother, Nessa's mother, and Max's mother Melissa came and rousted us, shooing us like chickens onto the floor. Delphine and I made our way to the very back, with some distance between us and the last row of hopeful bouquet-catchers.
"Hey, girl," Delphine called to me, gesturing with her chin toward Nessa. "Your future mother-in-law is trying to put her thumb on the scale."
In fact, there was Melissa, bright-eyed, smiling, talking to Nessa earnestly, full of enthusiasm. She didn't point or gesture, but Nessa turned her head and looked me right in the eye.
"Oh, crap!" I exclaimed. "I'm a target! She's locked on to me!"
Nessa settled herself in her stance and gave two short wind-up arcs with her arm, sensing the weight, judging the air resistance. One-handed, she flipped the bouquet over, bringing a flatter, more even surface to the top. She rocked her head and rolled her shoulders, loosening up.
"Don't worry," Delphine told me, with a conspiratorial grin. "Nessa's the pitcher on her baseball team, so she's got a great arm and a great aim, but..." at that point Nessa let the bouquet go, and it rose in a neat arc. If it were a normal ceiling, if it weren't so incredibly high, the flowers would have hit mid-flight and fallen to a girl in the middle of the crowd. Instead, there was nothing to impede that perfect curve. I looked up, astonished. It was clear where the arc landed. Fatalistically, I watch the missile descend, almost seeing the trace of the neat curve beginning at Nessa's hand and ending with my face. I heard the laments of the girls who'd struggled so manfully to stake a place in the front lines, crying out in disappointment as they realized that the shot came off well above their heads. I could have easily stepped out of the way. Maybe I could have yanked the girl in front of me backward, so the arc could end with her rather than me. Unfortunately, my body didn't respond. I felt unable to move. And then—
Delphine shot into the air, her hip striking my shoulder, shoving me out of the way. Did she want the bouquet?
But no— as the bouquet came down, Delphine gave it a slight, delicate touch with her fingertips, the smallest possible push, and the bouquet was deflected, landing squarely in the arms of an anxious debutant, who clutched it eagerly and squealed like a little girl, spilling over with unrepressed delight.
"Yeah," Delphine continued, grinning a mad grin. "I was saying, Nessa's the pitcher on her baseball team, but I'm the goalkeeper on my soccer team. It's hard to get 'em past me."
"Excellent!" I softly cried, and gave her a hug. While we stood there laughing, Melissa came up, tight-lipped, disapproving.
"I saw you girls, I saw you." She did that thing where she pointed with two fingers at her own eyes, then pointed those fingers at us. "We all know who was meant to catch that bouquet, and that's what counts."
"I'm sorry, Aunt Melissa," Delphine told her, feigning the very picture of disappointment. "I tried to grab it... I tried, I really tried, but you saw what happened."
The corner of Melissa's lip twitched. She wanted to laugh, I could see it. At last she smiled and said, "I saw you bat that thing away, Delphine! I know your moves! Your mother's dragged me to all your soccer games."
"I guess instinct just took over," Delphine replied.
Melissa shook her head, smiling, amused, not really disappointed. She touched my arm. "At least you were there for it," she said, and walked away.
"Whoa!" Delphine exclaimed after Melissa was out of earshot. "Aunt Melissa's got it bad for you! She's got it real bad! You better watch out, Lorelei. I bet she's already scouting venues for next year for you and Max."
"Yeah," I said. "She wants those grandbabies."
"Yikes!" Delphine cried, and clutched her stomach. "Did you tell her that I cursed you, and that all your babies will be ugly as sin?"
"No, Delphine, somehow I didn't mention that."
She elbowed and poked me until at last I laughed, and then we made our way back to the Friends table.
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
Although Nessa amused herself by sending conflicting messages to her brother Robin about his after-dinner speech (yes speech / no speech / yes speech / no speech), she was intent on having all the elements of a traditional American wedding. She demanded the full article: nothing left out; no expense spared — after all, why wouldn't she? She wasn't footing the bill!
I mention her desire for completeness, because there is one ceremonial item in the repertoire that many weddings skip for reasons of delicacy.
That event is the garter toss.
Claus began to narrate this peculiar little sub-ceremony, but I only caught a word here and there. He threw out the words atavistic and throwback; he wrapped it all in anthropological terms, describing it as a remnant of a primitive ritual. Before Kitty shushed him, and enforced that shushing with a put-a-lid-on-it glance that only a wife can give her husband, I heard the words ribald and raucous.
In the absence of Claus' more capable analysis, I'll do my best to explain:
The garter toss begins with the virginal bride, dressed all in white: pristine, unsullied, like a field of snow. She is sat in a chair in full view of the company, who watch as the groom slips his hands under her dress. His fingers begin with her pretty little foot and ankle, and then they climb her smooth, perfect leg, higher and higher — encouraged by the hoots, catcalls, and cheers of the guests — until his fingertips encounter the lone garter.
He slowly slips it off her leg, sampling the sensation of touching her luscious leg all the way down. Once he slips the tiny bit of lingerie free from her ankle and foot, he stands and holds the item of intimate wear over his head: a prize for all to see. It's an obvious suggestion of the far greater intimacies the couple will enjoy later on. The groom is making a very public, visible, almost crude claim over his bride's nubile body.
Now that the garter has been seen by everyone, the pack of bachelors assemble: puffing and strutting, confident in their virility.
This toss has a very different character than the bouquet toss. Its literal arc is in strong contrast. While the bouquet has a solid, almost aerodynamic construction, The bridal garter is a pretty, flimsy bit of fluff, fitted out with frills and lace. It's difficult to throw something so light and airy. For that reason, Tag, like many grooms before him, resorted to the expedient of launching the garter over his shoulder, stretching it out and firing it, like a large rubber band.
While the bachelors wait, they don't jostle and jockey for position, the way the women did. The women were anxious and hopeful; some were quite determined.
The men, on the other hand, are casual. They feign nonchalance. They stand in a disordered clump, as if they were waiting for a bus, or standing in line for the bathroom.
But the moment the garter is shot into their midst, everything changes. The young bucks act, they move: single-minded. Their reflexes snap instinctively, like dogs competing for a scrap of meat. There's a quick, low-key scuffle, and almost immediately, one man emerges triumphant, holding the garter high.
Then a question emerges: Where is the woman who caught the bouquet? She's off somewhere in the back, basking in her luck and in the envy of her fellow debutants. Stirred from her reverie, she is called back onto the scene. She's surprised. The call is unexpected. You can see from her face and demeanor that she's puzzled. Why is her presence required? In her mind, catching the bouquet was the beginning and end of it. However, the bouquet comes with an obligation. An obligation which she may or may not be pleased to submit to.
The poor damsel, the catcher of the bouquet, is now sat in the same chair occupied a few moments earlier by the bride. Now *she* is the center of attention. The bouquet is taken from her — temporarily, and only because it would get in the way of what happens next. Now that her hands are free, the groom takes hold of one of the girl's hands, while the bride clasps the other. They hold her hands up, in the universal gesture of surrender. Don't shoot! I only caught the bouquet!
While the newlyweds casually restrain the girl, the man who caught the garter stands facing her. It doesn't matter who he is to the girl in the chair, or who she is to him. He could be her boyfriend. They could be perfect strangers to each other. If he'd been a bit faster and stronger and hadn't consumed so much alcohol, the man could have been Edison, who Kitty described as a pig. Luckily, it's someone far more agreeable. The man who caught the garter is one of Tag's groomsmen: a tall, fit, dangerously handsome fellow who'd be perfectly cast as a model or as an athlete. Perhaps he's both. He smiles his charming smile at the girl and gets on one knee. Looking her full in the face, he takes her right foot in his hand and slips the garter onto her ankle.
If she didn't know what was coming, it must be clear to her by now. She blushes like a stop light. She murmurs something no one can hear. She takes a deep breath and holds it.
She wiggles. She makes indistinct sounds of protest. Her dress is not as long as the bride's; in fact, it ends above her knees, and we can see the bachelor's fingertips encounter the soft, delicate skin of her inner thigh. Her legs twitch. Instinctively she wants to jerk the hem of her dress lower, but her hands are held by the newlywed couple.
She squeals. She stamps her free foot. She lets out a squeak and a high-pitched oh my!
All that time, the garter, fed by the bachelor's fingers, works its way higher and higher. The crowd laughs at her discomfort; they howl and hoot their encouragement and excitement.
Until finally... the girl's knees snap sharply together, arresting the garter's progress and trapping the man's left hand.
As discretely as he can, the man whispers to her, "You have to let my hand go," and she opens her soft fleshy prison ever so slightly, allowing him to extract his hand from her inner thighs.
But her trials are not yet ended. Guided by the best man's voice, the girl is told that she must allow the man to redeem the garter with a kiss — which she grants — and then back he goes, under her skirt once again, to fish for his garter.
She takes a deep breath and swallows hard. He traces the length of her leg, takes hold of the garter, and boldly lets his hand rest for a moment between her warm thighs. She gasps. She looks him in the face, and they stare at each other as slowly he draws the garter down to her ankle, pulls it over her shoe, and stands up, victorious once more, holding the garter over his head.
The girl, all nerves and blushes, grabs her bouquet once more and disappears into the crowd.
The ceremonial oddities and obligations all end exactly there. Now that the tension and the suggestive excitement are over, a clear breakpoint appears. Many guests, maybe as many as half, decide to roll up their tents and begin the journey home. They slip away, or tender their congratulations and goodbyes, leaving behind tables littered with dirty cake dishes and bunched-up napkins, surrounded by a disordered mess of chairs.
However, the reception doesn't end there. Three things are yet to come: dancing, drinking, and dessert.
As far as dancing: there was plenty of time, space, and music. Drinking? The open bar was still open and pouring freely. Regarding dessert: The catering staff had begun to assemble the dessert buffet, but at present had only laid out tiny dishes, forks, and baskets and bowls of fruit.
The best man had so far played the role of an excellent Master of Ceremonies. He'd put a brave, smiling face on all the frilly, girly, princess-like atmosphere and activities that filled the day so far. He had endured. He joked, he cajoled, he explained, he guided. He put his all into the role, and his performance pleased everyone. And yet, while he so excellently executed those duties, he'd been waiting and watching. Quite specifically, he'd been biding his time until the business with the garter was finished. THAT was his signal that girly things had ended. THAT was the green light he'd been watching for: The girly things had finished. It was time now for something manly.
He sidled up to the Friends table (and one or two others) and invited the men — and ONLY the men — to join him, the groom, and other virile bucks in the relative peace and tranquility of the terrace out back. No girls allowed. Giggles, squeals, high-pitched exclamations and cries were strictly banned.
The best man waggled a box of Montecristo cigars, in the manner of a tempter. "There are plenty more of these, and we've laid in a good supply of brandy out on the terrace," he informed them. "The girls have had their fun. Now we'll have a little Man Time."
Max, Robin, and Claus didn't need to hear anything more. As they stood, the best man leaned forward toward Oswald, who remained seated, not moving.
"I'm sorry I don't know your name, friend," he told him, extending his hand, "but I hope it's clear that you're welcome to come smoke and drink with us."
"I appreciate the offer," Oswald replied, shaking the proffered hand, "but I'm going to hang back here."
The best man nodded. "Suit yourself! Still, if you change your mind..." gesturing with his head in the direction of the terrace.
Before Max left with the boys, I put my hand on his arm. "Max?"
He stopped and smiled down at me.
"Max, before the night is over, will you dance with me? Just one dance?"
He sighed heavily and shook his head. "I've told you Lorelei, and I'm sorry, but I don't dance."
I was ready to beg. "But I haven't danced at all!" I pouted. "Not even once!"
Oswald, observing the impasse, offered his services. "I'll dance with you, Lorelei."
"There you go!" Max exclaimed, happy to be let off the hook.
"You don't mind?"
"No, of course I don't mind. I'm going to go have some fun with the boys. I want you to have fun, too. Knock yourself out."
The men made their way outside and around the back, toward the sea. Max joined the stream of bodies. I watched his broad shoulders receding. He didn't look back. I guess the men felt the need for a physical separation from all the female foolishness going on inside the building. In any case, they were gone.
While Oswald and I wended our way among the tables on our way to the dance floor, I told him that I admired the way he stood up for Amber, "It was nice, the way you were there for her."
"Well," he replied, "she's my cousin and she's my friend." He smiled. "I know she's a handful and a half for a lot of you, but as I said, she's my cousin and she's my friend."
I nodded.
"Loyalty is important," Oswald added. "At least to me."
Just before arriving at the dance floor, we found our way blocked by a multitude of hastily-abandoned chairs. The two of us pushed them back in place at their tables or at least pushed them out of our way. While we worked, I realized there was no one to hear, so I paused, resting my hand on the back of a chair, and asked him, "Oswald, do you know what Amber's plan is?"
"Plan?"
"I don't ask you to betray her trust, but did she come here, to the reception, with any specific... action in mind? Is she planning on confronting somebody? Max? Me?"
He studied my face for a moment before answering. "I don't think Amber has a plan, any more than she had a plan on Valentine's Day." He hesitated a moment, while I remembered Kitty's warning of a kamikaze mission. "Naturally, she didn't confide in me, but I believe..." he said, thinking it through, coming on it slowly "... that if she *did* have a plan, it wouldn't go beyond vini, vidi, vici — I came, I saw, I won? The way that Amber's mind works, I think she'd convince herself that simply showing up would be enough. But clearly she underestimated you. I think she expected to be a strong contrast to you. So strong, that Max would drop you and run to her."
"Do you really think so?" I didn't buy it.
"Yes, I do," he said. "I wish you wouldn't worry. Clearly she had no idea of the depth of feeling between you and Max." His owl-like eyes blinked. "I think by now, Amber knows she lost." He said this last with a kind smile, tinged with regret — regret for his cousin, his friend.
There was a noise behind me. When I turned, I saw there were still four chairs blocking the way to the dance floor — four chairs carelessly cast aside, their legs interlocked. A young man was removing them from the other side, from the direction of the dance floor.
Imagine my disgust when I realized that he was none other than Edison. His movements were brusque, almost violent. He pulled the chairs noisily, shaking them free, and dropping them once he'd extracted them. He'd already left two chairs on their sides, lying on the floor.
"Clearing the way for you, dollface," he said. "Just like Prince Charming, coming for the Sleeping Beauty."
"Uh, thanks," I responded weakly. "You really don't have to do that. We've got it." His face was flushed. The first two buttons of his shirt were undone, and his tie, unknotted, was draped over his neck like a scarf. "You're drunk, aren't you," I observed.
"Ain't life grand?" he responded. "Free booze, for the win."
I tried to take a step back, but only bumped into Oswald and one of the chairs we'd moved. Oswald himself had nowhere to go.
Edison carelessly tossed the last two chairs out of the way, clearing the path between us. "Let's dance," he growled in a tone of command. He reached forward and grabbed me roughly by the wrist.
"Ow!" I exclaimed as he yanked me toward him. "I'm not dancing with you. I already have a dance partner."
Oswald stepped up next to me and tried to insinuate himself between me and Edison. "She's dancing with me," he told Edison firmly. He grasped Edison's hand. He meant to pull it off my arm, but he couldn't budge it. Edison was the stronger of the two men, and — being drunk — he didn't mind causing pain to either me or Oswald.
"Beat it, four eyes," Edison told him with a smirk.
"I told you: I'm dancing with Lorelei," Oswald insisted, stepping forward, standing on Edison's toes.
"I don't have time for this," Edison scoffed. After a quick glance around, he gave Oswald a shove that landed him on the floor between two tables.
"Hey! Help!" I protested, looking around me. After the recent exodus, maybe half the guests remained, scattered around the vast ballroom. No one was near. No one had seen. No one had heard. The music and the ambient noise covered my cries.
Edison, still with a tight hold on my wrist, tossed two chairs on top of Oswald, to make it harder for him to get up, and harder for him to be seen.
"Come on," he commanded, dragging me like a rag doll onto the dance floor. He pulled me close, his hips pressing into mine, and grinding against me, led me around the dance floor. He danced badly. Worse than badly. He didn't know how to dance at all, and he was too drunk to care. This wasn't about dancing. He moved me around the periphery, placing us as far from Oswald as possible. Then he turned my back to that scene, so I couldn't look for Oswald or see whether anyone was helping him.
