Epiphany Jones (9 page)

‘It’s not really like that,’ I type.

‘PICS please,’ Halfling types.

And I type, ‘I don’t have pictures. It’s not like we sit around photographing ourselves.’

And Halfling types, ‘No, I need them for the passports.’

And this is why Halfling is important. Before I IM’d him, I logged into the museum’s private intranet and I copied the picture used on my museum badge. I send it to Halfling.

‘And I need one for your friend. The GIRL,’ he types.

I type, ‘She doesn’t like pictures.’ I type, ‘I need you to make up a photo for her.’

And he types ‘…’

‘Do you think you could do that,’ I type? ‘If I tell you what she looks like?’

‘… Yeah … I can try,’ he types. Slantedface.

So I tell Halfling what Epiphany looks like. I put it in terms of things he can understand. I say she’s got this actress’s eyes, this one’s jaw, this one’s ear. But I delete that last part before sending. No one has Epiphany’s ear.

‘Sounds hot,’ Halfling says. ‘I bet she’s awesome.’

‘She’s actually quite a pain,’ I type.

He types, ‘I bet she smells good.’

I never noticed.

He types, ‘It must be so great to have someone around.’

No, it’s not.

He types, ‘To have company.’

Not hers.

He types, ‘I’d kill to have a little attention from a girl. To wonder where you are at night. To wonder what you’re doing.’

Not this kind of attention. Not this kind of wondering.

‘What’s her name? For the passports?’

And I type, ‘I don’t want you to use my real name.’

Halfling says no problem, he’ll use his dad’s name for me.

‘The other name? Hers?’ he types.

Bitch. Devil. Satan. Plague. Scourge. Nightmare of nightmares. All appropriate names, but all would look suspicious on a passport.

And as I’m going through curses in my head for Epiphany, the door to the apartment opens and the devil herself comes in with an orange plastic bag. The crinkly ones you get at grocery stores. I’m on the couch typing; the laptop’s lid is back to her. I’m watching the screen, watching her watching me, wondering what I’m typing, if I can be trusted.

‘The other name?’ Halfling types again.

I’m wondering what Epiphany has in the orange bag. If it’s just another thing to threaten me with.

Onscreen, Halfling types, ‘What’s her name.’

She’s just standing in the doorway looking at me.

Halfling types, ‘HER NAME PLEASE.’

And looking at Epiphany, I type her name. Then I delete it before I press send, and I type, ‘Fanny.’

And on the screen, Halfling types, ‘Old-fashioned, but great. She must be awesome.’

And I’m looking at Epiphany, wondering if that orange plastic bag is to put over my head. To cut off my air supply.

‘You don’t know her,’ I type. ‘She’s not that awesome.’

And Epiphany, just when I think she’s going to accuse me of trying to do something funny, trying to fool her; just as I think she’s going to say, ‘Don’t make me suffocate you,’ she reaches into the orange crinkly bag and pulls out one of those convenience-store sandwiches. The kind in the little triangular plastic cartons. The kind with the processed, wafer-thin ham and cheese that was probably made in some big factory eight months ago.

And Epiphany, she says, ‘I thought you looked hungry.’

She says, ‘I brought you food.’

And onscreen, Halfling is typing, ‘You’re probably right, man. Girls are a pain. We’re better off without them.’

Epiphany, she says, ‘I didn’t know which you might like, so I brought you two,’ and pulls out a roast beef with mayo sandwich.

‘She’s probably a total bitch,’ Halfling types.

Well, I guess she’s not all bad…

Epiphany takes out a bottle. ‘And I got you water.’

‘A fucking nightmare,’ Halfling types.

She can be nice.

‘Stupid broads,’ Halfling types.

‘And I brought you a sweet. For dessert,’ Epiphany says and takes a heavily processed piece of freeze-dried chocolate cake in plastic wrap out of her bag.

And suddenly I feel a little bad about imagining her face on the rat’s body.

‘The downfall of mankind will be because of a woman like her,’ Halfling types.

‘She can be sweet, actually,’ I type. And once again, Halfling and I end up on the opposite sides of the conversation from where we began.

As I eat, Epiphany just sits in the corner. I don’t ask how much she got for the watch.

‘I’ve arranged our passports,’ I say and then realise, just a little bit, that I’ve said that like I’m looking for her approval. ‘He’s going to meet us at the bus station tomorrow.’

‘You’re wanted now,’ she says, like she’s not the reason for it. ‘Can we trust him?’

On the laptop’s screen, message after message appears. Halfling’s on a rant now.

‘Communism works in theory,’ he types.

‘We’re all the next Rodney King,’ he types.

‘9/11 was an inside job.’

‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘we can trust him.’ He’s as nuts as she is.

I’
ve been watching the laptop’s screensaver display liquid light patterns for a while now. The pattern’s tendrils of colours fade from purple to yellow, to green, and then start all over again. I’m lying on the couch, shivering. Cold wind whistles through the windows. I check my watch for the time, then remember it’s been sold.

