Double Trouble (26 page)

(Hmm. James would have too much fun with the potential liability there. What if the good guys turn bad? Is it the fault of the creator of the good guys, or is each warrior self-determining? This is starting to sound like theology. Never mind.)

We have had some serious talks about the potential misuse of such powers and germ warfare. Phyllis is a conspiracy theorist pare excellence and insists that AIDS was a weapon that got away from the development labs, so you know she’s latched on to this one. Tracy is young enough to be utterly idealistic—but even though she doesn’t work for the Feds directly, she does have some kind of security clearance. That’s enough to give the anarchist in me the major creepies.

And yes, I have wondered just how much she tells anyone else about what we discuss.

Finally, there’s
Antonia
, Wiccan and high mistress of twisting technology to suit her needs. No, she doesn’t cast spells or tell fortunes—she’s a performance artist and uses high tech stuff in unpredictable ways. The purpose here is to challenge our conceptions of ourselves and our ever-changing world while echoing the unsustainability and fundamental tenuousness of our grip on reality.

I got that from her website.

We actually went to school together, all those many moons ago, when she was just a plain old repressed Catholic girl like me. We lost touch when I went to Japan. We hooked up a few years ago when I went to see one of her performances, which was blasted in the techie newspaper, thus feeding my curiosity.

It was weird.

Over the course of three hours, in a warehouse with a concrete floor, with dimmed lights and jungle sounds in the background, Antonia hunted computers. She wore a fake fur outfit à la Wilma Flintstone and a bone in her hair, and had roboticized the boxes so they could move. Their erratic—and thus evasive—paths were the result of random number generators picking their changes of course and speeds. Several had a robot arm fitted with razor blades on the “fingers” that they periodically swiped through the air, thereby making Antonia both predator and prey.

The whole thing was unprogrammed and unchoreographed, except that the robots slowly sped up and that they vastly outnumbered Antonia. The audience had to move as well to evade the uncharted courses of the robots, making us part of the experience of the hunt. There was real panic in the air at one or two points.

One by one, the primeval hunter eliminated her foes, leaving some stalled and some smoking. When she took down the biggest and thus “meatiest” one, she dragged it across the floor, lit a fire, cracked its back and scooped its inner cabling out like spaghetti. She eviscerated it, then began to roast bits of it over the fire, making grunting noises of anticipation as the warehouse filled with smoke.

I loved it. Having had more than a few moments when I’ve wanted to gut a computer, I found the show irresistible. Antonia hooked me on performance art too, that moment when the audience realized that they were part of the show having been just too delicious to forget.

So we connected again, though the Lost Years—as we’ve come to call them—remain pretty much unexplored, by mutual choice. We’re both single now and that’s all we need to know.

You know, of course, all you need to know about me, member #8.

Feeling somewhat sepulchral about life, the universe and everything, I dressed for the evening in full Goth glory. Black leather pants that fit more tightly than my own skin these days, a plum crushed velvet fitted tunic and a white poet’s shirt with a good six inch deep ruffle of lace at the collar and cuffs.

Rice powder is the trick to that pale pale Goth face. And concealer underneath to smooth out the hues of your skin. I followed with a catty Cleopatra eyeliner look in midnight blue, which made my eyes look sapphire and upstaged the shadows under my eyes. I chose a purple lipstick named, aptly enough, Deadly Nightshade and decided it was coming together well. I moussed my aubergine hair and tousled it up, telling my reflection that this could be a hellish night.

The Ariadne’s—a wickedly perceptive bunch—might guess that something was wrong. They might want to know. They might demand that I dish, after all their various sporadic dishing over the years. I was the only one who had never surrendered a personal tidbit. Surely I couldn’t lose my touch now. I shuddered with foreboding, then slipped into a pair of beaded black mules with stiletto forever heels that I had nearly sold my soul to own. I was ready.

In the Nick—ha ha—of time.

Lydia arrived first, as usual, as befitted one unanimously acknowledged as punctuality princess. She brought a box of Godiva’s truffles, the big box, angel of mercy that she is, and about a hundred Day-Glo condoms.