"You're so incredibly rude!" I told him. "Let me go!"
His face was so close to mine that I couldn't help but breathe his alcohol-laden breath. "I'm rude?" he challenged, "I'm rude? You're calling me rude? Oh, that's rich!"
"Yes, you're a bully and you're rude. You've hurt Oswald, and ow! you're hurting me!"
"You love it," he scoffed. "And if you don't, you should. It serves you right. I should spank your delicious, naked ass. Now there's a picture! Let me tell you, Lorelei: *You* are the rude one. Yes, you. And you know it. — The way you treated me at the mall? You remember, don't you?"
"I didn't do anything to you at the mall! That was all you! You were the rude one — there as well!"
"You teased me," he continued, accusing me, breathing his words into my face, pressing his body tight against mine, squeezing me hard, hurting my wrist and my waist. "You led me on."
"I did not!"
"You sat down opposite me and opened your legs to me, nice and wide. You showed me everything. THAT was a clear invitation, and you knew it."
"It was not! There was no invitation! It was an accident! It was a moment of inattention."
"Even when you closed your legs, you pointed your shoes directly at me."
"What? Pointed my shoes? What does that mean?"
He gave me an irritated look. "Body language. Just like your mamma taught you. I'm sure she did the same thing." He nodded. "Like daughter, like mother. Looking at you, I'm sure your mother must have been hot to trot. Maybe she still is. Is she?"
"You're disgusting."
"But you know what? I forgive you. I have a big heart, and I'm here to help you. Maybe I'm even here to save you."
He jerked me around the floor a bit more. "You two had a fight," he stated. "You and that snooty, stuck-up Max Errison."
"We didn't fight."
"Yes, you did."
"No, we didn't."
"Then why isn't he dancing with you?"
I didn't answer. I didn't owe him any answer, and besides, it was complicated. Wasn't it? In any case, Edison took my silence as confirmation and encouragement. "Look, dancing with me — like this — it's going to make him jealous. Did you think that dancing with that tubby little owl-eyed guy was going to work? Max wouldn't care an inch. He wouldn't even notice. He'd only laugh." He shook his head, smiling at his own thoughts. He took a deep breath and leaned in, pressing his cheek into mine. I struggled helplessly, unable to free myself. Edison breathed heavily into my neck, telling me, "Dancing with me — that might make him a little jealous. But you know what will REALLY make him jealous. You know. You know what will really get him hot for you?" I could feel him licking his lips. "Knowing that you gave yourself to another man, right here, right now. THAT will light your man on fire."
"No!" I exclaimed. "That is not going to happen!"
"I know a room," he said, "I scouted it out. The bride's changing room. That's where we'll go, and we'll do what you invited me to do to you back there at the mall. Who knows? We might even get caught! Wouldn't that be hot? You, naked, bent over... me standing behind you, doing you hard. Make a great picture."
"I'm not going anywhere with you!"
"Yes, you are. I understand — you extended me an invitation, back at the mall, but then you were too frightened to live up to it. You're still a little timid, but you'll get over it. You made me an offer then, and now you're going to make good on it."
"God damn it!" I shouted. He was squeezing me so tightly I didn't have enough breath to be loud. So I kicked him. He swore and shook me. I kicked him again. He began dragging me off the dance floor. He lifted me up and carried me like a department-store manikin. I kicked, I struggled, I tried to scream. Why didn't anyone see? Why didn't anyone stop him? I worked my mouth, trying to bite his nose, his cheeks, anything. But he held me in a way and twisted his head in a way that made all my attempts useless.
Then, suddenly, he stopped. Max's voice cut in. "Edison, let her go."
"I'm dancing with her," Edison replied. "Can't you see? She's dancing with me."
"No, she's not. Take a big step back, Edison. Take a big step back, away from her. Now."
Edison relaxed. He let out a heavy breath redolent of wine. He released his hold on me and he stepped back, away from me. I rubbed my wrist. It was red. Clearly, a bruise would come.
Now that Edison had let me go, I could see Max, standing next to me, his eyes fixed on Edison. I looked at Max's hands. They were loose, not fists, but Max was ready to fight.
Edison held his hands up in surrender. "Hey, man — hey, Max — Peace. Okay? Peace, Max. Peace. No harm, no foul, right?"
"Just keep walking away," Max told him. "And don't come back. Lorelei's with me."
"Hey, I was only trying to help out. I saw she had nobody to dance with... so I offered... that's all."
"She's dancing with me," Max told him. Edison smiled lamely, drunkenly.
Just then, an embarrassed and slightly battered Oswald appeared, accompanied by two slender men dressed in dark livery. "He's the one," Oswald told them, pointing at Edison.
"I'm going to ask you to come with us, sir," one of them said. "It's time for you to leave."
"No problemo," Edison assured them. "I'm cool. I'm a lover, not a fighter, alright? I came in peace, I'll go in peace."
"Less talking, more walking," the other security man told him, and the two men escorted Edison out of sight and off the grounds.
Max hugged me. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"
"A little," I told him. "He definitely hurt Oswald."
We turned to look, but Oswald had slipped away. "He might have gone to get some first aid," I guessed. "Edison knocked him down and threw chairs on top of him."
"What an asshole," Max said, frowning. "I was going to get him outside and—"
"I'm fine," I assured him. "A little bruised, but fine."
Clearly agitated, Max turned to look toward the exit, but Edison was gone.
"Wow," I said, taking Max's chin in my hand and turning his face to look at me. I reached up and rested my arms on Max's shoulders. "Max! My hero! You came to my rescue." I realized I was trembling. The adrenaline was coursing through my veins. Now that it was too late for me to do anything to Edison, I was on fire. I was activated.
"How could I not?" he replied, putting his hands on my waist.
"How could you not what?" I asked. Distracted by my shaking, I'd lost the thread of the conversation.
"Come to your rescue, silly," he laughed. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine. It's just the adrenaline. Making me shaky."
"Okay," he acknowledged, looking at me closely to be sure I was alright. "Do you want to sit down?"
"No, I told you — I'm fine. You know, I never thought I'd be glad to hear that macho bullshit line, you know? Less talking, more walking. In the moment, though, I loved it."
Max gave a quiet chuckle and gently he pulled me close. The two of us began to shuffle in a clumsy approximation of a dance.
"I shouldn't have left you," he murmured.
"Don't be silly," I replied.
"I should have danced with you when you asked me," he softly told me, in a tone of apology.
Then, there was a shift in the atmosphere. Behind us, the music changed. I don't know what was playing before, but one song ended and another began. Before my mind could process it, before I could give a title to the song, Max kissed me. It was a gentle kiss at first, nothing more than his lips touching mine, oh so lightly. Then another, and another until we kissed each other with a kiss that didn't end. And that song, the song what was playing, is that what inspired Max to kiss me, in front of everyone? It began quietly but then it grew, glowing with power and love, just as Max and I were, consumed and consuming. That song was the most romantic song on earth — for me, at least. From that moment and ever after.
I closed my eyes and dissolved into the moment. Somehow I knew Max's eyes were closed as well. How can a kiss expand and transform the world? How can a mere touching of lips turn into a moment of cosmic consciousness shared by two?
I don't know how a kiss can come to feel this way, but that simple embrace swept away the room, the place, the people, the floor, the ceiling, and even the sky. There was nothing to feel or see or hear but Max and me. We were alone, we two — there was no one else on earth. Suspended in space, floating, lit only by tiny stars twinkling and flickering far off against the black, infinite darkness. My mind was empty. My soul was clean and new. I felt Max's breath in my lungs and knew mine was in his. Max was my air, my oxygen, and I was his. We opened our mouths and let our tongues play, running over each other. It was nothing but joy.
Gradually our oblivion began to fade, and as our personal reality faded, it was replaced by the realization that there was actual objective silence all around us, except for the music. We broke off our kiss, only to find that all eyes were upon us.
Claus' voice broke the silence. Like a ribald, raucous game-show host, he'd commandeered the microphone, addressing the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, I wish we had a spotlight on that couple. Wasn't that beautiful? I think we just saw a child conceived, right here, today, right now, on that dance floor. Come on now, that was some kiss, wasn't it?"
"Oh, Christ," Max muttered, as the guests applauded and laughed. He felt as embarrassed as I did.
"At least he didn't say who we are," I pointed out.
Right on cue, Claus added, "That's our own Max Errison and the lovely Lorelei Gight, everyone! Let's have another big round of applause, and maybe they'll kiss again."
"You may now kiss the bride, am I right?" Robin chortled. He and Lana were nearby.
"My God!" Lana exclaimed, "*I* got pregnant, watching you two kiss like that!"
Claus said something that I didn't get, and he pushed up the volume of the music, just a little. Max and I buried our faces in each other's shoulders and rocked, hiding in each other, shuffling slowly as the song surrounded us.
Then it hit me.
"Oh, my God, Max," I laughed, grabbing him by the lapels and shaking him. "Do you know what this is?"
"The song?"
"Yes, do you know what this is?"
He listened for a moment, then said, "Yeah, it's, uh, After The Love Is Gone by Earth, Wind & Fire."
"No, no — not the title. This! This song is our—"
"Oh, no, don't say it!" He groaned, but in spite of himself he was smiling at the same time.
"It's our song, Max! This is our song!"
"Even if it's about a failed relationship?" he teased, echoing my words from earlier.
"Max, this song is dripping with romance." I echoed Amber's words.
"Just like you and me," he quipped, "Two drips, dripping with romance."
"That sounds kind of dirty," I quipped.
The two of us fell to laughing so hard we bent over double.
Then — as I straightened up, I saw a face in the crowd. Her expression struck me like an arrow through my heart. The look on her face was tragedy, sadness, loss — the face of a person who saw everything they cared about, everything in their world, gathered in a bonfire, burnt to ash, then swept clear away in a flash flood; lost irretrievably, never to be seen again.
It was Amber's face. Her expression — in one word — was stricken. I saw her pain, her dismay, written plainly in large letters. It hurt me to see her hurt that way, in spite of what a terror she'd been.
I stopped laughing and caught my breath.
Robin gave Max a playful swat on the arm and said, "I guess it was worth ditching the Montecristos, wasn't it?"
Max nodded.
I asked, "What are you talking about?"
"Aunt Melissa came running out onto the terrace." Robin explained. "She was in a wild state, and she told us you needed help. So we left behind two expensive cigars and two snifters of brandy so we could come running to your rescue." He smiled, shrugged, and added, "Not that *I* did anything, but..."
"You could go back and see if there are more... Montecristos?" I offered.
"Really?" Max asked. "Do you mean it? Is that okay? Honestly, I'm afraid to leave you alone now."
Robin joked, "Yes, this mansion is turning out to be a terrible neighborhood!"
"Edison's gone," I assured them. "I have nothing to worry about. Anyway, I'd like to take a spin in the dining room. It will give me a chance to walk off this adrenaline. I want to shake it off in a less public setting. Plus, there's flower arrangements and fruit... I'd like to see it."
Lana asked, "Do you think they've put out the dessert buffet yet?"
Robin shook my head. "I doubt it. I'd give it fifteen minutes. They might even kick you out if they aren't ready."
The boys returned to the terrace to hunt up more smokes and brandy. Lana went off to mingle. I directed my steps to the dining room. Honestly, I didn't care much about the flowers or fruit — or even the dessert buffet. I wanted to be alone to let the adrenaline leave my system. I also needed to get a sense of the injuries Edison inflicted. I wasn't going to undress; I wanted some solitude so I could prod my sides and arms a little.
I wandered out of the ballroom, through the small doorway into the dining room. I say "small" even though it was ten or twelve feet high, and wide enough for two large people to walk abreast. It was only small compared to the other doors leading off the ballroom. This was the door from which Nessa and Tag first appeared. The dining room was also where the wedding cake was hidden until it was needed. The remnants of the cake sat in a corner of the ballroom, waiting to be cleared away.
Here in the dining room, long tables had been placed and covered with thick white cotton tablecloths, embellished with table runners. Bowls and baskets of bright, polished fruits added some decorative color. Next to the tables were elaborate flower arrangements resting in cast-iron stands.
I expected the room to be empty, but there were five members of the catering staff in their white aprons, arranging tiny plates and forks.
"Dessert buffet isn't ready yet," one of them sang out.
"I'm not looking for that," I confessed. "I just wanted a little quiet moment. I didn't think you'd be in here."
"Oh, that's fine," the woman told me. "We'll be gone in a minute. When it's time for the desserts—" she looked at her watch "—in about fifteen minutes, it will all come out at once. We'll swoop in like an army."
I nodded. A sixth woman in a white apron carried in a pair of white porcelain gravy boats, each filled with a red syrup.
"What is that?" I couldn't help but ask.
"It's Red Berry Coulis," was the answer. "It's made from raspberries, red currants, and sugar. It goes great on cheesecake and ice cream, among other things. You should try it. Later, of course. Don't stick your finger in there," she added, joking.
The workers made their last adjustments to the napkins and serving implements, and left me alone. "Fifteen minutes," the woman reminded me before disappearing into the kitchen.
Now that I was finally alone, I took some experimental breaths and touched my ribs and sides. For sure, I was going to have some bruises. On my hips, too. My right wrist was pretty red, but it was too early to see a bruise. I sighed. What a thing to happen! I wondered where Oswald had gone, and how badly he'd been hurt. At that thought, I stirred myself, and decided to go find him. I still felt a little high and strangely clear-headed from the adrenaline, but the shakiness had passed, and I was ready to check on the poor guy. He'd tried to stand up for me, and he did get Edison thrown out. If Max hadn't "ditched his Montecristo" and returned, Oswald would have been the one to save me. I needed to thank him and make sure he was alright.
I'd only taken one step toward the door when Amber came in. Her face brought to mind Horatio's line in Hamlet: "more in sorrow than in anger" — but unlike Hamlet's Ghost, Amber had both. Her face bore a hunted, harried look. At the same time, she burned with anger and resentment.
Her mood was a strong contrast to her appearance: as Tamara had observed, Amber has a killer body, and her rust-colored dress clung to her curves and exalted them. She had a fine pair of legs, and her hair seemed more than ever like a mane. I could understand how Max could fall for her — physically, at least.
When she entered the room, her right heel twisted and her hip whacked one of the tables. The blow caused an apple to roll free from one of the baskets. She snatched it up angrily, holding it up, squeezing it, white-knuckled. She fixed me with her eyes, and held the apple in our line of sight. I had the feeling she was imagining that the apple was my face, or head, or neck, and she was crushing the hell out of it.
"You," she uttered, and the word rippled across the room. She gripped the apple fiercely. Her nails pierced its skin.
"All the men in the world," she growled, "Of all the men in the world, you had to steal mine."
"I didn't steal him," I countered. "You abandoned him."
"Liar!" she said. "I took a step back to make him want me, to make him choose me, to make him come to me, and you stepped into that gap, like a thief. Like a common thief. Like that bird that takes another bird's nest."
I knew she was referring to the cuckoo, but I wasn't going to say the word. It might set her off.
I shook my head. "Look," I told her, "I'm sorry you're hurt, but this is life." I shrugged. "You need to move on. Max got over you; you need to get over Max. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going back to my table."
"I love him!" she exclaimed through gritted teeth.
"No," I answered. "You're obsessed with him. It's not the same thing at all."
"You don't know! You know nothing, you little imbecile! I was turning him into a good man, a man worth having, and you took advantage of my work!"
"He was already a good man, a man worth having, long before he met you."
She shook her head.
Again I repeated, "I'm done here. I'm going back to my table."
"No," she hissed. Her eyes roved maniacally around the room. I think she was looking for something to hit me with. She still clutched the apple, her knuckles white. "Not yet. Not until I give you a little payback." She nodded. "A little something, for you and Max to remember."
I took a big step back, away from her, and tried to be ready. If this was going to be a physical fight, I was going to give it everything I had. Edison physically outmatched me, but I figured Amber and I were about on par. If she started something, I sure as hell intended to give her as bad as I got.
She laughed. As if she read my mind, she said, "Do you really think I want to fight you? I could break you like a dry twig. Stupid girl. I don't need to fight you to make you look foolish."