After working out the details with Halfling I lay down to get some sleep. So did Epiphany. She’s in the bedroom, sleeping like a baby, that’s how much she knows she has me on a leash. Her personality, if you can call it that, it’s maddening, but at least I know what she wants me for now.

But part of me thinks, is the passport everything she wants me for? And how could she have known I would know how to get passports anyway? And why attack Roland? Just to get the painting to blackmail me to get passports? It doesn’t make sense. There’s got to be more to it than that. There’s also that thing she said about looking for me for twelve years. Twelve years ago I was in LA. What would a teenaged Epiphany want with a teenaged version of me?

Fuck it. I’ll go crazy if I keep thinking about this. We’ll get up tomorrow, take our little trip to Mexico and I’ll get my videotape.

I try for another twenty minutes to sleep but can’t. I sit up and poke my head over the couch. Through the hole in the wall I see Epiphany curled up on the mattress in the next room. How can she sleep here? The whole building rocks with every gust of wind, like it’s about to tip over. Plus it’s freezing. At least the glow of the laptop’s screensaver gives the illusion of warmth. And watching the coloured tendrils of light, I suddenly know what I need to go to bed.

I creep off the couch. There’s still nine minutes of power left on the laptop’s battery. Between Halfling’s paranoid rants he managed to send me a new fake of some red-headed actress I didn’t recognise. Halfling said she’d just been cast as the next Bond girl. The fake is soft core – just the actress, topless – but it’ll be enough.

I peer through the hole in the wall to make sure Epiphany is asleep. ‘I’m leaving,’ I say.

No response.

Standing in the glow of the laptop I spit into my hand and begin to masturbate, but I can’t stay hard. It’s so damn cold in here. Plus, I have no idea who this redhead is. I’ve never seen her in anything. I’ve never heard her give an interview. It’s hard to imagine her as a real person when I’ve never seen her body move or heard her voice speak. I spit into my hand and try again anyway. But my dick is like an uncooked Oscar Meyer hot dog.

Then I hear a muffled sound and glance over my shoulder. I have an audience, but it’s only a pigeon that’s returned from a late-night flight. Just in case though, just to make sure, I walk over to the wall and look through the hole into Epiphany’s room. She’s still asleep. A real asleep too, not one of those fake ones where people hold their breath to convince you they’re so still they must be sleeping.

Her chest rises and falls ever so slightly. Her cheeks puff in and out with each breath. Lying there asleep on the soiled, shredded mattress, she looks almost sweet. Almost normal. She’s using her green hoodie as a pillow under her head. The way she’s lying, her blue T-shirt, it’s caught up and stretched tight over her chest, so tight it looks like it could have been painted to her body. And yes, this is the first time I’ve noticed she has nice tits, OK? Small but pert. Think Natalie Portman in
Garden State
. The rain scene.

And looking at Epiphany in the T-shirt pulled tight around her body, well I suddenly feel very warm … down there. And I’m shocked to see just how hard I am. Seriously, I’m stiff like a Maglite. And I remember the warmth Epiphany’s body gave off as she removed my watch, the way her fingers tickled my wrist. I had goose bumps on the
back of my neck. And even though she was taking from me, it felt
so good
to be touched by a human being. And sure, she may be insane, but who here isn’t?

And look, I swear I’ve never done this before, OK?
I swear
. But don’t even try to tell me you wouldn’t do the same thing under the right circumstances. You know
exactly
how it is.

So I stroke my erection while I watch Epiphany purring like a kitten on her mattress. I stroke remembering how it felt when her fingertips trickled along my skin. I stroke and imagine her hand stroking me. I imagine her mouth waiting open for me. And when I cum there’s a tingling in my penis I’ve never felt before. My load shoots with such force and volume I’m amazed it hasn’t punctured another hole in the wall. I’m amazed it hasn’t brought down this whole shitty building. And as I catch my breath, as I zip my fly, I continue to watch Epiphany sleep. My eyes trace her matted raven hair from her pale ear to her little mouth; from her hips to her fingertips.

And I think – I think I’m falling in love.

I
t’s just past dawn and I’ve slept like a fucking baby. For ten minutes I’ve been lying awake on the couch, watching her. Epiphany, she’s been sitting on the windowsill, back towards me, her legs dangling out onto the fire escape. She’s been there since I woke up. She’s wearing her green hoodie, her head turned to the side, looking at a black cat that’s perched next to her.

Even though she’s ruined my life I can’t help feeling butterflies in my stomach. It’s like I’m in third grade again; liking the girl who sticks bubblegum on my seat. Though in this case the bubblegum is a ten-million-dollar painting.

They call this
Stockholm syndrome
. And to be fair, I was warned about this.

Sitcom resolution syndrome, psychotic depression, Stockholm
syndrome. I’ll just add it to the list of things to resolve with my shrink the next time I see him.

