Dollhouse (22 page)

Words burned raw in my throat. I couldn't tell her now about my being in Henry's dream, and Henry knowing about it. She was holding on by a thread here in the underground—a thread that was fast unraveling. So far, she'd been the one I could trust, the one who could help me figure this place out. But now a wall had moved in between us.

In some ways, Missouri was as difficult to understand as Sophronia. A desperate loneliness tightened in my stomach. People moved in ways known only to themselves, listened to voices in their minds I couldn't hear. Even if I was out of here, out in the world—there might not be a single person anywhere I could understand completely.

Leaving my desk, I stepped over to the library. Tracing a finger over the book spines, I came to the
War and Peace
title. I needed to see that Prudence's papers were there, some proof that I at least was still sane.

I flicked through the pages. Prudence's mildewed pages slid free. Secreting them in my sleeve, I chose another book to read.

Jessamine, having enough of play for the morning, settled into her chair and slept. No Clown or Raggedy came to watch us.

School had already started back. Now I knew. I knew that the tea made you sleep for days at a time—possibly depending upon how strong it was made.

Missouri was in the bathroom fixing Philomena’s face and hair. She turned and noticed the bright patch on my nightie.

“Use the toilet paper,” she said.

“That’s all there is?” I said.

She grimaced. “None of us have our periods. They stopped for Sophronia and me a few months after we were brought in. I think we don’t eat enough.”

“What’s periods?” Philly pointed her chin upwards.

“Never mind pumpkin,” said Missouri. “Why don’t you run off to breakfast now? I'll come straight after.”

Philomena skipped away.

Missouri pulled her hair back and applied the makeup to her own face.

“I feel bad using a load of toilet paper,” I said. “There’s not enough much of that here.”

Shrugging, she brushed her hair into pigtails. “You soon won’t need the toilet paper for anything much anyway.  We don’t. We all have chronic constipation—and when we do go—it’s barely anything. Welcome to the funhouse.”

She left the room. There was a distinct change in her tone towards me after the conversation we'd had yesterday. I'd pushed too hard. I wasn't the one who'd spent the past five years in this place, but there I was telling her what she needed to do.

I washed the slip out as best as I could, and left it hanging—Jessamine didn’t allow wet towels or anything to be dried near the fire. Wrapping a thin towel around myself, I went to select a dress from the storage room. The dresses I’d worn when I first came in here were hanging loosely and I needed a smaller size. I sensed the black dress slither on its stand behind me. Missouri's words rang in my head:
Welcome to the funhouse
.

I took out a simple dress and slipped it over my head.

Breakfast this morning was canned sardines and dried fruit. I guessed we’d run out of oats. I averted my eyes from the lowered stocks of cans when Sophronia opened the cupboards up.

* * * *

The faintest glimmer of a smile creased the corners of Ethan’s eyes as Aisha and I approached. He and Aisha touched fingers through the bars.

He didn't ask why Aisha and I were on friendly terms again. But then, Ethan wouldn't. He concerned himself with what was, and didn't care so much about the why.

“Ethan,” I said quickly. “There was a girl. Prudence. She was the first one to come in here. She left drawings and a poem. I've already showed them to Aish. It's not much, but it may be all we have right now.”

Reaching inside my sleeve, I pulled out Prudence’s work and carefully pushed them through the bars of his cell. “We'll come back when we can.”

Nodding, Ethan slid them inside his jacket. I caught his eye for just a second, then let my gaze drop quickly. All that time months back I'd spent wondering why he liked Aisha better than me seemed so childish now. You could make things up in your head and focus on them so much they became real, became fact, and controlled you.

Aisha handed him a packet of dried fruit and canned sardines. “Sorry about breakfast.”

He accepted the meager breakfast gratefully.

Rushing away,  Aisha and I made our way to the ballroom.

Jessamine had put out board games on the floor. She didn’t seem to feel the coldness of the floor—but we were all expected to sit there and play games.