Then, without looking down, without any preamble, without giving the slightest twitch of warning, she grabbed one of the white gravy boats and threw the red syrup at me. It struck me from my knees to my belly button. While she laughed, I looked down at myself. There was a huge red stain on my lovely dress. But actually — it wasn't my dress at all. I'd borrowed it from Tamara. Would that stain come out?
Astonished, dismayed, I looked up at Amber, who, grinning, had the second gravy boat in her hands. She tossed a second dose of the Red Berry Coulis at me. Now I was dripping — not with romance — but with red, sticky syrup.
"Oh, Amber," I sighed, more in pity than anything else, although I was distressed about the dress.
"Oh! Look what you did to yourself, you clumsy cow!" she crowed. It took me a moment before I realized she was echoing Kass' words from Valentine's Day.
Damn it! I thought, looking down at the thick, sweet, fruity liquid as it bled down the front of me. Automatically, I had my arms spread away from my body, to keep them from the mess. I was wide open. If she's following Kass' playbook, her next move is—
Yes, her next move was a gut punch. I had enough time to tense my abs before Amber's uppercut connected, but it stunned me. I stumbled back a few steps, bent over, gasping, and looked into Amber's face. Her expression brought Oswald's words to mind: I think by now, she knows she lost.
Did she? Did Amber know she'd lost?
Maybe she did. Now that she'd thrown some messy crap on me, and now that she'd socked me in the gut, her anger seemed to dissipate, at least a little. Her voice, when she spoke to me, was calmer. I can't say it was kind, but at least it didn't seethe with emotion.
She put her clean hand on my arm and told me, "Breathe into it. You'll be alright. Breathe into it." I say she used her clean hand, because — bent over as I was — I could see her other hand... was it bleeding? No. It was the red berry syrup dripping from her fist. She'd dipped her hand in the sauce, so to speak, when she punched me.
Oswald appeared at the door. Seeing me bent over, a red, dripping stain on the front of me, and Amber's fist, also dripping red, he assumed the worst. He thought Amber had stabbed me. All the red dripping sauce looked like my blood: on my dress, and on Amber's guilty hand.
Horrified, Oswald cried out, "Oh, Amber! What have you done?"
"I haven't done anything, you moron!" she shouted. "I haven't done anything!" Her anger quickly re-ignited. "Fat load of help you were! Why did you even come?"
With that, she hefted the apple she'd been squeezing as a proxy for my throat, and fired it at Oswald. It bounced off his forehead with a loud thwock! and poor Oswald fell backward like a tree, landing for a second time on that elegant floor.
Amber and I both ran toward him, me slightly hobbled by her punch, and when we reached the doorway, I saw Tamara bearing down on us like an Abrams tank, with Kass flying in her slipstream, fists clenched, jaw set. As it turned out, they were following Oswald, and had seen him fall. Then they saw the blood-like syrup, and made the same mistake that Oswald had. Their eyes flashed fire and they came on faster.
Before Tamara and Kass reached us, though, the slender men in dark livery intercepted them. "Hold on, ladies," one of them said. "We've got this." The other approached me, Amber, and Oswald, trying to get a grip on the situation.
"Are you sure?" Tamara challenged. "This woman is bleeding out! This is attempted murder! That woman--" pointing to Amber "--is a would-be assassin, and that woman--" pointing to me "--//is bleeding out///! She needs medical attention, and she--" pointing again at Amber "--should be in handcuffs, at the very least! Is there a doctor in this place? That girl is bleeding out!"
Amber was shocked and frightened by the accusation, even though she knew it wasn't true.
"It's just red syrup," I protested, gasping for breath. "I'm not hurt! She didn't hurt me. It's only berry syrup from the dessert buffet, Taste it." And then I fell over. I don't know why. Maybe the adrenaline wore off and took all my energy with it. Maybe I was faint. Maybe it was all just too damn much — I don't know. What I *do* know is that my legs gave way, and after I hit the floor, there came a flurry of people.
As I lay there, I saw the catering staff, friends, Kitty, and Melissa looking down at me, faces filled with concern. EMTs was called for Oswald, even though he quickly regained consciousness and protested that he was fine.
Amber was escorted to another room.
"Do you want to press charges?" the security man asked me. "The police are on their way. This looks like a clear case of assault."
"No," I told him. "It will only make matters worse. You have to ask Oswald what he thinks, but as far as I'm concerned, it's better forgotten."
"We'll take her particulars and escort her off the property, then," he told me, and went off to make it happen.
I sought out Tamara's face and told her, "Sorry about the dress."
"Oh, doll!" She laughed. "I have a truckload of spares! We'll fix you up with a new one in two shakes! Girl, we'll have you up and dancing again in no time! The night is still young!"
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
In this living game of Clue, it was done in the Dining Room, by the Jealous Ex, with the Gravy Boat.
The whole incident, the entire crime scene, as it were, was quickly shut up inside the dining room, and no one was any the wiser.
You see, the immense ballroom, where the newlyweds and their guests continued to celebrate, connected to the dining room by relatively small door in a corner on a very long wall. The angles of visibility from ballroom to dining room were very few and quite steep. There wasn't a clear view into the dining room unless you happened to be standing right in front of it.
For that reason, less than a dozen people witnessed the event, and all of them were now closeted inside. Outside the door, the reception continued unabated, unaware.
The door was locked to prevent casual discovery.
By a long-standing protocol between the mansion and local first responders, a pair of EMTs, a policewoman, and a police detective all presented themselves dressed in "smart casual" — the better to fit with the festive crowd. They didn't arrive in an ambulance and police car, either. The four drove together, in a specially outfitted SUV with dark-tinted windows. No sirens, no lights.
The idea was to not excite curiosity, to appear inconsequential, to hopefully have zero impact on the festivities, while at the same time providing whatever emergency services were needed.
After quickly verifying that I was only dripping with dessert sauce and not blood, and that I'd simply fainted or fallen, the EMTs concentrated their attention on Oswald. He seemed embarrassed by what happened, and insisted he was fine. They cautioned him about concussions. They shined a penlight in his eyes. They asked him questions and made him follow all sorts of finger movements. As soon as he could escape from the ministrations of the EMTs and the questions from the police, he stepped outside into the open air, danced a jig to display his coordination, and returned to the reception by another door.
The police detective handed me his card "in case you change your mind about pressing charges." I assured him that I wouldn't. He smiled, shrugged, and led his cohort out of the building, into their black SUV, and off the property.
Melissa was itching to fetch Max, but I managed to convince her that I didn't need him worrying and fussing — I only needed to clean myself up and change. He'd be of no help with any of that. Reluctantly, she agreed.
The four women treated me as though I were an invalid. They tried to life me bodily off the floor! "I'm fine, guys," I protested. "I'm not hurt at all. Really! I'm just upset about the dress." Tamara rolled her eyes, scoffed, and waved her hand dismissively. "No, seriously," I assured her. "Do you have a cleaner that you recommend? I mean — will this stain even come out?" I opened and closed my mouth a few times, trying to find the right thing to say. At last I blurted out, "Well, anyway — tell me what the dress costs and I'll pay for it."
"Oh, girl!" she replied, laughing. "Clean it? Pay for it? You most certainly will not!" She shook her head. "Clean it," she repeated scornfully. "I'm not going to clean it, and neither are you! I'm gonna put it in a lovely transparent hanging bag and send it off to your friend Amber — along with the bill. She just bought herself that dress." Tamara chortled. "Easiest sale I ever made."
Puzzled, I asked, "Amber? Pay? But what if she doesn't pay? Tamara, listen — it's not a problem. You don't need to do any of that. I'll be glad to p—"
"Hush, girl," Tamara told me. "I don't want to hear any more talk about what you're going to. And I don't want to hear that P word come out your mouth ever again! Amber is going to pay. If she doesn't pay in a timely manner, I'll see her in court. That dress costs enough to make her little act of vandalism a felony." She nodded several times. "Believe me, honey, she may not want to, but she's gonna pay."
Then, for what seemed the first time, she gave a sober assessment of the damage done. "It's too bad, though. It was a lovely dress, even if it wasn't one of my best. I sure as hell hope somebody took a decent photo of you!" After a single tsk! of regret, she said, "Well, now we've got to fit you out with another one! And I know just the one!"
"Oh, Tamara," I responded anxiously, "Not the one with the hot pants and the half hoop-skirt!"
Kitty's eyes and mouth opened wide in disbelief while Melissa said a wordless Whaat?
"There really is such a dress," Kass assured them, chuckling.
"Naw, not that one," Tamara said, "I was thinking of the crimson off-the-shoulder number — you know the one I mean, Kass?" Then as an afterthought, she added, "And bring a hangin' bag for the dirty dress. A long one."
Kass nodded, smiling, and took off in a flash.
Throughout all the hustle-bustle, the catering staff managed to clean the mess on the floor, to replenish the gravy boats with more red-berry sauce, and to set out the rest of the dessert buffet. That done, they were anxious to clear us out of the room. We were holding up the dessert buffet. A few of the more forward guests were knocking on the door.
One of the staff led us to the bride's changing room — the very one Edison intended to drag me to. There, I stood in a bathtub and slipped out of the dress. Tamara handed me a hanger, and the two of us managed to close it inside the hanging bag without making any more of a mess.
At some point when I wasn't looking, Melissa slipped away.
The stained dress was safely in the bag, and I was still standing in the tub, in nothing but my underwear. My stomach and thighs glistened with red stickiness. "Now what?" I asked (of no one in particular). To Tamara I asked, "You wouldn't have any spare underwear in your van, would you?"
Tamara gave a half-rueful grin. "Unfortunately, I don't," she admitted. "You're going to have to be a brave, bra-less commando, hon." She glanced into the outer room at the replacement dress. "Don't worry, though. This dress covers all your girly bits and then some. And... if anybody does happen to get a glimpse of your charms... well, you've got the body to carry it off."
I reddened, then slipped off my sauce-covered underwear. It was a lovely set, nude in color. Max was a huge fan. I dropped the bra and panties into a small trash bag Kass had managed to find. I sighed as I rinsed the sugary mess from my body, thinking This is the first time I've been naked in front of other women. My high-school locker-room experience was limited in that way: I spent it as a boy, among other boys.
In spite of my embarrassment, the other women took my nakedness as entirely natural; I was the only one blushing, the only one looking at the floor.
The dress Kass brought was beautiful. Tamara called the color crimson but I would have called it cherry — it was a deep, shining red, it positively glowed, like a piece of polished fruit. To call it "off the shoulder" was a bit of an understatement, though. The straps, which were about two inches wide, were placed halfway down my upper arm, and exposed so much of my breasts that it could have served as an illustrated definition of the word cleavage. There was no way I could have worn a bra, even if I had one to wear. The skirt belled out and ended just above my knees, and was covered by a thin, flowing chiffon overskirt that added a whole dimension of depth and highlights to the color.
"It's beautiful!" I gasped to Tamara.
"Eh," she scoffed, smiling, "You make it look good. Hang on, though, we've got to pin up a few spots. Don't worry: they're all safety pins. You won't stick yourself, but if Max — or anybody — gives you a hug and you feel a little pop! somewhere, that's one of the safety's gone off. Then you might have to worry." In a few moments she stuck a pin here, a pin there, tightening up the fit and making the dress seem created specifically for me.
In the end, Tamara looked me over critically, then advised me, "Remember you're my advertisement. See if you can get Oswald or Claus to dance you, make you spin, to show off that skirt."
"And those boobs," Kass added with a spicy grin.
I took Kitty's arm and stepped out of the bride's changing room, then back down a short staircase into the dining room. In the brief time we'd been inside, the dessert buffet had been absolutely ransacked. "The vultures!" Tamara exclaimed. "They left nothing, not even the bones!"
"I didn't know desserts *had* bones," Kass quipped.
My dress got several surprised admiring glances, including a thumbs-up from Nessa herself, and that buoyed me up a bit.
"Here are your two dance partners," Kitty said, laughing, when we arrived at our table. "If they can still stand." Claus and Oswald were leaning on each other like best buddies. From the look of them, they must have been doing shots. (In spite of Oswald's possible concussion!)
Claus looked up at us, red-faced, smiling the self-pleased smile that comes with overconsumption of alcohol — a look shared by Oswald, although Oswald also sported an adventurous lump on his forehead to commemorate Amber beaning him with the apple. I guessed he had a similar lump on the back of his head from his encounter with Edison. I made a serious mental note to caution him about concussions. He'd taken two knocks to the head, and had lost consciousness at least once.
"We're discussing The Great Gatsby," Claus informed us. "Because this fellow here—" he patted Oswald's chest "—reminds me of that character, the owl-eyed man."
"The man with the owl-eyed glasses," Oswald corrected, blinking, owl-like.
"I think in this case, I've gone one better than F. Scott Fitzgerald," Claus told him. "The owl-eyed man scans better."
Kitty, in a bid to change the subject, threw out a question. "Oswald, why did you come with Amber? Do you two have a history?"
Claus, oblivious to Kitty's question, confided to Oswald, "I like you, owl-eyed man, can I tell you that? Listen, do you remember — the owl-eyed man is the only person who came to Gatsby's funeral? The only person. That's a fact."
"It's true," Oswald acknowledged to Claus. Then he turned to Kitty to reply.
"The Great Gatsby is a great novel," Claus declared. "The greatest!"
"Well," Oswald cautioned, "It's a good novel. We can call it a great novel. But the greatest? Let's say it's *one* of the greatest."
"Ah-ah–" Claus protested, but Oswald silenced him by saying, "Claus, please: let's not quibble over superlatives."
Claus, struck by the terse wisdom of the phrase, was speechless — at least long enough for Oswald to finally reply to Kitty.
"Kitty, I came with Amber because she is my cousin and my friend. And— and— I confess that I came mainly because I love weddings. Who can resist a good wedding? And in a place like this? It's been absolutely wonderful! Sitting here with all of you... In spite of a few contretemps, and a couple of lumps on my head, it's turned out far better than I expected or imagined."
Max, who suddenly appeared at my elbow, agreed, saying, "It has been a pretty bumpy ride, hasn't it?"
"Max!" I exclaimed.
"They wouldn't let me into that damn room," Max told me. "I tried going around outside, but the staff headed me off. Are you alright? And where on earth did you get that dress! My god, you're even more beautiful than before! Was that some kind of magical sauce Amber hit you with?"
I could see his eyes were practically glued to my chest, where the naked upper halves of my breasts were dancing. "Oh, Max," I laughed. "You're such a dog!"
"What?" he asked, feigning innocence. "I love this dress! It really shows off your charms."
"Both of them, right?" I quipped.
He wiggled his eyebrows in roguish reply.
"And now—" the amplified voice of the best man cut into the general hubbub "— at this point in the evening, the brother of the bride has a few words he'd like to share with us."
"She finally let him speak," Max chuckled.
Robin, smiling, took the microphone in hand and placed himself on the dance floor, facing the head table, in front of the happy couple.
"First of all, let me welcome you to the family, Tag. I don't think I could find a better match for my little sister. I don't think anyone could." [Pause for applause]
"I've put a lot of thought into what I'd like to share with you... of my many memories of Nessa." Robin grinned. Nessa wagged her finger at him, warningly. Robin continued, "I'll start at the very beginning — the first time I ever laid eyes on her. I remember it like yesterday: It was the day my parents brought Nessa home from the hospital, soon after she was born.
"She was a tiny little thing — not much smaller than she is right now—" [pause for laughter]
"I'm kidding, of course. She was a beautiful baby. Such a beautiful baby! Everybody said so. I remember her dark, dark hair and her impossibly long eyelashes. Even as a child I realized I'd never seen a more lovely, more adorable child.
"I looked up at my parents and I said, I've got two questions for you: One, where did you find her? and two, can you bring her back?"
The room burst into laughter, and continued as Nessa jokingly shook her little fist at Robin, who grinning, barked, "What's the return policy?" and shouted over the noise of the crowd, "She's yours now, Tag! She's yours! You can't give her back! You won't even get store credit!"
Soon after, Tag and Nessa drove off in a BMW convertible. We followed the general exodus to our cars, our footsteps crunching in the driveway. Around us scurried the more scavenger guests making off with the table centerpieces. I leaned into Max, relieved and happy.
"Lorelei?" Kitty called. I heard her hurried footsteps in the gravel behind me. She gently touched my arm and asked, "Hey, Lorelei, listen, you told me that Elliot and his dad are coming back on Wednesday, right? Are they driving up?"