And I think, maybe this Mexico thing won’t be so bad after all? It’s like what a real boyfriend and real girlfriend do in a real relationship. A road trip full of bonding. Who knows, maybe she’ll fall in love with me? Maybe she’ll be sorry for everything she’s done and want to have kids and stay in Mexico where we can live happily ever after.

And watching Epiphany sitting on the windowsill, I’m thinking of something to say, just so she’ll acknowledge me.

Howdy?

No, too Western.

Beautiful day?

Too lame.

Top ’o the morning to ya?

Too Irish.

And as I’ve settled on ‘Hi,’ Epiphany’s lips move. Her words are so soft I can’t hear them. Then she pauses, looks at the cat, and strokes it again.

‘Sorry? I didn’t hear what you said,’ I say from the couch. But she doesn’t hear me. Then her lips move again and, again, silent words follow.

I clear my throat. ‘What’s that?’ I say, louder. But Epiphany continues to speak silently while stroking the cat.

And it’s quite big, the cat is. Larger than any cat I’ve ever seen. Its yellow eyes scowl at me when it catches me staring. And for a second I’m jealous. I want to be stroked by Epiphany.

‘Epiphany?’ I say, rather loudly this time, sitting up on the couch. ‘Are you talking to the cat?’

The cat seems to take offence to this and jumps from the windowsill to the fire escape where it circles once before finding the stairs and disappearing.

It’s only when the cat leaves that Epiphany seems to notice I’m in the room. She spins around on the windowsill and swings her legs back inside.

‘The bus leaves in a few hours,’ she says. ‘We should go soon.’

And my heart flutters a little bit. She’s talking to
me
.

‘Hi,’ I say.

No! Stupid! That was before.

I must look like a fucking idiot now.

So I say, ‘Who were you talking to? Were you, were you … talking to that cat?’

Epiphany, she finds this funny, and indeed, it’s the first time I’ve seen her smile. Her smile – it’s uncomfortable. Not uncomfortable in a fake-smile way, but uncomfortable as if it’s the first time she’s tried it. Like it’s a new movement to her. And me, awkwardly I smile back, like I’m pleased I could make her smile. But my smile feels stupid, so I lose it.

‘Don’t be silly,’ she says. ‘Cats can’t understand us.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Cats
can’t
understand us. So … who were you talking to?’

Her smile breaks and she looks away.

‘Listen,’ I say, ‘I’m going with you to Ensenada, right? So you need to start being open with me. Who were you talking to?’

She says nothing.

‘And, I mean, what’s in Mexico?’

Again, nothing.

‘And, why Ensenada?’

And Epiphany says, ‘…’

And then, just as I think it’s pointless asking anything else, Epiphany, she opens her mouth and actually speaks. And me, I stand in rapture, like I’m Moses on Mount Sinai listening to the voice of God.

And Epiphany sayeth: ‘There is a person I need to find.’

That’s it.

The end.

‘And they’re in Ensenada?’ I say. It’s like pulling teeth.

‘I don’t think so,’ she says. ‘But that’s where I’ll be told where to find them.’

‘Told?’ I say. ‘Who’s going to tell you?’

She doesn’t answer.

‘Is someone telling you to do all this?’ I say.

Again, she’s silent.

‘Is someone
making
you do this?’

Nothing. Zilch. Nada.

So I try left field. ‘The Van Gogh wasn’t random, was it?’ Epiphany stiffens. ‘You said you’ve been looking for me for twelve years. Twelve years ago I was in LA. Twelve years ago Roland was in LA.’ But something else was also in LA twelve years ago. ‘Epiphany, do you know who owns the painting?’

And Epiphany, her mouth opens again. She says, ‘A man called Matthew Mann.’

My heart skips a beat. ‘Roland’s old boss.’

Her face grows grim. ‘He’s much more than that.’

Is she a pissed-off actress? Did he reject her for a movie role?

‘Is it Matthew Mann you’re looking for?’

‘If I find him,’ she answers. I take that to mean ‘yes’.

‘And, if you do find him? What are you going to do?’

But I don’t really want to hear the answer.

And Epiphany, she looks me right in the eyes. She says, ‘I’m going to kill Matthew Mann.’

It’s not what she says that unnerves me so much. I’ve told people I feel like killing someone lots of times. It’s
how
she says it – totally matter-of-fact. No emotion, no anger, no rage. She said she’s going to kill Matthew how most people say they’re running out for some milk.

My throat tightens. ‘Why?’

‘Because she said I can.’ And this Epiphany says like a little girl who’s been told by a nanny that she’s been a good girl and can have an extra cookie at snack time.

‘She?’ I say. ‘Who? The person you were talking to just now?’ Epiphany looks out the window, then back to me. ‘Who? The cat? Who’s told you you can kill Matthew Mann?’

And Epiphany, she crosses herself and says, ‘God.’