Period pain cramped my abdomen as I sat cross-legged opposite to Jessamine. We played games of checkers—Jessamine winning every time.

“You mustn’t mind losing,” Jessamine consoled me. “A lady never shows discontent.”

I realized I must be scowling—the pain grew increasingly severe.

Jessamine had Sophronia fetch a Monopoly game next. The Monopoly game came in a big wooden box—with a set of metal playing pieces that were all circus performers and circus animals. I chose a roaring lion.

Missouri sat Philomena on her lap—letting her move Missouri’s piece around the board. Sophronia seemed to enjoy the game—playing with strategy.

The game went on interminably—just the same as any Monopoly game.

Jessamine begged off halfway through—going to rest on the rocking chair. Missouri soon followed, falling into a deep sleep.

Philly—bored and restless—went to jump around on the carousel.

Again, no Clown or Raggedy Ann guarded either the ballroom or hallway—they remained in bed. That worried me. Missouri felt that Jessamine, despite her cruelty, was on our side. But Jessamine seemed to be weakening, tiring. Maybe she'd caught the same bug as Missouri.

Aisha and I quietly exited the ballroom.

Ethan rose unsteadily to his feet as we drew near him, resting himself against the bars of the cell—wheezing.

He handed the papers to Aisha. “I don't want to be caught with these. Or I'll be in here even longer.”

Aisha eyed him with a anxious expression. “What did you think?”

“I don't know. The poem is some kind of riddle. I'm not good with this stuff.”

“I've been thinking about it a lot.” Aisha's eyes were bright, misted. “I think it's a message. A message in a riddle.”

She secreted the pages between the hook of her arm and dress, and began reading in low tones:

A Lily fair

And dripping rose

In the dark fairground

All of them stay

In the merry-go-round

But one of them goes

Comes and goes

Like the pendulum

To and fro

Ever sent

Dove in guises

Shadows of scales

Rises in descent

Aeolian harps play

The dark rock listens

Night of day

Betray.

She hastened to hide the poem in her sleeve afterwards.

“I wish she’d just stated what she wanted to say,” Ethan remarked.

“Maybe she knew that Jessamine would destroy it if she did,” I said.

Aisha nodded. “I think so too.”

“Okay,” said Ethan. “So I get that the merry-go-round is the carousel.”

“It could also be a metaphor,” said Aisha. “All of us are on a carousel—time goes around in endless circles here.”

I nodded. “Yeah, it’s like time has no meaning. Then the dark fairground could mean this whole area—underground. And I know what the pendulum is—that freaking grandfather clock in the ballroom. I’ve seen the hands on that clock... spin out of control. The time changes to whatever suits Jessamine—or whoever controls time here.”

“So who,” Ethan said, “is the one who comes and goes? Jessamine?”

“I’d put a bet on it,” said Aisha. “It’s definitely someone who moves in different patterns to everyone else. Someone who goes to and fro, rather than in circles—someone who leaves here and returns.”

Ethan gripped the bars. “Is Prudence trying to tell us to make a run for it when Jessamine leaves the underground?”

Aisha closed her eyes for a moment. “That could be it. She wanted to tell others how to leave here.”

Could the poem really be a message of escape? Missouri had made it clear she wanted nothing to do with it. So it was up to us to figure it out.

“But what is the Lily fair?” I frowned. “I wonder if the word
fair
is another reference to a fairground?”

“Could be,” said Aisha. “It could mean other stuff too?”

Even here, in this dark place far underground—Aisha was still the same—still making questions out of statements. Something about that made me feel better, or at least connected, to life as it was before.

Aisha wrinkled her nose. “Lilies are white—fair in color—which could mean Jessamine as well. She’s pale and fair.”

I immediately thought of the flowers upon my grandmother's coffin back in Miami. “The lily is also a symbol of death...  funerals.”

“Maybe she hated Jessamine and wanted her dead,” said Ethan darkly. “Like me.”

I gazed back down the corridor. It was empty. “And what about the dripping rose? What is that? It’s another flower reference. But there’s no flowers down here—maybe it’s meant to mean dead flowers.”