"No, They're flying in early, at Surrebon Airport. I'm going to pick them up."
"Oh, good! Do you think I could invite them for lunch? I know it's sudden, but I'd really love to see them — And you and Max, of course!"
"That's really nice! I'll ask them and let you know — I'm guessing — I mean, I'm sure it'll be fine. I'll give you a call when I've spoken to them."
"Great!" She gave my arm a friendly squeeze and was gone.
We stayed another night at the hotel. Checkout was at 10 AM; otherwise we'd have slept later. Traffic was light; we got home pretty quickly.
And then... Monday: Max went back to work. I unpacked our bags, did laundry, made dinner.
Tuesday: Max went to work, I packed a little bag, and made dinner.
It was strange, very strange, to look at life without Nessa's wedding looming ahead. It had been the focus of... well, everything for... wow. I guess since Christmas Eve. Five months, just about. Was it really only five months ago that we discovered Amber had gone? Disappeared from Max's house?
From then to now, everything pointed like a big bright arrow toward Nessa's wedding. Now that her wedding had passed, what did our future hold? What would *my* future be?
I'd gone from earning a good living as a professional software developer with a solid set of skills and a good reputation, to... what? Now I'm basically a housewife. Was that all I could look forward to? Would I mind if that was all I had to look forward to? And if not that, what?
These were questions I'd have to figure out.
Now that I'd served my purpose, so to speak, as Max's plus-one, one possibility I had to consider was turning back into Elliot. It would be weird to go back, though. It would be weird as hell, but weird or not, it was a possibility I had to consider.
It wasn't a possibility that I wanted to consider, but I couldn't just think about who I wanted to be right now. Who was I going to be? Where did I see myself in five years, ten years? Who would I be when I grew old? I had to look at the possibilities in the life ahead of me. As Elliot, I could earn a good living. I had friends. My Dad was still alive and healthy. As Lorelei, I had Max. I had some domestic skills. I was making friends. Everything in Lorelei's life was nascent, just beginning. I'd need to build my life. Not quite from scratch, but life as Lorelei came with a disclaimer: SOME ASSEMBLY REQUIRED.
Clearly, though, every indication, all my inclinations, all pointed toward my remaining Lorelei forever. I liked the idea. I liked it a lot. I loved being Lorelei. Max loved my being Lorelei. There were a lot of pros to being Lorelei, and the only con was What will I do with my life?
Even if, God forbid, things didn't work out with Max, I'd still love to be Lorelei.
And I had to admit, the question What will I do with my life? was already a question back when I was Elliot. Thinking about it didn't get me anywhere. And sure, if I were Elliot, I could get a job right away, programming. I could, yeah. But would I want to? Was that a good enough reason for giving up being me?
In any case, the questions and possible decisions would have to wait. The plan for this week was all about telling Dad. That was going to be a trip.
Once Dad knew about Lorelei, I felt pretty sure he'd have some input. In any case, it would be wonderful to have his blessing. It would be nice to be able to talk to him on the phone, as his daughter.
So, to the plan: Tuesday night, Max and I had dinner together. Max did his best to be cheerful and upbeat. I was pretty obvious in feeling very Last-Suppery about it. Max kept trying to start a conversation, but all I could manage was terse responses.
"What time does your Dad's flight get in tomorrow?" he asked.
"Eleven."
"Are you... changing tonight? Or will you do it tomorrow, before you leave for the airport?"
"Tonight. That way, I'll be ready to change back again, any time tomorrow, whenever I need to."
"In any case, you'll definitely change back to Lorelei tomorrow night, right?"
I heaved a big breath. "That's the plan," I responded. "If we need to adjust the schedule, I'll send you a text."
He reached over and took my hand. "However long it takes," he said. "Just be sure you come back to me. Promise?"
"I promise," I assured him. "I'll come back to you." I noticed that his plate was empty. He'd finished his meal, while mine? I'd barely even picked at my dinner.
"Lorelei forever," he said, smiling.
"Yep," I agreed. "Lorelei forever."
I stood and looked at the remnants of our dinner. Out of habit I reached for the plates, to carry them to the kitchen. Max stopped me. "I got this," he told me. "I'll clean up. It'll give me something to do, while you're off..."
"Yeah," I acknowledged. I swallowed hard a couple of times, then walked into his arms, burying my face in his shoulder. I hugged him tight, as though afraid of being carried away from him in a flash flood. He held me, without words, as if he had nothing else on earth to do but stand there and hold me.
"I'm scared," I whispered, unsure of whether he could hear me.
"It's okay," he whispered back. "It'll all work out. Remember: he's your Dad. The same man you've always known. Your Dad loves you. You know this."
"Yeah."
"And *I* love you. I'll be here, waiting, until you come back. And if you need me, all you have to do is whistle."
I could feel him smiling.
"Okay."
""
Max offered to drive me to Vivianne's house, but I insisted on calling a cab. And not an Uber, but an honest-to-God taxi cab. It was my way of formally opening a parenthesis, of boxing off a series of events that I needed to do without Max.
Vivianne's husband, Ken, opened the door. He was, as always, red-faced. I could smell alcohol on his breath, but he seemed more cheery than inebriated. "Not drunk, but having drink taken," as the Irish Garda put it.
Viv quickly led me away to her fitting room, and without any preamble, changed me back into Elliot.
"Hello again," she said after I dressed in my old outfit, my last-Elliot things. "There you are."
Yes, there I was. Elliot Beekman. My suitcase held a few days' worth of clothes for my Elliot self, enough for three or four with my Dad. I also brought a pair of pajamas and my male toiletries (shave cream, razor, hair cream).
Viv showed me to a guest room. "I apologize, but I'm going to leave you on your own tonight. You can watch TV. You can read. If you're hungry, help yourself to whatever you find in the kitchen. There are a few items in Tupperware that you can microwave if you like. They're all labeled."
"I've had dinner, thanks."
"Ken will be home. His room is near the front door, by the stairs, opposite the dining room. I'm sure he'd be happy to have your company. There's probably some sports thing on TV. If you do spend time with him, he's a very good listener, but please — please — do NOT mention the medallion or transformations. He doesn't know anything about the subject, and I intend to keep it that way."
"Understood."
"I'll be back late tonight. You'll see me in the kitchen in the morning. We can have breakfast together, and go over the plan one last time."
She turned, and I thought she'd leave at that point. Instead, she hesitated for a few moments, weighing something in her mind. Then, after a glance at my face, she added, "It's probably a little too late to point this out, except to prepare a nice big I told you so for later, but... Do you remember when you were a little girl? At the mall?"
"Yes, of course."
"And you called out to Kitty."
"Right."
"And you know, you really shouldn't have. We discussed it. In the end, it turned out to not be a big deal, but it was an unnecessary complication that you created all by yourself."
I shrugged helplessly. It seemed more irrelevant than ever, so long after the fact. "Okay," I admitted, "But why bring it up now?"
"I think you've done the same thing again by agreeing to have lunch with Kitty tomorrow."
"Why? What does it matter? What does it hurt? Kitty doesn't know anything."
Viv laughed. "Kitty knows the social fabric that both Elliot and Lorelei live in. For someone who doesn't know anything, Kitty knows a lot."
I sighed helplessly.
"I'm not trying to make you feel anxious or guilty, Elliot. I simply want to point out that, while having lunch at Kitty's doesn't hurt anything — hopefully — what it *does* do, is to compress your timeline. It adds unnecessary pressure. You're going to have to fit some awkward explanations in between picking up your father at the airport and arriving at Kitty's."
Ah. She was right. I'd have to think about that...
Echoing my thoughts, she said, "Tonight, you can prepare. You can think about what you're going to say: What to tell him. How to tell him. Remembering how tight your schedule will be."
"Okay. I'm sorry."
"It's not about being sorry. The only consideration is easing your father into this new reality. It's best to have time. Elbow room, so to speak. You're going to be asking him to swallow some rather unbelievable things."
I sighed. "You're right."
"And then, tomorrow night: you agreed to take your father to that smelly beefhouse, Hoof and How!?"
"Yes."
"So what time will we give him a demonstration of the medallion?"
"If we get to Hoof and How! at seven, we could be here between nine and ten, at the latest. Is that okay?"
"As long as we're done before eleven," she informed me. "I'll be fine. If something changes, call me. As soon as anything changes, call me."
"Alright," I said. I was nervous already. Now she'd gotten me more anxious than before.
Vivianne looked into my face, reading the roil of emotions written there, and smiled. She reached out and touched my hand. "Try to not worry, Elliot." she counseled. "You seem to have a crazy, silly luck, and I have the feeling your lucky streak will continue." She gave my hand an encouraging squeeze.
"Do you really think so?" I asked.
Her grin widened. "No," she said. "Luck? How could I possibly know? Even so, it made you feel better when I said it, didn't it?"
By eleven o'clock I completely and thoroughly exhausted the possibilities offered by the television. I clicked over 200 channels and three streaming services. I covered the free-with-ads offerings built into the TV itself, then combed through the rentals. Nothing appealed to me. Nothing called out to me. It wasn't the world of entertainment that was at fault; it was me. My whole self was distracted. My complete attention was inwards. I was too consumed by what tomorrow would bring — to say nothing of the days to follow!
I'd already showered at home, but I took another — far longer — shower, to help me unwind. I gave another forty-five minutes to the TV before switching it off in defeat. I turned off the light and tried to sleep.
It was hopeless. I tried lying on my belly, on my back, on one side and the other. Unfortunately, I wasn't tired at all. I couldn't have been more awake if I'd consumed two pots of strong coffee. My brain refused to shut down. It whirred and whirled in fruitless, endless cycles filled with doubts, fears, and indecision. I got up, put on a robe I found hanging in the bathroom, and made my way down to the kitchen. I didn't dare hope that the contents of some Tupperware could comfort me. At least I could go through the motions of eating. A full belly might provide the ballast to pull me down to sleep.
To my surprise, the kitchen light was on. I'd forgotten about Ken, but here he was, in the kitchen, large as life, alone, holding a tea kettle with both hands. He seemed baffled by the thing, turning it over, looking inside, rapping on it experimentally. His gaze lifted. He looked me in the face — I had the image of an archaeologist in the midst of a dig, lost in the examination of an unexpected pottery shard.
"Oh, hullo," he said, in the tone of one who'd been miles away. "I'm Ken. And you're—?"
"Elliot. Elliot Beekman."
"Beekman," he repeated. He set the kettle down on the stove and shook my hand. He held it a moment, repeating, "Beekman, Beekman, Beekman." Then he let go and smiled. "Got it! Beekman: Any relation to Arlo Beekman?"
"Yes, he's my Dad," I replied. "Do you know him?"
"Know? No. I don't *know* him. I know *of* him — knew of him, really. He was a year or two behind Viv and me back in high school, way back in the dark ages, when dinosaurs roamed the earth. Seemed like a smart guy, likable. Sandy hair, wiry build. That sound about right?"
"Yeah, that's my Dad."
"Well, what do you know about that! So, tell me: what is old Arlo up to now? Did he—" Then he stopped himself. "Hold on — Where are my manners? Here I am, interrogating you, while — You're a man with a mission, aren't you! You came down here... looking..." He gave a absent-minded glance at the kettle, as if it might provide a clue. "Can I assume that you're here, now, because you, like me, are having trouble sleeping?" I nodded. He smiled in satisfaction. "You're in luck! I have just the thing! Exactly the thing." He softly rubbed his hands together, held up one finger in the air (to say, "just a moment"), and shuffled over to his bar.
"If it's a sleeping pill," I answered cautiously, "I don't—"
He waved his hand dismissively. "Sleeping pill? Never touch the stuff. I'm talking about a cocktail. More or less guaranteed to do what's needed. Have you ever had a Brandy Alexander?" he asked. "Cognac, Creme de Cacao, Cream — all the ingredients start with a C." He charged a shaker with ice, then poured in each of the ingredients with a surprising amount of focus and attention. He capped off the steel container and shook it loudly.
"Ain't that a sound to raise the dead," he cackled. After what seemed an inordinate amount of shaking, Ken set out two martini glasses and filled them both. The shaker was covered with condensation, nearly frosted. He handed one of the glasses to me. It was a pale pink mixture.
The site gave me a sudden flashback to Christmas Eve, when Max mixed us a pair of Mistletoe Martinis. I smiled at the memory.
"This will help to unwind you," Ken assured me. Then, gesturing toward the kitchen table: "Sit, please sit. We'll sip our treasures and talk about the day."
We sipped our drinks, but we didn't talk about the day. We talked about my father. Viv was right: Ken was a good listener. He seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of idle curiosity — or maybe he enjoyed hearing people talk. In any case, I poured out what I knew of my father. I told Ken about my time at the startup, how my Dad tried to pry me away from it, and how Dad was there to catch me when I was laid off... and finally, how he'd moved to Florida.
It was only in retrospect that I saw I'd done all the talking. At every lapse or pause of mine, Ken was ready with a gentle prompt that set me rolling again. It felt good to unload, to just talk...
In spite of losing myself in my own narrative, I didn't come anywhere near to the topics of medallions and magical transformations, and Ken didn't appear to be aware of their absence. He didn't probe or prompt me to spill the magical beans, so to speak. I guess Vivianne did a good job of keeping him in the dark.
During my recitation, we finished our drinks, and Ken fixed us another two. I apologized for talking his ear off.
Instead of the conventional response (which is to say "not at all!"), Ken said simply, apropos of nothing, "Do you know the greatest achievement of my life?" He paused for rhetorical effect. Then: "It was convincing Vivianne Errison to marry me. Can you imagine?" He gave a small, reflective smile. "And my greatest disappointment?" Another rhetorical pause for effect. Then the response: "Never having any children. It's such a disappointment at this stage in life. I envy your Dad. I do. I really do."
While I sat there, struggling to find something appropriate to say, I turned my head a little quickly and felt the room give a gentle swoop as if I were onboard ship and we'd slipped into a wave. The alcohol had "gone to my legs" as they say. Ken finished his drink and treated me to another non sequitur: "I thought I saw Lorelei arrive earlier. When I heard your footsteps coming down the stairs, I was quite surprised to see you instead of her."
"Yes," I said, feeling both stupid and embarrassed. "She left, but she'll be back tomorrow."
"Lovely," he said. "Such a lovely girl." Another pause. "Are you two related? Is she your sister? There's a striking similarity in your faces." He made a circular gesture with an open hand in front of his own face.
"She's my cousin."
"Ah." He nodded sagely, as if I'd just solved a nagging puzzle, or bestowed a pearl of wisdom. Ken was certainly an odd duck. I did have to wonder how he'd landed a woman as sharp and self-determined as Vivianne.
Ken took a deep breath and looked up at the clock on the wall. He suddenly seemed haggard and old, as though all the alcohol he'd consumed abruptly washed over him, canceling out whatever inner mental gyrations were keeping him awake. He blew his breath out slowly though pursed lips and narrowed his eyes as if the clock had morphed into a strange, indecipherable hieroglyph.
"Dear God," he said. "I feel as though I've missed the train."
"The train?" I asked, bewildered.
He opened his palms and spread his hands, as if releasing a benediction on the world.
"Figure of speech, my boy, figure of speech." He slurred the ch in speech, before unsteadily rising to his feet and leaving the room. I listened for his footfall on the stairs, but instead he went into his room on the first floor.
I picked up my glass so I could finish my drink, and was startled to find that I'd already drank it all. Oh, dear, I thought. I'd better watch out. I don't want to end up like Ken. I put the glasses and the shaker into the sink and took an inner inventory. Ken was right: the Brandy Alexanders *had* "unwound me." My worries and fears were nowhere in sight, and before they had a chance to return, I made my way upstairs to my bed and fell softly and slowly into the world of dreams.
Dad's plane landed a little early. I caught up with him in baggage claim. We shared a hug. We said our hellos. He seemed... not so much tired, as worn. I put it down to the flight.
I told him, "My car's this way," but he stopped me.
"I have to wait for my bag."
"You checked a bag?" I asked, surprised.
"Is that a problem?" he countered, a trace of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth.
"No, I'm just... I mean... you usually travel light." (Here I pointed at his carry-on.)
"Yeah, usually I do," he agreed as he hefted a good-sized duffel bag from the baggage carousel onto his shoulder. "I'm planning on staying a while."