“You’ll know where he is,” she said by way of greeting, pushing a dozen into my hand.

That made me smile. “I’ve a new theory for you.”

“Oh, good, I could use some cheering up.”

I didn’t take the bait, not wanting to encourage confessions too early. “Golf is God’s plan for a universal contraceptive in America.”

“Not bad. It’s the plaid, isn’t it? I mean plaid is one thing, and not a very good thing in quantity anyhow, but those southerners get hold of it and suddenly it’s tangerine plaid.”

“Knickers,” I added and we both faked a convulsion.

“If only they would wear kilts.”

“Then it wouldn’t be a contraceptive.”

“True. I like it.” She shook a finger at me. “My newest plum theory is that the popularity of the soul patch is utterly responsible for the sudden outbreak of chastity among post-pubescent women.”

Discussion was curtailed by the arrival of Khadija, with three big Cadbury Caramilk bars “from England” and Tracy with a box of Turtles. Phyllis wasn’t far behind, toting her usual no-nonsense contribution of a Black Magic box of assorted.

“It’s half milk chocolate and half dark,” she explained as she always explained. “Something for everyone.” They had all been there often enough to find their way around—and really, you’d have to be blind to not be able to find your way around a big damn-near-empty box like my loft. I started pouring soda waters and the usual symphony of diet beverages.

I know. It makes no sense. Gorge on chocolate but drink diet soda. Leave us our illusions, please.

Cellophane was torn off the boxes, which were arrayed on what passes as a coffee table in my place—two monitor boxes, shoved together, tablecloth overtop—and they fetched chairs from every corner. The Caramilk bars were broken. It was dark outside, the sky pushing hues of navy and purple against the glass bricks. I lit about a thousand candles, then answered the bell again.

“I want those mules,” Krystal said when the elevator disgorged her moments later.

“They’re mine, all mine.”

“Then let me know when you get tired of them.”

“Manolo Blahnick.” I modeled them just to feed her envy. “I will never get tired of them.”

“Then put me in your will, dahling.” She grinned and sailed into the room. “Thank God none of you are wearing jeans.”

Tracy was with her—they sometimes shared a ride—and smiled shyly as she passed me a sock of Hershey’s Kisses. Krystal contributed a box of some Belgian seashells then waved to everyone else as she moved into the loft. Tracy trailed right behind her, like a quiet shadow who found us slightly intimidating.

Goodness knows why.

Gwen shouted up from below, demanding the elevator PDQ as she needed to use the facilities. I laughed and closed the door so it would descend, imagining her tap-dancing down below. She was tap-dancing when she got out, too, taking just a moment to drop the Ferraro Rochers into my outstretched hand before making her beeline to relief.

Antonia was last, no surprise, an enormous bag of M&M’s under her arm. “Goddess, but I love this place, Maralys. Anytime you need a roomie, you let me know.”

“In your dreams.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“I’d never know what you’d do to the place while I was asleep. I could wake up in the middle of Art.”

“That’s part of the adventure.”

“Adventure I can live without.”

She smiled briefly, then her gaze searched mine and her smile faded. “You okay?”

“No. But thanks for asking. Come on in.” She left it there and so did I, the chatter of the others quickly filling the loft. Antonia was watching me though and I knew that she’d come back to her question when she decided the moment was right.

I tried to get those damn shields up fast.

* * *

Antonia’s moment didn’t take that long to turn up. We had talked about Khadija’s trip to the U.K. for a conference—she was flushed with the flattery she’d had on quality of information on her site—and commiserated with Krystal that her most recent ex-boyfriend was indeed a rat. I had brushed off inquiries in my direction quite diligently, I thought, until I noticed that Antonia was getting that laser-eyed look. I was starting to squirm.

That had nothing on my full throttle squirming when the phone rang.

I realized too late that I’d left it in the mode where you can hear whatever message is being left. I was going to get up, but Antonia had a catty little “aha!” smile, so I sat back down, hoping for the best.

“Maralys, it’s James.”

So much for hoping. I lost.

There was much laughter after that, everyone tried to do the polite thing of talking loud enough that they couldn’t hear the message.