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” Aisha said. “I think the rose and the lily are people—girls. Lily fair is contrasted with the rose, as though they are two opposing things. Prudence capitalizes the
L
in Lily but not the
r
in rose. So the other person has a name and identity, but hers has been stripped away.”

Ethan nodded. “Makes sense. Because she was taken to this underground dungeon, and given strange gear to wear and given a new dopey name. She had no identity.” He bit his lip hard. “But, if she got away—why didn’t she tell the police? Why is the dungeon still here?”

I stared at him, thinking. “Maybe she's scared out of her mind, too scared to tell...."  

Aisha slid the poem out again. “We should keep going on this. This is the last part...."

She whispered:

Ever sent

Dove in guises

Shadows of scales

Rises in descent

Aeolian harps play

The dark rock listens

Night of day

Betray.

“It’s all contrasts again,” I said. “Rising at the same time as descending. Night and day.”

“Yeah well we already know things are out of whack down here.” Ethan rubbed his forehead. “Wish she’d just tell us where to find the secret button that starts that carousel.”

“Aeolian harps,” Aisha said to me, ignoring Ethan. “What are they?”

I shrugged, shaking my head.

Ethan let out a short sigh. “They’re named after Aeolis—Greek God of the winds. The harps themselves are just some kind of wooden box with strings—and they only make a sound when wind blows over them. We used one as a prop in a Shakespeare play.”

“No wind blows down here,” Aisha said softly. “The girls are the Aeolian harps—but no one hears them—because there’s no wind to carry their cries.”

We were silent for a moment.

Ethan puffed his cheeks and blew air out. “And as for the scales—they could be anything. A measurement of weight, a creature that has scales...."

“Like a snake,” I said. “Like the pictures.”

He nodded. “Yeah, could be a snake. Those snakes she drew are something else.”

“Terrifying. She must have been in a terrible state of mind when she drew those.”  Aisha carefully drew out one of the pictures—the one with the snake's massive jaws crashing through the corridor—right where we were now. “Wait. I've seen pictures like that before. In a book in the library.”

I chewed my lip hard. “Could you find the book again?”

“Um, yeah. I think so.” She folded the picture back into her sleeve.

I turned sharply. Aisha looked over her shoulder with a start.

Jessamine stood behind us with cold blue eyes. “Why are you here—contorting with the prisoner?”

“We're not
consorting
,” I said hastily. “We were just instructing Ethan that if he minded his manners more, then he'd be out soon.”

She bristled. “Flibberty-flabber. You’re plotting against me.”

Aisha folded her arms, gazing at Ethan like an impatient school teacher. “We just want him to behave. We don't want him to die for lack of propriety.” She frowned at the word
propriety, as
though she didn't know she knew the word until it slipped from her tongue.

Jessamine drew her mouth in. “Get along to the ballroom with the others. We’re about to have special dances and you’ll miss out.”

Bowing our heads, we paced away.
Special dances
meant dressing in gowns, and we headed for dressing room. I chose the orange gown—together with a matching orange ribbon for my hair. Jessamine had a penchant for things that matched.

In the ballroom, the girls were already dressed in their gowns—practicing dance steps like daisies swaying in a field.

Missouri laced the back of my dress and I joined the line of dancers. We had a series of waltz moves to practice—moves that involved lots of spinning and twirling. My stomach was still cramped and nauseous—the dancing worsening it.

Jessamine sat in her chair with her dress fanned out, fingers laced. “Don’t forget to courtesy before you leave the floor.”

With the dancing over, we changed from our gowns—then assembled in the kitchen for dinner. We dined on cold spaghetti and bread that Sophronia had baked. Jessamine took servings of food personally to Ethan. I hoped that meant she was soon to let him go free.

Free
, I thought, was a relative term.

We returned to the warmth of the ballroom. Clown and Raggedy followed, stationing themselves either side of the entrance to the ballroom.