"Um, okay. Anyway, my car's this way," I repeated, and led the way. Dad's change of plans knocked me for a loop. Earlier he mentioned staying for "three or four days" before heading back to Florida. Normally I'd be happy to see him stay longer, but a key piece of my "Lorelei forever" program depended on the idea that Elliot moved to Florida with his Dad. The longer Dad hung around town, the less likely my moved-to-Florida story would hold water.
Oh, well! I'd have to play the hand I was dealt. Getting Dad on board might take longer than expected.
We walked a few yards in silence. I offered to carry his bag. He shook his head no.
Then, I threw out an early tease: "Dad, have you ever heard of the Medallion of Zulo?" I ventured that much, because if he he'd already heard of it, my explanations could end up being a hell of a lot easier.
He thought for a moment before replying. "No, can't say I have. Is it a new TV show? I don't get all the new channels, you know."
By channels he probably meant streaming services.
"No, it's not a TV series. It's a medallion that transforms people."
"Okay, I'll bite," he said. "What does it transform them into? Wizards? Werewolves? Zombies? Vampires?"
"No, it transforms them into other people."
He walked a few steps, considering the idea. "And then what?" he asked.
"What do you mean, and then what? Then, they're someone else. An old person or a young person, a specific person. It depends on what clothes you touch to the medallion."
"Huh. So is it a kind of fashion show?"
"What? Where do you get that from?"
"Hey, you're the one who brought it up. I'm just trying to show interest. Right now, I'm trying to work out the appeal — you know: why people watch this show. From what you said, it sounds like it's mainly about clothes and how they affect people."
I couldn't see a way to steer the conversation in the right direction, but by now we'd reached my car, so I let it go. I unlocked the car doors and opened the trunk. He stowed his bags.
We sat in the car and fastened our seat belts. but before I started the engine, Dad stopped me by putting his hand on mine. "Listen, Elliot, I know I sprung this visit on you — what? Last Friday? I really don't want to put you out. You've probably got all kinds of things planned..."
"No, Dad. I've cleared my schedule. I just want to spend time with you." Honestly, there was nothing to "clear" — my schedule was already clear.
"Oh, okay. Well, that's great. But, um, anyway, about sleeping arrangements: I don't know how much room you and Max have — You're still staying with Max, right?"
"Uh, yeah, I am. Um..."
Actually, where my Dad and I would be sleeping would depend entirely on who I was on any given day. But Dad continued:
"I don't need to crowd in with you two. I already talked with my friend Sam. He's got a big old empty house, plenty of room, and he'll be happy to put up with me until I figure things out."
"Um... figure what things out, Dad?"
He gave a short bark of a laugh, followed by a quick glance at me and a sigh. "Don't worry," he told me. "It's nothing bad. We can talk about it tonight at Hoof and How! We're having dinner there, right? — my treat. I gotta tell you my plans, but I don't want to get into it now. I'll still stiff from the flight and my head's not in the right place. Let's leave it until then, okay?"
My heart was sinking lower at every moment. My Lorelei forever plans were unraveling and coming apart. But — here we were, at the point Viv warned me about: lunch with Kitty.
"Uh... okay, Dad. Hey, listen: remember Kitty?"
"Kitty? What kind of question is that? How could I forget Kitty? Such a cutie!" He shook his head in admiration. "That girl did a hell of a job helping me sell my house. Of course I remember Kitty!"
"She and her husband Claus invited us over for lunch."
"Today?"
"Yes, now."
"Fine, sounds great. Is she a good cook?"
"Oh, it's not *her* cooking — it's Claus."
"Ah — he's the German boy, isn't he? So what's on the menu? Bratwurst and sauerkraut?"
"Hardly. He's working his way through Julia Child's French Cooking."
"Hmmph," Dad grunted in surprise. "So why aren't we heading over there? Why isn't the car moving? You need to turn that little key to make it go, you know."
"I know, Dad, I know." I took a deep breath and plucked up my courage. "There's just one thing, though... I, uh... I have to ask you a favor."
He looked at me quizzically.
"See, Dad — do you think you can pretend that I've been... down in Florida with you and that the two of us came up on the same flight this morning?"
He gave me a sideways look. His eyes narrowed. "You want me to pretend all that."
"Yes, would you?"
"Pretend," he repeated. "You mean lie."
"Yes," I admitted. "I mean lie. But I have a reason. A big reason. A good reason." I glanced at him. "And I'll tell you after lunch."
"Why can't you tell me now?"
"Because it's complicated."
"Oh, boy," he intoned, almost scornfully. "It's complicated. Is it illegal?"
"Oh, no, not illegal. Absolutely not illegal at all. Just... complicated. I have a good reason, believe me. I swear."
"Okay, fine, but it better be a damn good reason — you're asking me to lie to people I hardly know!"
"And there's another thing—"
"Another pretend?"
"Yes. Do you remember that picture I sent you... of that girl... and you thought she was Lorelei?"
"Yeah?" Now his suspicion was on full. "Who is she really?"
"I'll tell you after lunch," I promised. "but can you pretend that you haven't seen her because our families have been estranged?"
"What the hell, Elliot? We don't see Lorelei because she's dead! She died when she was an infant! What kind of tangled web are you spinning here?"
"Dad — Dad — Can you please trust me on this? Just hold on until after the lunch, and I'll explain everything?"
Dad fell silent. I could see the gears turning in his head, and almost heard the click! when he thought he understood.
"Wait, wait, wait!" he exclaimed, holding up his hand. "That girl in the picture — that was — Oh, my God! Elliot, are you putting on a dress and running around calling yourself Lorelei? Is that what's going on? What the hell, Elliot? What kind of thing is this to spring on me?"
Then he stopped. He covered his face with his hands for a moment and shook his head. Then, a little calmer, after a big breath, he said, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean what I just said just now. The words, the tone... let's just go back and start again. Okay? If you've made a big life choice here—" then he stopped again, and the gears in his head started grinding a second time. This time they stopped with a ding!
"Hang on," he said. "Hang on! You and Max... You... You and Max Errison..." he shook his finger at me, as he'd just caught on. "You two... you're... involved, aren't you?"
"Yes, Dad," I admitted. "But it's a little more complic—"
"Okay, okay," he said. "I'll admit this could take some getting used to on my part, so you'll have to be patient with me, okay? I'm an old guy: I'm a product of a different era. If you and Max — and Max is a great guy! I always liked Max. If you two are... I support you. I'll always love you and get behind whatever you do. Okay? I love you, son. That's the important thing. I love you. Understand?"
He sat in silence, thinking for a bit. Then, the gears in his head turned again and a light switched on over his head. He turned to me and said, "You have a plan, don't you." He didn't ask it as a question. I nodded. "You're going to make a... a... transition. Aren't you." Again I nodded.
"I see."
He thought some more. "So this business about you being in Florida with me, and the uh..." he choked up a little here "... the business about Lorelei — that's all part of your plan. Is that right?"
"Yes, Dad."
I turned on the engine, pulled out of the parking place, and headed toward Claus and Kitty's house. My heart was pounding. We drove in silence at first, Dad digesting his slightly distorted version of what was going on in my life.
Then he came out with it: "I have one question, and I don't mean to offend you, but — here goes: When you... go around in a dress with the uh... the uh—" he made a gesture with both hands in front of his chest to signify breasts suddenly growing there "—the whole getup — do people believe you?"
"Uh— well, you saw that picture I sent you, didn't you?"
"And that was you."
"Yes."
"It was you."
"Yes, it was me."
"But it was photoshopped, right?"
"No, it wasn't photoshopped. It was a straight-on regular photo."
Stunned, he fell back into his seat.
"Holy crap!" he exclaimed, clearly impressed.
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
We stepped out of the car in front of Kitty and Claus's bungalow. My father put his hands above his head, arms straight, and twisted his body like a piece of taffy. A series of small pops went off like a line of firecrackers as my father worked the kinks out of his spine. "Finally!" he exclaimed in relief. "My legs and back got all jammed up on the plane ride here," he explained. "There's no more legroom on those damn things any more. I've been waiting hours for the moment to crack myself free."
"Take it easy, Dad," I cautioned. "The neighbors might think you're firing a handgun in the street."
He gave a soft grunt and tried a few more twists and turns with his elbows and shoulders to see whether any other explosive knots might give way.
"Laugh while you can," he cautioned. "Once you get old, you start getting stiff in places you didn't know you had."
He stood up straight and tall and stretched one more time, his arms high. He took a deep breath, then let it out as he lowered his arms. He lifted his head and sniffed. "Somebody's having a barbecue," he observed. Then, with an abstracted air, he walked around the back end of my car and stood in the middle of the street, scanning left to right and back again, as if trying to memorize the facades of all the houses on the street. He turned around and did the same thing in the opposite direction.
He cocked his head to listen. "There's an elementary school a few streets over."
"Sounds like it," I agreed.
"And a train," he added, with a smile. There was, in fact, a melancholy hoot, nearly out of earshot. "I love the sound of a train in the distance." He rubbed his hands together with a satisfied expression. "Do you know, Elliot, I've never been to this part of town before," he confessed. "Never! It's surprising, when you consider I grew up here. And I wasn't exactly a homebody."
"I've only been here once before myself," I told him. "And for the same reason: to visit Kitty and Claus." I still didn't understand what Dad was going on about. The neighborhood was nothing to write home about. It wasn't as though we'd discovered a legendary lost city. Sure, neither of us ever set foot here before, but with good reason: there was nothing to bring us here. It was all residential, and — apart from Kitty and Claus — no one we knew lived here. It was a nondescript working-class community on the outskirts of town. There weren't any stores, or even a post office. A small branch of the public library stood on a corner a few streets over, but that was the extent of its attractions.
Even so, Dad nodded, looking pleased.
"Kitty and Claus are only here temporarily," I informed him. "They bought a fixer-upper somewhere near Max's house. This is just a place to stay until the renovations are done on their new place."
I added, apologetically, "It's not the greatest neighborhood."
He glanced at me in surprise. "Oh, no? I wasn't thinking that at all. It doesn't look bad." He grinned. "Sure, it isn't all shiny, cute, and new. These places just need a little TLC: a coat of paint, a little yardwork, some cleanup. You couldn't call these houses fancy, sure, but... look around... talk about fixer-uppers? A lot of these houses are fixer-uppers; starter homes. It's just a different price bracket than where you live." He took another quick look around, then: "Are they buying? or renting?"
"Is *who* buying or renting?"
"Kitty and Claus."
"Renting."
He clicked his tongue. "Pity! They probably could have picked this place up for a song. Do you think?"
"I guess so."
He smiled, walked over to me, and gave me a friendly whack on the arm. For some reason, Dad seemed enormously pleased. In some weird, inexplicable, Dad-like way, this dull, worn-out neighborhood energized him.
Also, I had the feeling that he enjoyed being part of my secret. He was pleased to be part of my conspiracy — even if he had a balled-up, mixed-up version of what was really going on.
Speaking of my conspiracy, it suddenly struck me that I hadn't cautioned him that Kitty and Claus were utterly in the dark. "Dad—" I began, but was interrupted by Kitty opening her front door and calling us in.
"What are you two doing, standing in the middle of the street like that?"
Claus pushed himself into the doorway with her. "Come inside! Come inside! You could get struck by a meteorite, standing there gaping like that!" He laughed at his own joke.
"Oh...," Dad whispered. "I forgot what this kid Claus was like. It's all coming back to me now."
"He's still the same," I whispered back. "But, Dad—" I began again. This time he interrupted me by squeezing my arm and giving a slow wink. He walked on ahead and gave Kitty a warm embrace.
"I hope you don't mind sitting right down at table," Claus apologized, "but the food is ready, and I'm supposedly working."
"Working?" Dad asked.
"Working remotely," Claus explained. "Hopefully no one will be looking for me."
We sat. Kitty filled our wine and water glasses. Claus busied himself briefly in the kitchen, then emerged bearing plates. "Moussaka," he explained. "with tomato salad."
"It smells wonderful, Claus," Dad told him. "And it looks great."
"Claus," I asked. "I thought you were working your way through Julia Child... Isn't moussaka a Greek dish?"
"Yes, it is," he replied. "And yet, it's right there in Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Don't ask me why."
"Did you make this this morning? It looks spectacular!"
"No, I made it last night. Julia points out the dishes that can be prepared ahead of time, and this is one of them. Today, all I had to do was heat it up and fix the salad."
We ate in appreciative silence for a few minutes, until Dad asked Kitty, "Why aren't you working today?"
Kitty laughed. "I only work when there's something to do. Tomorrow, for instance, I have to break down a house. I mean, I have to take away all my props and furniture."
"Interesting," Dad observed. "Do you do that when they close?"
"Just before the closing."
Dad nodded, smiling, pleased to be there. Then he turned to me and asked, "And you, Elliot — why aren't you working today?"
I looked at him in silence for a few beats before replying deadpan, "I flew up from Florida this morning with you, Pops."
"Ah," he said, remembering our deal. Then, covering gracefully, he said, "Senior moment."
Between the four of us, we nearly managed to finish the moussaka. Nearly — but not quite: no one took the last piece; we were all too full. Claus set out a tray of cheeses and bread, along with a bowl of fruit. Kitty observed, "I asked Max and Lorelei to come today as well. Unfortunately they couldn't make it, but now I see we might not have had enough food."
Claus shrugged. "I would have added another dish or two." Then, after taking a slice of bread he asked, "Why couldn't they come? You didn't tell me."
"Max is actually working," Kitty laughed, "He has to show up at the office every day. Lorelei made a quick trip to Omaha."
"Ah, yes, of course," Claus smirked. "To visit the clone factory."
"Claus!" Kitty cautioned. He shrugged. Dad looked puzzled.
Kitty huffed, a little impatiently, and explained, "Claus has this silly joke about a clone factory..."
"—in Omaha," Claus threw in.
"Why Omaha?" Dad asked.
"Because that's where Lorelei is from!"
"See, Claus got this hilarious idea about a clone factory because of the resemblance between Lorelei and Elliot."
Dad shifted in his chair, carefully avoiding glancing in my direction. "So you two have met Lorelei?"
"Met? Yes, of course we've met," Claus responded, "Several times. In fact, I danced with her, right here, in this very house."
Kitty added, "We spent most of Saturday with her and Max at the wedding."
Dad was stunned. After a few moments, knowing he was on perilous ground, he ventured, "So, this... resemblance between Elliot and Lorelei... how much of a resemblance is there?"
"It's mostly in the face," Kitty responded, studying my face as she spoke.
"So... Lorelei doesn't look like Elliot in a dress?" he suggested, on tenterhooks.
Claus nearly spit his water over the table. He managed to not lose a drop, but he choked and gasped for a good half-minute. When he recovered, he was laughing and coughing at the same time.
"Elliot in a dress? Oh, my goodness!" he exclaimed. "No, Elliot in a dress would look like Elliot in a dress! He wouldn't look like Lorelei at all — except in the face, as Kitty mentioned. But even there..." He took a deep breath and began gesturing with his hands to illustrate the smallness he described. "You see, Lorelei has a smaller head, narrower shoulders, smaller feet and hands, more delicate fingers..." Kitty shot him a look, which he completely missed.
"And of course, Lorelei has all the feminine accoutrements, as the French would say," (here he gestured vaguely in front of his chest) "and an hourglass figure—"
"You've done quite a study of Lorelei, haven't you?" Kitty asked, in a dry, dangerous tone.
Claus waved his hand vaguely, "Well, one notices things, that's all."
Kitty, trying to put a lid on it, explained, "There's a family resemblance, that's all."
Deeply puzzled, Dad gave me a perplexed look.
"But you know Lorelei, don't you?" Kitty asked him. "I mean, she's your niece."
"Um, yes, she's my niece," Dad replied, rousing himself. He was clearly a little uncomfortable, but remembering our talk earlier, replied, "But I haven't seen her since she was very small. By small, I mean, just an infant. Our families were estranged, way back then. It's a long story..."
Kitty nodded. She understood from his expression that it wasn't a story he wanted to tell.
Claus gestured with an open hand, palm up, in my direction. "And then there's Darcy."
"Darcy?" Dad repeated, blinking.
Hot holy Jesus! I silently exclaimed.