Even as they were straining their ears to do just that.

“Nice voice.”

“Umm hmm. What does he look like?”

“As if that’s important.” I felt myself blushing despite my will to the contrary.

“Give me a call if you have a chance,” James continued, then chuckled under his breath. “He suggested optimistically.”

“Oh, he’s got your number.”

“And about last night...”

Eight women were as silent as mice, straining their ears for every nuance of sound. We even froze. I was looking for that gaping hole in the floor to open up and spare me from mortification but knew it wouldn’t happen.

And I did want to know what he said.

“I think you should let your father miss you for a few days. I went to see him this afternoon and he’s doing well. They’re cutting back his drugs and Dr. Moss wants to send him somewhere other than home alone by the end of next week. I’ve got an idea about that and we should talk before they check him out.” There was suddenly a smile in his voice. “Yes, Maralys, that would be both some slack and a deadline. Take care.”

And with a click, he was gone. The Ariadne’s exhaled as one, then looked at me.

“Anything you want to talk about?” Antonia asked quietly.

I could barely catch my breath. “Me? No. Why?”

They passed a glance around like a hot potato, then all looked at me again. Antonia seemed to have been silently appointed spokeswoman, because no one else said a word.

She leaned forward and held my gaze. “Look, Maralys, we know that you’re a really private person. We all managed to pick that up and that’s okay. Everyone here has shared a story, except you...”

“Keeping score?”

“No. We just want you to know that it’s okay. We’re here, whenever you need us, even if you don’t need us. The choice is up to you. We just want you to understand that we understand, either way.”

My breath was coming in big shaky chunks. Because it’s true—if you don’t invest anything, if you shelter yourself from the world and other people, then you’ve got nothing to lose. You are nothing but alone. I’ve been there and done that, and the view is really no hell.

Maybe it was time to make the trust club a little less exclusive than it had been to date. Maybe I didn’t have to think that I had to save the world—and defend mine—all by myself. I knew what I had to do, I knew that this was a safe place to put my trust, but still. Old habits die hard.

“You know already that anything said among us goes no further,” Antonia added.

“Absolutely,” Phyllis said with force.

They were all watching me and not trying to hide that. They were the most honest and trustworthy group of people I’d ever had the good luck to know.

And I’d never told them so.

Antonia seemed to guess that I was on the verge. She eased out of her chair in that catlike way she has and picked up the golden Godiva box. She offered it to me and smiled. “Take one for fortitude.”

I picked a truffle and bit into it, meeting the steady gaze of each Ariadne in turn. “You’d better all take one. This is a helluva story.”

They did and when the box was back on the table and the chewing was done, I took a deep breath and began. The first words were hard, and the ones I chose surprised me when they fell out of my mouth.

Later I realized that they were exactly perfect. Maybe it was the only way I could have told the story.

One thing was for sure—I had the best audience anyone could have hoped to have. That scene with the candles flickering and the ceiling out of view, me surrounded by seven women attentive and concerned, will always be etched in my mind.

It was the night I told the Ariadne’s about James and Marcia and the baby and me.

It was the night that I let the Ariadne’s
really
be my friends.

“O
nce upon a time, there were two sisters who looked exactly alike. Pearls fell from the mouth of one and frogs from the lips of the other...”

You see how it is. Twos fare badly in the language stakes. Twosomes exist to draw attention to contrasts, to not only identify but to add a moral judgment of opposing ends of the spectrum. You can even look at the words themselves to see the truth of our bias:

Bi-polar disorder. Double Trouble. Two-faced. Terrible twos. Double dealing. Two left feet. Two-timing. An odd couple. Two-time losers and two-bit lawyers, neither of which you want to date. A two-edged sword makes for a tough choice, with neither one a winner.

Once bitten, twice shy.

Duplicate: a copy of an original, the implication being that the copy is inferior by the very fact of not being the original. How else could duplicity mean deceptiveness?

Duodenum, a particularly horrible place to get cancer. But then, I suppose there are few good places to get cancer. Perhaps there are places more successfully treated than others, but good and bad? It’s not that easy.