"She's a slightly more distant cousin, right?" Kitty asked, taking her phone in hand as she spoke.
"Oh..." Dad breathed, unsure how to respond. Studiously, he avoided looking at me. He didn't want to appear to need cover.
"Another product of the Omaha Clone Factory," Claus quipped. Then, catching sight of my father's changed state, he asked, full of concern, "Sir? Mr Beekman, are you feeling alright?"
"I'm... uh... it's... ah... I'm fine..." he protested. "Just a little short of breath. That's all. It'll pass."
"Do you want to move to the couch? Do you need to lie down?" Kitty asked, solicitously.
"No, no, it'll pass, it'll pass," he told them, and shot me a glance like he wanted to throttle me.
"Okay," Kitty conceded. "But let us know if you need anything, okay?" Claus refilled Dad's water glass. Dad took a cautious sip. Kitty fiddled with her phone until she pulled up the photo of Darcy at the mall.
"Look, here she is," Kitty told him, turning the phone in his direction.
"She's a first cousin twice removed, or a second cousin once removed — I can never remember which," I threw in, by way of throwing smoke.
Dad peered at the picture, understanding nothing. He was utterly bewildered; completely out of his depth. His mouth hung open, his brow furrowed. He blinked and blinked.
"So you haven't seen *her*, either?" Kitty asked. He shook his head no.
"I'll send you the photo," Kitty told him.
"How..." he began. She cut him off, quickly responding, "I still have your phone number. From when I staged your house, remember?"
But Dad didn't mean how will you send me the photo? He meant How in the living hell is there a picture of Elliot as a little girl?
He moaned and nodded. He rubbed his face. Then, suddenly jerking to attention, he asked, "Wait a minute — who is this woman in the picture?"
"That's Max's Aunt Vivianne."
Dad was thunderstruck. "Vivianne Errison?" he asked.
"Yes, do you know her?"
He floundered, taken aback bh the one familiar element in an unfamiliar landscape. "A little. Enough to say hello. I knew of her, back in high school." He shook his head. "She was a wild one." He stared at the photo. "My God! She hasn't aged a day!"
Kitty's mouth opened and shut. She frowned. "Wild?" she repeated. "Well, she isn't wild now. I mean, sure, she's imposing and impressive. She's... formidable, I guess you could say. But I can't imagine anyone calling her wild. It's hard to believe."
"Believe it," Dad assured her. "Wild is the operative word. But not the *fun* kind of wild — or — I mean, not only the fun kind. She was also the scary sort of wild."
"Umm," Kitty acknowledged. "That I believe. She's still scary."
"But ah—" Dad seemed even more confused than before. "This... picture... Kitty, how long ago was this taken?"
"A couple weeks ago? Last month?" She showed him the timestamp on her phone.
He blinked in silence for a few moments.
Once Dad recovered his equilibrium, he deliberately and drastically changed the topic to something far safer — so safe, it bordered on boring and very often crossed the border into Yawnsville. He quizzed Kitty about rents and home prices in various neighborhoods. Claus and I couldn't contribute anything to the topic, but Dad and Kitty were quite animated, interested, and deeply engaged in the subject.
In a whispered aside, Claus explained to me, "Kitty lives for this stuff. She could talk about it for hours, but usually no one shares that interest. I mean, seriously: How can I work up an interest in knowing how much someone I don't know paid for a dumb old house I've never noticed or may never see? The whole subject puts me to sleep, so thank God your father's here! His passion for the subject is like Christmas morning for Kitty."
I nodded. I wanted my Dad to enjoy himself, just as Claus wanted Kitty to unload herself. So, Claus and I quietly enjoyed a side-conversation while Kitty and Dad chatted and exclaimed over recent sales, types of houses, neighborhood profiles, new construction, and the work being done on Kitty and Claus' new place.
Claus only dared to comment on that last topic: "I leave all the choices of design, colors, furniture to Kitty. She has an unerring eye and exquisite taste."
"You're right there," Dad agreed. "She does great work."
Then, Dad and Kitty dove headlong into the subject of which neighborhoods were "up and coming" and under which circumstances it made more sense to rent than to buy.
As long and dishwater-deadly-dull as their discussion tended to be, I was grateful for it. It carried us safely all the way to the end of the meal and out the door without giving my father a heart attack, stroke, or apoplexy.
In fact, he was smiling when we left. He seemed thoughtful, but not agitated, as we walked to my car.
"That was one of the best conversations I've had in a long time!" he declared.
"Was it? Really?" I could have slept like a stone, listening to the pair of them.
"Yes! That Kitty is one sharp number. She's got a head on her..." He rubbed his chin and didn't finish the thought.
Then he turned to look at me. There was a strange expression on his face that I couldn't decipher. He seemed to be working out exactly the right way to say... whatever he was about to say.
In the end, he asked me, "Elliot, do you mind if *I* drive for a bit? I know I haven't been away for very long, but I feel kind of... disconnected... sort of like Rip Van Winkle. I don't mean to sound like an old man, but everything's familiar and it's not — all at the same time. I'd like to just drive around... follow my whims... see where I end up. Do you know what I mean? I want to wander... wander and refresh my memory a little."
"Sure, Dad." I tossed him the keys and climbed into the passenger seat.
He adjusted the driver's seat and the mirrors, then pointing straight ahead asked, "Does this road take us to Town Center?"
"No, you turn right two blocks up."
He scratched his neck. "I can't tell you how odd, almost unsettling, it feels, finding this whole new neighborhood. I mean, I grew up in this town. I thought I knew every inch of it." He glanced around, then said, "I mean... imagine you lived in the same house all your life, and then found out it has a secret sub-basement, or a room hidden behind a bookcase... or — I don't know — a tunnel that leads to God-knows-where." After a glance over the dashboard, he started the car and drove slowly forward. Then he concluded, "See, it's like this: if I didn't know that all this was here, all these houses and streets, what else don't I know?"
"I don't know, Dad," I replied. I felt he was making a big deal out of nothing, but I didn't say so.
What concerned me more was our speed: when I say Dad drove slowly, I mean that he drove at a crawl. I could have traveled on all fours just as quickly. Or almost as quickly; that's how slow it seemed. Dad was clearly lost in thought; as a rule, he drives much faster.
I wasn't sure whether I wanted to interrupt his reverie. Certainly I wanted him to drive safely, and definitely I needed to broach the topic of Lorelei. If not now, then at some point soon, but I couldn't see a way to begin while he was off in the fairyland of his own mind.
While I watched and wondered whether he was fit to drive, he stopped at an intersection, looking straight ahead.
After a few long seconds waiting, I asked, "Dad, are you okay? There's no stop sign here. You can go."
"Huh?" he replied, snapping out of it. "Sorry, lost in thought. I was a hundred miles away." Then, catching sight of the concern on my face, he laughed. "Don't worry, boy! I'm fine to drive. I'm not senile yet." He laughed again.
Naturally, his telling me not to worry had the exact opposite effect.
"I was thinking about Vivianne," he confessed, seeming more aware, and yet still rolling at a snail's pace. "Back in high school, she was the one: the girl that every guy wanted. And I mean every guy. She was the it girl. None of the others even came close. She wasn't just beautiful. And she wasn't just smart. She had this radiance, this confidence, and this..." he shook his head in wonder "...this certainty. It seemed like she arrived on earth already perfect and complete. Like that painting, The Birth of Venus — you know?"
"Oh, Dad," I groaned.
"Wait, wait," he cautioned, holding his open palm up to me, as if pumping the conversational brakes. "Don't judge me: this was years before I met your mother. Years."
I sighed. "It isn't that—" I began, but he bulldozed right over my objection.
"Anyway, those days were long ago. But when I saw that photograph, it all came rushing back to me: all those feelings and memories." He shook his head, incredulous. "And honestly — I swear to God — she hasn't aged a minute."
I wanted to object. I've seen Vivianne, live and up close, and yes, while she was certainly good looking woman — probably better looking than most women her age — no one could possibly mistake her for a high-school girl — or for a goddess who'd floated down from heaven. She definitely aged more than few minutes since Dad had last seen her. But, man! I know my parents loved each other, but I'd never seen my father this way. He was moonstruck — like a high-school kid, overcome with hormones and emotions, idolizing and idealizing a girl... seeing her above-average attractions as divine perfection.
Dad had it bad.
"Did you ever go out with her?" I asked.
He scoffed. "Me? Go out with her? Are you kidding? Me? Viv was way, way, WAY out of my league. Plus, she was two years older than me, which in high school is a huge age gap. She was unattainable already; the age difference put her out of all consideration."
After a brief silence, I asked him, "Why did you call her scary? I mean, she can be *intimidating*, but scary?"
"Oh, I don't know. Thinking back, honestly, there was no good reason. Maybe it was just something people used to say. I don't know." He took a breath. I saw the light of memory on his face. He reviewed the memory. He hesitated, but then he let it out. "Come to think of it, there was always this... rumor... that she was kind of... kinky. But as I say, there was probably nothing to it." He squared his shoulders, took another breath, and then: "It started one Halloween. I was a sophomore, so she would have been a senior. Everybody came to school in costume. So... Vivianne..." again he broke off, overawed by the image that appeared in his visual memory. "She came to school, all in black leather. Tight black leather. Knee-high boots, long black flowing trenchcoat or duster or whatever you call it... but the real kicker was the whip. She actually brought a whip to school."
"Really?"
"Really." He let out a scoffing laugh. "There were a lot of us in the hallway, before homeroom, and somebody wanted to try the whip. But she wouldn't let him touch it. So he dared her to try and make the whip crack." He glanced with a smile in my direction. "She stood there in the middle of the hall, legs wide, and makes this movement with her wrist that laid the whip straight out in front of her on the floor. Then she gives a quick wrist snap, and the whip jumped like a snake, like a rattlesnake strike, and this CRACK! just penetrated everything." He shook his head, smiling. "Everybody froze. This glacial silence fell." He nodded. "Then, out of nowhere, the principal's voice, like a bullhorn: Miss Errison! My office! Now!"
He smiled a little, savoring his memory of that moment. "One of the teachers wanted to send her home... suspend her... whatever, but the principal settled for taking the whip away. He figured that was enough, and he let her stay... all decked out in black... leather." He gave a quick glance at me, with a face like a guilty child saying don't blame me! "After that, you know."
"I don't know. What?"
"Everybody saw her that way. The whip, the crack. The what-do-you-call... the corset. The boots... the boots had high heels, really high. It made her statuesque, like Julie Newmar. God, I wish somebody had taken a picture. I'm sorry, Elliot, but she was hot as hell. Her hair was long and straight, and she wore this blood-red lipstick." His mouth went dry; he had to swallow before speaking again. "That moment defined her image, you know? It was just a costume, but... I mean... that the idea of dressing like that even entered her head..." He took a deep, slow breath and gave the steering wheel a squeeze.
I hesitated a moment, then stated the obvious: "Sounds like you had a huge crush on old Vivianne."
He turned to me, wide eyed. "Oh, yeah. I did. I absolutely did!" He nodded vigorously, then scratched his neck again. "I still dream about her." He confided, and shot me a glance. Then he added, almost apologetic: "After your mother died, I thought a lot about Viv. A lot. Of course, I missed your mother, but she was gone. Even now, she's still way out of my league. Maybe even more so."
"And she's married," I added, a little unkindly.
"Yeah," he acknowledged. "Is she still married to Ken Sapreso?"
"Yes, sure. Why wouldn't she be?"
He shrugged. "I don't understand how or why the two of them got together in the first place. Never, in a thousand years, could I picture them as a couple. I'm surprised they've lasted so long." He sniffed. "I mean, he's just bland... like mashed potatoes without salt or butter. He's like a slice of Wonder Bread."
While I searched for a sarcastic — but not too sarcastic comment on Dad's antipathy toward Ken, Dad switched back to talking about Viv.
"Viv, though — she obviously discovered the fountain of youth, hasn't she? You've seen her up close, haven't you? Tell me, does she look as good — does she look as young in real life as she does in that photo?"
"Yeah, that's how she looks. Like that. She looks good."
"No lines, no wrinkles, no sagging neck? No, um—" he took his right hand off the wheel and wiggled his fingers in my direction. "Do you know what old lady's hands look like? Look: here's an old man's hand. Does Viv have old-lady hands?"
"No, not at all. And no to all the wrinkles and sags and lines. No to all that. Vivianne looks really young. She's very attractive. I always thought she was around the same age as Max's mother."
"Melissa? No, Melissa's at least ten years younger than Viv."
After a short silence, he laughed and asked, "What about Ken? Does he drink from the same fountain of youth as Viv?"
"No, he mainly drinks alcohol. A *lot* of alcohol. He looks older than you, Dad, like ten years older. I was surprised when he told me that you two were in high school together."
"Yeah. Well, drinking will age you. That's why J.Lo doesn't drink."
"J.Lo? You mean Jennifer Lopez?"
"Right — she doesn't smoke or drink. Not even coffee! That's why her skin is so..."
He trailed off. I grinned, waiting to see what adjective he'd choose. Instead, he simply trailed off and stopped.
"I didn't know you were a fan," I teased.
"Gotta keep up," he laughed. "Anyway, there you have two extremes: J.Lo and Ken S. She looks like heaven, while he looks like hell."
"I wouldn't go that far," I protested. "He looks old, not decrepit."
Dad shrugged.
I mused over the conversation I had with Ken last night. Without really meaning to say it out loud, I realized: "I think Ken might be getting a little senile."
Dad frowned. "Drinking will do that, too."
After that, his driving speed picked up and he seemed less distracted. He looked more alert, as though a clean breeze had had blown the cobwebs from his brain. "Now I know where I am," he announced. "We just came up on it from the wrong direction."
He straightened up in his seat and whistled a few bars of a tune I didn't recognize. Then he asked me, "Elliot, do you mind if I drop you at Max's house? I've got this..." (he gestured at his chest, as though something were stuck there) "... this feeling that I brought up with me from Florida, and I want to shake it off. Driving will help me relax. I want to take in the old town, you know? Touch the earth."
"Touch the earth? I don't know that expression."
"I want to reconnect, that's all it means. Do you mind?"
Honestly, I *did* mind, and more than a little. Nothing was going the way I expected. I figured that Dad and I would hunker down together and hash through the Lorelei business. I'd go through the whole story of how I became Lorelei. Then we'd go to Viv's house so he could see it happen. After that, after he got over the inevitable shock, I'd explain my plan to sunset Elliot — to fictitiously move Elliot to Florida, with Dad, so I could remain as Lorelei forever. I knew it was a big lift, and that Dad would find it an unbelievable jolt, but once he got a demonstration from Viv, he'd eventually get on board.
His request to borrow my car was perfectly reasonable, but it threw me for a loop. I didn't expect my father to have any plans of his own or things he wanted to do without me. Between his taking off this afternoon, and our going to Hoof and How! tonight... well, that was the whole day shot. I mean, there'd be just barely enough time to go to Viv's house, but he wouldn't be prepared, and wouldn't be enough time to work through his reactions.
Dad could see that my hesitation was mixed with some kind of regret or dismay, so he pulled over, killed the engine, and turned to face me. "Elliot? Is this alright? Am I screwing up your plans? If you had something different in mind, tell me. If you need your car, I can walk. I just need to... spend a few hours on my own... feel myself in this town, if that makes any sense to you. We'll have plenty of time together in the days ahead. And remember: we've having dinner tonight, right? Just you and me?"
I didn't know what to do. The only thing I could do was agree with him. So I said, "Yeah, right, Dad. Fine, yes. Sure — you can take my car. But can you save tomorrow for me?"
His face brightened immediately. "That's my boy!" He gave me a couple of pats on the shoulder. "Tomorrow, I'm all yours! Today, it's every man for himself!" He laughed at his silly joke and started the engine.
"So... where can I drop you? Is Max's house good?"
Wow. Well, I really didn't want Max to see me as Elliot. But where else could I go? Then I figured, sure: once Dad dropped me off, I didn't need to go inside Max's house. I'd wait for my father to drive off, and then I'd hoof it to the Mall or Town Center or someplace. Or I'd call an Uber.
Dad, whistling cheerily as he drove, and moving at a normal driving speed (thank goodness!), started taking turns a little fast (as always) and driving up... driving away from Max's house... Then it hit me: Dad didn't know where Max and I lived.
In his nostalgic frame of mind, Dad pictured Max's house as the house from long ago: the house that Max grew up in. Dad's inner GPS was set for Paul and Melissa's house. He'd often dropped me off and picked me up there when Max and I were kids, and now, on autopilot, that's where he headed.
So... that made one thing easier. Max wouldn't see me.
"I'll pick you up around 6:30," my father said. "We can go straight to Hoof and How! It's fine if we're a little early. And... we're already ready, right? We don't need to wash our faces or dress up or anything! Is that alright? Does that work for you?" He cackled.
"Yeah, Dad — that'll be fine," I conceded.
I stood in front of Melissa's house and watched my car disappear, tires screeching, around a corner. Oh, Dad!
There I was, discombobulated, disoriented. I felt more than a little stupid, more than a little lost. What else? Dumbfounded, distressed, and dismayed. I was a shipwrecked orphan, left behind by an ebbing tide, in Melissa's driveway.
Okay, I was something else as well: melodramatic. It seemed like the situation called for it, though.
I hope Melissa's home, I prayed, as I trudged up the driveway. What would I do if no one was home? Or worse, what if only Paul was home? He never understood what on earth Lorelei was doing in his house. I'm sure he'd find Elliot's presence even less explicable.
Inevitably, it was Paul who answered the door.
"Hello, Elliot! I haven't seen you in ages! Are you meeting Max here?"
"No, Mr Errison," I said. "I was kind of hoping to talk with Melissa."
"Mr Errison?" he repeated. "Oh, Elliot! 'Mr Errison' is my father." He laughed. "Call me Paul, please. You're old enough now."
"Okay, Paul," I conceded. "Is Melissa here?"
"No, but I expect her back at any moment. Come on in. Would you like something to drink? Coke, beer, water, ..."
"Water's great, thanks."
Opening the fridge, he extracted a glass pitcher. As he filled a glass for each of us, he smiled and asked whether Lorelei was coming.
"Oh, no — she's, uh, out of town at the moment. She had to... take a quick trip to Omaha."
"Omaha? What's in Omaha?"
"Her mother."
He nodded sagely. "Have you ever been? To Omaha?"
"Um, no. We were never much in contact with that... part of the family. Um..."
He waved his hand as if to say it's fine... you don't have to tell me. At the same time, he took the pitcher of water in hand. After refilling his own glass, then hesitated over mine, giving me a quizzical look. "Do you need something stronger than water, Elliot?"
Surprised by the offer, I replied, "No, water's fine. I'm good with water."
"Okay," he said, and poured me a second glass. "It just, uh — if you don't mind my saying so — it seems like something's bugging you."
I heaved a deep breath and glanced nervously around the kitchen. There was no way I could tell him what was really weighing on my mind. He knew nothing about my being Lorelei. He had no idea I that these days were meant to be my last days as Elliot.
Still, he sat down at the kitchen table with me. He wasn't exactly waiting for me to unburden myself. He was giving me the space to unload, if I wanted to do so. His expression was kind, patient, fatherly...
So, feeling that I should offer him a sop, I told him, "My Dad's in town," as though *that* was my issue.
"Oh! I thought he was down in Florida! Didn't he move down there recently? What brings him back so soon?"
"It's not exactly soon," I countered. "He's actually been down there almost eight months. I guess in one way it's soon... but not really."
Paul nodded. "So where is he? Why isn't he with you, or you with him? Is he coming over?"
"Uh, he's driving around. He said he wanted to touch the earth... he said... I don't know."
"Touch the earth?" Paul repeated.
"Yeah, he said he wanted to reconnect..."
"Sounds like your Dad is a little homesick."
"Dad? Homesick? Why would he feel homesick?"
"He grew up here, didn't he?"
"Yeah, but— he was driving funny, like, way too slow. He's distracted."
"Sounds like your Dad has something going on. Do you think he might be wanting to move back?"
"Move back? Move back here? Why would he do that?"
"Well, he might not actually do that, but maybe he's toying with the idea. Florida's a new experience for him."
"But he loves it down there!"
"He might want to take one last long look back before committing to life down there."
"I don't know." I remained unconvinced.
"In any case, sounds like something's on his mind. Maybe you two could have dinner, let him talk it out."
Thanks for telling me to do what I'm already going to do! I silently, sarcastically replied. It was off-putting. I didn't appreciate the unsolicited advice. And from Max's dad, of all people! What did he know?
Aloud, all I said was, "Good idea. I'll do that."
Paul turned his attention from me to his phone. After a bout of painfully slow typing, he sent off a text message. "I'm just letting Melissa know you're here," he said. I opened my mouth. I wanted to shout NOOOO, but couldn't. The text had already gone.
A moment later, my phone buzzed.
"Oh...," I moaned, dismayed. "It's Melissa."
"Is that bad?" Paul asked. "You said you were looking for her."
"No," I confessed. I wasn't really looking for her — it's just that Dad dropped me here. "It's... complicated. Confusing."
He laughed. "Say no more. Complicated and confusing are two of Melissa's specialities." He gestured at my phone, as if to say, Have at it.
Melissa: ??? I got a text from Paul. Says ELLIOT is there ???
Melissa: Are you being Elliot now?
Me: At the moment. It's just temporary.
Melissa: But why? Did you and Max fight?
Me: No, of course not.
Melissa: I thought you LOVED being Lorelei!
Me: I do!
Melissa: Then WHY??? Are you having second thoughts?
Me: No!
Melissa: Hmm...
Melissa: OH NO OH NO
Melissa: DID THE SPELL WEAR OFF?
Me: No!
Melissa: I thought it was permanent! I'm so upset!
Me: It *is* permanent. Viv changed me back last night.
Melissa: Why? Is she punishing you?
Me: OMG. NO. No, it's fine. It's my goodbye-Elliot plan.
Melissa: ???
Melissa: What does that mean?
Me: I am at your house — can we talk when you get here?
Melissa: I am here
Me: What does that mean? Where is here?
Melissa: I am outside, in the driveway
I growled in frustration.
"Oh good," Paul said, laughing lightly. "So it's not just me, then."
"She's been outside all this time," I explained. "Can you excuse me?" I stood up.
"You know, she can come inside," he quipped. "It's her house, too."
I nodded and pushed through the front door. Melissa stood there, next to her car, typing furiously. She stopped, looked up and saw me, and asked, in a voice loaded with frantic intensity, "Oh my God, Elliot! What's wrong? Why are you YOU?"
After looking around to be sure no one was listening, I replied, "My Dad is in town."
"And so?"
"I couldn't pick him up at the airport as Lorelei."
She huffed in frustration. "Are you going to be switching back and forth every time he comes and goes?"
"No, I'm going to tell him. I'm going to get him on board."
"And how is that going?" she demanded fiercely. "I don't see your Dad — is he inside?"
"No," I admitted, feeling wholly inadequate to the situation.
"Then how are you going to tell him?" she asked, continuing her merciless interrogation.
"I— I— I have a plan."
"And how is that plan going?"
I gestured helplessly.
"Right," she commanded in a decisive tone. "Get in the car. We're going to Viv's house, right now. We need to straighten this out before you get stuck that way!"
"But—"
"Elliot! Get in the car now! We need to change you back!"
Sheepishly, I climbed into her car. She settled in behind the wheel. Then, after quieting herself a moment, she reached over and touched my arm. "You're a lovely boy, Elliot. This is nothing against you. It's just that Lorelei is a better version of you." She studied my face for a moment, then asked, "You see that too, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Okay, then! Let's go." She screeched out of the driveway, nearly hitting another car, and we were off.
[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
Melissa skidded to a noisy stop on Vivianne's gravel driveway and stepped from the car without turning off the engine or closing her car door. I reached over and killed the engine, then trotted behind her toward the front door. She grabbed my hand and pulled me along, the way a teacher would drag a student to detention.
Jaw set, eyes afire, hair all but in flames, she leaned on the doorbell, hard. Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! I lost count before Ken's voice sounded jocularly from inside: "Sounds like someone's at the door!"
He pulled the door open only about a foot — just enough to see who who was playing fast and loose with the ringer. His florid face and manner suggested he was already pickled, and yet somehow he had the presence of mind to block the door with his foot. I know he did because Melissa pushed on the door but it didn't budge.
"Ahhh," Ken breathed, a slow breath redolent with gin. "Melissa, Melissa, Melissa. Have you ever thought of calling yourself Melanie?"
"No, I haven't," Melissa impatiently huffed. "We're here to see Vivianne."
"If your name was Melanie, we could call you Mel, like two of the Spice Girls."
Melissa growled, pushed uselessly against the door, and asked, "Is Vivianne at home? We need to see her!"
Ken's gaze floated over to me. "Elliot! We're missing your adorable cousin, once again." Then, after a moment, he pointed to me. "El," Ken pronounced. Then, gesturing first to Melissa, then to me, he said, "Mel... and El!"
Melissa opened her mouth wide, and I think was about to scream, when Vivianne appeared at Ken's shoulder. She patted his arm and said, "Thank you, honey. I'll take it from here," and gently pushed him back from the doorway and into the short hall leading to his room.
"Well done," Ken told her, and toddled off, closing his door behind him.
Melissa was fit to be tied. Her face was flushed, her eyes large as saucers. "Vivianne!" she exclaimed. "You have to fix this is! You have change—"
Vivianne silenced her with a fierce look and a tense finger to her lips. Then, with a gesture, Viv hissed, "Come with me." She led us to her fitting room, where I'd first changed into Lorelei. Before Melissa could open her mouth again, Vivianne cautioned, "Ken doesn't know anything about the medallion, and I want to keep it that way. Do you understand?"
Melissa blurted, "But Elliot—"
Viv fixed her eyes on Melissa's and repeated, "Do you understand?" She gripped Melissa's shoulder and locked eyes until Melissa finally gave in: "Yes, I understand."
"Good. The medallion is a powerful and dangerous artifact, and the fewer people who know about it, the better."
"Fine!" Melissa grumbled. "But we've got a problem. Look at him—" (she gestured to me) "—You have to turn him back to Lorelei. He can't go around looking like that! He can't keep changing back and forth! It can't be good for you!"
The shadow of an amused smile played at the corners of Viv's lips as she listened.
Melissa continued, "Is he supposed to turn into Elliot every time his father's in town?" She accompanied the question with big hand-gestures, as if she were flipping an enormous pancake. "You may not have thought about this — either of you — but flip-flopping could have a serious negative impact on family holidays! I mean: Thanksgiving — who is she supposed to be? And then, Christmas!"
"Melissa—" Viv tried to gently interrupt.
"And think!" Melissa arrived at her most passionate payload: "Once she has children, what's going to happen?" Then, dropping into a soft voice, as if talking to children (but rising to a shout at the end), "It's okay kids, don't worry: Mommy has to go and be Uncle Elliot for a couple of days BECAUSE GRANDPA IS IN TOWN!"
I was alarmed, but Viv fought back a laugh. She struggled to keep the smile off her face.
"I'm glad YOU think it's funny," Melissa sourly observed. "So so funny!"
"Look," Viv explained, "The most important thing that needs to be done in the next few days is to get Elliot's father on board. If Elliot doesn't take the time to that now, and to do it right, then yes, he would be changing back and forth, and probably at the most inconvenient times possible. In the short term, we're going to have to be patient, so that — in the long term — we can have Lorelei with us forever. Okay, Melissa?"
"I guess," she conceded in a grumpy tone. "So what's the grand plan?"
"Believe me, Melissa, it will happen one way or another, so try to not worry, Okay?" She smiled at Melissa, who dropped into an armchair in a attitude of fussy surrender, frowning.
Then Vivianne turned to me and gave my forearm a reassuring squeeze. "Why don't you tell us how things have gone so far?"
I unloaded my story, struggling to keep it brief. I began with Dad's misunderstanding at the airport.
"That's good, though," Viv pointed out. "He's already more or less accepted the idea of your being a girl."
"I guess," I half-agreed. "At this point, he knows I'm Lorelei, but he's confused about how... different I look." Then I described the conversation between Claus, Kitty, and my Dad, and Dad's question: "Does Lorelei look like Elliot in a dress?"
Melissa listened impatiently, radiating frustration and resentment like an angry adolescent.
Viv, on the other hand was fascinated by Claus's description, which focused on Lorelei's smaller features and her femininity.
When I mentioned the photo of Darcy, it was Viv's turn to huff in frustration. "That damn picture!" she exclaimed. "It's been nothing but trouble!"
But then she grew thoughtful when I described how my father got sidetracked by questions about Vivianne's apparent youth. When I used the words "fountain of youth," Melissa sat up straight in her chair, abruptly fascinated; actively interested.
"Can you do that?" Melissa asked. "Can the medallion make you younger? Keep you young?"
Viv looked thoughtful. She didn't answer; she pretended not to hear.
"Is that what *you* did?" Melissa demanded. "I always wondered! I mean, you could swim in a pool of botox, every day, but you'd never end up looking the way you do."
Viv glanced at her, but her only reply was to say, "Can you keep quiet for a moment? I'm trying to think."
"So what do you do?" Melissa insisted, persisting. "If I had an outfit I haven't worn since I was eighteen, would the medallion make me 18 again? Would that do it? Or what if I had a bathing suit in the size I wore when I was 30? Could the medallion work with that?"
"Melissa, let's put a pin in that topic for the moment. There's something important here that neither of you have noticed. Arlo believes that Elliot is about to transition to being a full-time woman as well as the lover of Max — by normal means: hormones and surgery."
"We know that!" Melissa snapped. "Nobody missed that!"
"The point you *are* missing," Viv explained gently, "is this: In spite of receiving this news, Arlo drove off, gaily whistling a happy tune. And what were his parting words to his son?"
I thought for a moment and said, "He talked about when he'd pick me up for dinner."
"Right!" Viv agreed.
"And so?" Melissa challenged.
"And so... put yourself in his shoes for a moment. Suppose Max came to you and told you that he was going to turn himself into a woman—"
"He wouldn't!" Melissa snapped back.
"But if he *did* tell you that, would you go off and play tennis or take off for brunch with your friends?"
"No..."
"No, of course not! You'd drop everything so you could talk with him and understand."
"Yes," Melissa protested, "but Arlo is a man. Men miss things."
"True," Viv agreed. "But I think Arlo is on a mission of his own. He's distracted; he's got something on his mind."
"He did say he needs to figure things out," I conceded. "He said he'd tell me about it tonight over dinner."
"At that stinky beef place."
"Yes."
"All right then," Viv concluded. "The next step is to find out what's on Arlo's mind. Elliot, you need to listen to him, and don't fight what he's trying to tell you. If he's got plans of his own, we'll find a way to accommodate them."
She smiled, and looked from Melissa to me, and said, "You cannot rush this revelation. You need to ease him into it. And the key to doing that is to understand where HE is now. We need to know where HE's going."
I let out my breath and nodded.
Melissa insisted, "But you HAVE to change him back to Lorelei."
Viv nodded. "We'll change him back, don't worry. All in good time."
I confessed, "I kind of thought that when he saw me change, or if you changed him... into a little boy or something, that THAT would do it. Then he'd be convinced."
Viv shrugged, noncommittal. "Maybe. Probably. Remember that it didn't help Max any."
Melissa interrupted, impassioned: "You have to change back, Elliot! You have to! How will I ever have grandbabies if you're not Lorelei?"
"Oh, Melissa," I groaned. "I've hardly been a woman for a month and you're pushing me to get pregnant. And it's not as though Max and I are engaged or anything! We've only just begun seeing each other. You're obsessed!"
"I'm not," she pushed back, but quietly. "I'm not obsessed. I'm not desperate for grandchildren."
I laughed. "Seriously?"
"Yes, I *am* serious. When Max and Amber were together, I never wished for grandchildren. Not even once. Of course, if they came along, I would have loved them and welcomed them. I would have been over the moon. But at the same time, I would have felt so sorry and sad for those children, having her for a mother." She reached over and squeezed my hands. "It means A LOT to me that YOU would be the mother of my grandchildren. I don't want it to be anyone else."
The two of us found tissues and dabbed our eyes. When we were done, we looked over at Viv. For those brief moments, we'd forgotten she was there.
When Viv caught our gazes, she smiled. "Do you know what I'm thinking?" she asked. "I'm thinking that maybe I should meet with Arlo alone."
Melissa and I gaped.
"Why?" Melissa demanded.
"Yeah, why?" I echoed.
Vivianne sat primly in her chair, legs crossed demurely, smiling like that cat who was about to eat the canary.
Then, with a laugh, she added, "It was just a thought." She waved her hand, dismissing the idea.
"Elliot," she offered, "Why don't you and your Dad come by for lunch tomorrow? Say 12:30?"
"Lunch? What do you mean, lunch? What should I tell him?"
"Tell him? Why do you need to tell him anything?"
"So he'll be prepared."
"If he's hungry, that's all the preparation he needs. It's lunch. All you have to do is tell him that the two of you are invited to my house for lunch. Period. Lunch. Isn't that enough? Keep it simple. Does that work for you?"
"Sure," I agreed, but I was full of uncertainty.
After that, things began moving rather quickly.
Melissa drove me back to her house in time for Dad to pick me up there. The two of drove us to the Hoof and How!
Once again, Dad ordered for both of us, the exact same meal as last time: a T-bone each, a mountain of hand-cut fries, onion rings, and a few other sides. He chose the same Cabernet as last time, from their abbreviated wine list. It was all very good. Comfort food. Man food, in a funky, cabin-like atmosphere. After I took the first sip of my second glass of wine, my father said, "Oh, good! You finally relaxed!"
I took a look at myself, and realized he was right. I saw myself leaning back, spreading my shoulders, easing into the chair. Clearly, all day long, I'd been pretty tightly wound. "I guess there's been a lot happening," I admitted.
"You said it," he agreed. In that moment I had a small illumination. Seeing the expression on his face, and his body language, it struck me that Dad was thinking about the *lot* that was happening in HIS life, while I'd only been seeing the *lot* that was happening in MY life.
The two of us, each of us, was so consumed by our own personal stories, that we didn't see — or even consider the possibility — that a world of changes could be evolving in the life of the person sitting on the other side of the table.
Viv would have seen it, I knew. I need to develop that kind of sensitivity. I could start off with a simple question:
"So what *is* happening, Dad?
He swirled his wine in his glass, then — watching how the red liquid spun along the sides of the glass — he asked me, "Hey — what do you say to a little cognac? We can get it in those little bulb-like glasses."
"As long as neither of us is driving," I replied.
He was silent until our snifters arrived. He swirled the drink in the glass, sniffed it, warmed it with his hands. I was going to make a crack about his newly-acquired sophistication, but I left it unsaid. It probably wasn't the moment to tease him.
At last, he said it. "Elliot, I've been thinking about moving back up here for good." I blinked in surprise. Dad nodded, then added, "In fact, I'm pretty sure — 99 to 100 percent sure — that's what I'm going to do."
Before I could make even the slightly sound of reaction, Dad continued, "Sam's house is big. You saw it. He says I can stay as long as I want. Of course, I'll look for my own place, but at least I'll have a base."
"But Dad," I protested. "You love Florida!"
He let out a brief laugh. "No, Elliot, I hate Florida. I hate it with everything in me. It's full of old people — and yes, I know: I'm an old person, too. But—"
"Aren't you surrounded by friends down there?" I asked.
"Yeah, sure," he sighed, "But you know what they all talk about? All day long? Their aches, their pains, their medications, their illnesses..." He looked at me and spread his hands helplessly. "I'm not unsympathetic, but it's like... that's all they've got."
"What about shuffleboard?" I couldn't help it — the quip escaped me.
Dad scoffed. "No, nobody even does that. Some of them play bridge all day long, drinking highballs."
"What are highballs?"
"It's just an alcoholic drink. A big alcoholic drink. It's a mess."
"I'm sorry to hear it."
"Nobody wants to go anywhere or do anything, except for the Early-Bird Special, which—" he shook his head. "I just don't have the words."
"What about sailing?" I asked. "Didn't you buy a boat?"
At that, he started laughing. "Yeah, a boat. Sure, I bought a boat. It was supposed to be a starter boat, a beginner's boat, but it was a piece of crap. It was for kids. Just imagine a square bathtub with a sail. I couldn't do anything with it. I had to hire high-school kids to take me out, to make it go and bring it back, and they got bored. I paid them, but after a while the money wasn't worth it to them." He shook his head and studied his cognac for a bit. "Let's face it: it was weird: an old guy hanging out with high-schoolers? It's not a good situation."
He swirled the cognac. He sniffed it. He sipped it. "Everything is so much better up here," he told me. "Up here, things are happening. People are doing things. Down there, I felt I was living in the antecamera of a funeral home."
He looked at me and smiled. "I've been happier this afternoon, just driving around town, than I've been in months, down there."
This time we skipped dessert. Together we took a cab back to Sam's house. It was a big place, as Dad had said, but it was dingy and needed a good airing. It was about on the same level as Hoof and How!
In the morning I told Dad about the invitation to Viv's house. He was pleased, but somehow didn't look surprised.
He took a shower, mid-morning, and went off to get his hair cut. When he returned, he was wearing a complete set of new clothes. "A gal at the store helped me pick things out. What do you think?"
Well, I thought he looked pretty good. I had to bite my tongue, though, to keep from reminding him that Vivianne is married.
Oh, Dad!
When we arrived at Viv's she answered the door. Ken was nowhere in sight. Viv gave her hand to my Dad, palm down, as if offering it to be kissed. Coyly, almost shyly, Viv asked him, "Tell me, Arlo: Do I have the hands of an old-lady?" His breath caught in his throat and he shot me a look.
In case you're wondering, the answer was no. She had young hands. Young, beautiful hands.
I could tell that Viv's shyness was all an act. She was charming the pants off my father. He was eating out of those young, beautiful hands.
Not that it took much, but Viv maneuvered it — I mean, she made it seem like the natural thing to do: I took lunch alone in the kitchen, while she and Dad ate outside on the patio. I played games on my phone to beguile the time, and exchanged a few "How's it going" texts with Max. I felt like an imposter, pretending to be Lorelei as I wrote.
The waiting was difficult, but in the end it was all worthwhile. I don't know what Viv told him, but Dad was primed and ready to watch me transform into Lorelei.
His demeanor surprised me. He was quiet, attentive, interested. You could even say he seemed invested in the transformation. In any case, his being there in that moment was an enormous relief.
Several times during the transformation (which, if you recall, takes an entire half hour), he exclaimed in wonder and astonishment.
After I dressed, Dad gave me an astonished hug, and marveled at the way I'd gotten smaller. "You're beautiful!" He whispered. "So beautiful! You're the very image of your mother!"
He looked at me up close and at arm's length. He had me twirl, walk away from him, walk towards him. He felt the skin of my arm and my face, and he admired the delicate structure of my hands and fingers. "Do you want to see my teeth?" I joked, but he didn't get it.
"I'm just floored!" he concluded.
"Do you mind?" I asked. "Does it bother you?"
"Somehow, no," he admitted. "I'll tell you right now, It's going to take some getting used to, but... my God!" He drew a long breath. "Will it hurt your feelings if I say you got an upgrade?"
"No, Dad," I laughed, and hugged him hard.
"Okay, okay," Viv said — a little bored, I think, by our odd family reunion. "Now it's your turn, Arlo," she declared. Viv picked up two sets of children's clothes, and asked, raising higher the boys clothes— "Would you like to be a little boy? Or—" raising higher the girls clothes — "a little girl?" She smiled a mischievous, saucy grin.
"Well," Dad replied thoughtfully, "I could be anybody, couldn't I? Isn't that right?"
"Well, theoretically, yes," Viv answered, "as long as we have the right clothes."
Dad regarded my discarded Elliot clothes, folded on a nearby chair. "Little boy? Little girl? No — I think I've got a better idea." He grinned at me and asked, "Unless you'd mind?"
My mouth fell open. Viv laughed and clapped her hands.
"You want to be me?" I asked.
"Nobody else is being Elliot at the moment," he replied. "You could let me take a whack at it."
About a month later, Max and I were in our kitchen, getting ready for a Sunday lunch.
"By the way," Max mentioned, "Did I tell you that Elliot is bringing his girlfriend?"
"His girlfriend?" asked, my voice rising high on the last word. "No, you didn't! Who is she?"
"I don't know," Max replied. "He sprung it on me this morning. He called while you were in the shower to ask if it was okay. Sorry, I forgot to tell you."
"Hmmph!" I grunted. "Suddenly Elliot is the big man in town!" I waved my hands like pom-poms. "Now he's got a girlfriend?"
"Uh... yeah," Max chuckled. "Isn't that allowed?"
"I don't know," I grumbled.
"Did you want him to ask your permission first?"
I huffed, but gave no other answer.
"Are you jealous?" Max teased, lightly pinching my cheek.
I twisted my mouth to the side. "Maybe a little," I admitted.
"Maybe a lottle," Max joked.
"Well, all of sudden, he's Elliot and he's a big deal. He's everywhere, doing everything. Everybody loves him."
"Everybody loves you, too. You know that."
"Yeah, but— He's better at being Elliot than I was," I pouted.
"Awww," Max cooed, wrapping his arms around me. "So... you don't mind him just being Elliot, right? But you don't want him to be better at being Elliot than you were."
"Do you think he's better? Is he a better Elliot?"
"He's different. He's a different Elliot."
I sighed.
Max squeezed me lightly. "You gotta let it go, babe. You be you, and he'll be— the old you."
He shook with slight laughter, so I poked him with my elbow. Max rocked me in his arms.
"Okay," I conceded. "I give up. He can be the best Elliot on earth if he likes. After all, I'm the one who got the upgrade — even he said so."
"*I* am the one who got the upgrade," Max countered, kissing me on the neck.
Inevitably, I was struck dumb when I saw the woman on Dad's — I mean, Elliot's arm. Of all the women in town—!
"Delphine!" I exclaimed. "You? And — Elliot?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Don't you remember I asked you about him? At the funeral? I mean, the wedding?"
"Well, yeah, sure, but I thought you were pulling my leg."
She laughed.
"I guess you all know each other," Elliot said, grinning like the guy who won the lottery. I just shook my head at him, disbelieving.
The conversation at lunch was like riding a rollercoaster.
First of all, even though I'd had a month of seeing him that way, it was still as weird as hell looking at the man I'd seen in my mirror for so many years, walking and talking completely apart from me.
Second of all, it was weird as hell knowing that the person inside the old me was my own father.
"How did you two meet?" Max asked Delphine.
"Aunt Viv introduced us," she admitted.
"Thank God she did!" Elliot exclaimed, and took her hand so he could kiss it. Delphine smiled a hot, lusty smile at him. I had a pretty good idea of what they'd be doing after lunch, and I blushed at the thought.
"But can you imagine?" Delphine picked up the thread again. "Scary old Aunt Viv, a matchmaker? She invited the two of us over — separately, not a clue about the reason — then told us she'd made dinner reservations at this quiet, romantic restaurant, and her driver took us there. It was a blind date."
"I *can* imagine Vivianne as a matchmaker," I told her. "She got me and Max together."
"Did she?" Max challenged. "I thought it was mostly you, Lorelei, pulling the strings."
"Oh, and your mother — she was pushing as hard as she could."
Delphine laughed. "I remember at the wedding — she tried to arrange it so you'd catch the bouquet."
Elliot wanted to hear the story, which led to other anecdotes, and we sat at the table three hours before we finished eating.
While we lingered over dessert, Elliot touched Delphine's hand. She looked at him and nodded, so he cleared his throat and said, "Max, I'm sorry that what I'm about to say doesn't include you, but, uh —"
He turned to me and continued, "Lorelei, I know that you're handy with tools and DIY and all that... so I wanted to invite you into my business."
"What business is that?"
"Renovating houses."
"Flipping houses?"
"No, not as such. I think more fixing up houses to rent, maybe. Maybe to sell. Depends on the property, depends on the market. Kitty's coming in on it with me."
"That's smart," I said. "Is Delphine part of the crew as well?"
"Hell, no!" She laughed.
"She can't tell a wrench from a pair of pliers," Elliot said. "Which is of course, part of her charm."
"Good save," Delphine said.
"You don't have to tell me now," Elliot told me, "But the sooner the better."
"You should do it, babe," Max told me. "You're good at that stuff. You know you are. And you like doing it. You'd have fun, working with Elliot."
"Okay," I agreed. "Yeah, we can give it a try."
"And — in spite of what you said, Elliot, I could come in on it, too," Max said. "As a silent partner? Investor? Backer? You need money to buy houses."
"True," Elliot admitted. "It would be you and Claus then. He said pretty much the same thing."
"Nice to have the right people behind you," Delphine commented, and raised her glass to toast the effort.
Later, in the kitchen, Elliot and I found ourselves alone. "I'm really glad you're in on the renovating," he told me. "It means a lot to me."
"So... you and Delphine?" I asked. "Isn't she a little wild for you?"
"Turns out, I like 'em wild," he replied, with a laugh. Then, "Hey, listen," he said, moving closer and speaking sotto voce: "I have to tell somebody this, and sorry, but I think you're the only one I can tell—"
"What?"
"When Viv turned me into... Elliot — I mean, definitively, not the first time, I knew about the tweaking you can do, so—" he looked around. Listened. Delphine and Max were talking in the living room, so he leaned back in and told me, "I got Viv to make my johnson longer."
"What?" I asked, not understanding.
"My johnson, my thing," he repeated. "I got an extra-long condom, and—"
"Okay, okay! I get it!" I told him. "I didn't realize what a dog you are!"
He laughed and gave me a playful push.
"Honestly, though," he continued, "it gives me a lot of self-confidence."
"Goody for you," I replied, in a tone that said, Please don't tell me any more.
"But, seriously, honestly," he asked, "Slight change of subject: Does it bother you that I'm — you?"
"No," I told him. "It's weird. It's definitely weird, but I'm getting used to it. I used to see that face in my mirror, and now it's alive on its own. But I'm glad to have you around — really glad — and I'm happy that you're not old any more."
After a pause, I said, "Hey — there is one thing I wanted to ask you. What if... let's say that you and Delphine have a child—"
"Whoa," he chuckled. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves!"
"Hypothetically," I added. "Purely hypothetically. What relation would that child be to me?"
"Okay," he said. "I've actually discussed this with Vivianne. First off, you and me — as far as the world knows, we're cousins, but as far as DNA is concerned, we're fraternal twins."
"I hadn't thought about that."
"Right. Now, if I had a child, they would in reality — I'm talking DNA — they'd be your niece or nephew, but we'd have to say that that child is your first cousin once removed. It would be the same for me if you had a baby, although it's a little more complicated."
"How?" In an instant I got it. "Oh—"
"Yeah. See, like I said, DNA would say your child is my nephew or niece, but on paper they'd be my first cousin once removed. In my heart, though, they'd be my grandchild."
I almost heard Melissa's voice chirping grandbabies!
"Psychologically," Elliot said. "I'm still your father, with all the feelings and worries that come with being a parent, but it's all strange and distorted — if I can use that word — now that we're in the these bodies."
"Yeah," I admitted. "Viv told me at the start that it's not like play-acting or role-playing. We become different people."
"I definitely feel that," he agreed.
I smiled.
Then he made a thoughtful face and said, "But do you know what? In this whole story, in everything that happened, there are so many things that are almost impossible to believe. But in all of that, there is one thing that blows my mind. One thing that I can't get over. It just stumps me, and every time it comes to mind, I—"
"Well, damn it!" I exclaimed, getting impatient. "What is it? Tell me!"
"That you did all this — put yourself to all this trouble, turned yourself into a girl — just because your friend couldn't get a date." He shook his head. "It takes the cake."
My mouth dropped open. He burst into laughter, full-throated laughter. "Take it back!" I told him, and snapped a dish towel at him. "That is so— oh! Take it back!"
Max and Delphine chose exactly that moment to enter the kitchen.
"Look at them, Max," Delphine said to him, "They're cousins; we're cousins. Why can't we be *fun* cousins like Elliot and Lorelei? Can you show me how to snap a towel at you, the way she's doing?"
Max regarded her for a moment, then said, "Delphine, I'm not giving you a dish towel to crack me with. Anyway, you and I — we're too serious for that kind of thing."
"I guess we are," Delphine saucily and insincerely agreed, and shook with silent, open-mouthed laughter as she stretched out her hand toward a wet dish cloth.