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Continuing to brush her hair, Gail launched into her favorite fantasy about the day she’d be in a position to buy Ellen a new white Ferrari. She’d have it delivered right up to the door, a big red bow tied on the antenna. And she had no doubt whatever that that day would come. Gail was firmly convinced that you could get whatever you wanted in this world if you wanted it badly enough and were prepared to be single-minded about it.

Even so, it was hard to believe it really was all happening for
her, that
finally all the dedication, all the hard work, was paying off.

Ellen’s birthday was coming up in May. She was a Gemini, the sign of the twins. Maybe she’d get the car in time for Ellen’s birthday, she thought, laying the brush down and smiling dreamily, imagining the joyous surprise on her sister’s face at the sight of her very own showroom-new Ferrari in the drive.

Dream on, girl, she told herself, grinning at her reflection in the mirror.

Tiger padded into the room just then, stopping once to wash his face, then winding his sleek, warm body around her bare ankles, first in one direction, then the other, purring the whole time like an old washing machine.

"I owe her so much, Tiger," Gail said, reaching down to stroke the cat’s soft, glossy fur. "If it wasn’t for—"

Suddenly, Tiger’s back arched under her hand and he hissed, making Gail’s
heart,
and her hand draw back as if it had been burned. "Shit, cat, you scared me!
What the—?"

But Tiger, fur standing on end, had already fled the room while his bewildered, shaken mistress turned her chair just in time to see his electrified, retreating tail.

And then she caught a movement from the corner of her eye. Turning, she froze at the sight of the closet door slowly opening.

~ * ~

Three hundred miles away in Evansdale, Maine, Myra Thompson lay asleep in the darkened room beside her husband, Carl. Myra whimpered in her sleep, and though her husband muttered some incoherent, sympathetic response, and laid a gentle arm about her waist, he did not wake.

Ellen had been right about the wine helping Myra get to sleep, but not in imagining it would hold the nightmares at bay.

~ * ~

Across town, in an old Victorian house, an old woman lay on filthy sheets, her unwashed hair spread on the pillow like gray seaweed, framing her gaunt face. Hollowed eyes gleamed in the darkness.

On the beside table, a tray of rotting food was set just out of reach of the claw-like hand that clutched at the blanket covering her. But it was not food she wanted just now.

"Al-vin," the raspy, witchy voice called out in the silence. Her throat was raw from calling. She’d sleep now and then, wake to call again. She’d been calling for a long time. Now, finally, her bladder let go and the stench of urine was added to the already putrid smell of the room.

Tears of rage and helplessness filled the old woman’s eyes, ran down the parchment dry cheeks.

~ * ~

In the bedroom of the semi-basement New York apartment, he knelt over the still, white form,
artist’s
brush in hand. Carefully, he drew the red-tipped brush over her mouth, which was slightly open, revealing small, perfect teeth.

After several minutes, he settled back on his haunches to appraise his work.
A few more final touches.
"There," he said at last, pleased at the results.
"Finished.
Now you look more like yourself.
The real you."
He gave an ugly laugh. The laugh died as suddenly as he became aware that his cheek was on fire where the bitch had raked him with her long nails. He put his fingertips there, and they came away with his blood.

"Bitch," he hissed.
"Whore."
He drew his hand back and slapped her full-force across the face, a purely satisfying sound in the silence. Her head lolled to one side. But his fury was not yet abated.

Slowly, he began to undo his belt buckle.

Six

The day dawned clear and sunny. Ellen was on the road by nine o’clock, more than two hours before Gail’s flight was due in. She couldn’t wait in the house any longer.

She glanced at the LOTS FOR SALE signs along her road as she drove. Soon, she wouldn’t know this place. According to the paper, land development would begin this spring. Now, after last night’s snow, it was picture-postcard pretty. But she knew she wouldn’t mind having neighbors. It would be nice to look out her window and see children flying down the hill on their sleds and toboggans, hearing their shrieks of fearful delight, bright scarves trailing like banners behind them.

It had been different when Ed was alive. Born one of seven and raised in a tenement flat, this place was his dream, and she had been more than happy to share it with him. They had gone on picnics, taken long walks through the woods, armed with cameras. She had never failed to be awed by the unexpected sight of a deer, a bushy-tailed red fox, or a rabbit quivering in their path. But she knew these were not things she would be doing on her own
.
Nor with anyone else, for that matter.
That time belonged to her and Ed. And though she would never lose her appreciation of the beauty of the land, the isolation no longer held the same appeal for her.

~ * ~

The sun glinted hard off the airport window, through which, less than fifteen minutes ago, a crowd had stood watching the descent of flight 267. Now, only Ellen remained to gaze up at the vast expanse of blue sky—a sky that was empty of planes at the moment, with only wisps of dispersing jet stream to mar the blueness. She could feel the vibration of a jet engine starting up, its awesome power thrumming on the polished floor beneath her feet.

What are you waiting for, she asked herself. Gail’s plane had already landed. She wasn’t on it. Feeling vaguely the way she had the time she’d gotten separated from her mother in Woolworth’s department store, Ellen shifted her bag to her other shoulder, glanced behind her, half-expecting to see people staring at her as they had stared then.

She had been no more than two or three at the time. She remembered few details, just that same awful sense of panic, of being abandoned—which was ridiculous, of course. She was no longer that child, and there were a dozen perfectly reasonable explanations why someone would miss a plane.

The big clock on the wall told her it was twenty-five—no, twenty-six minutes now since Gail’s plane had touched down.

In her eagerness to see Gail, Ellen had gotten here more than an hour early. She’d put in the time drinking coffee in the little coffee shop and scanning through the pages of
People
magazine. At last she’d stood with the others watching excitedly as the plane emptied, anticipating her first glimpse of Gail among the passengers descending the narrow metal steps. She continued to watch for her even after it was quite clear that Gail was not on the plane. Her expectant smile had died slowly, in keeping with the sinking sensation in her stomach.

Bewildered, she’d watched friends and relatives quickly find one another. After a flurry of backslapping, teary hugs and exchanged holiday greetings, during which Ellen searched each and every face, hoping against hope she had somehow missed Gail, the room had cleared. Baggage claimed
,
some passengers drove off in waiting cars, while others piled into the taxis lined up in front of the building.

Alone now, but for the few employees and one elderly gentleman sitting across the room, perched on the edge of one of the molded plastic chairs, puffing intently on a pipe.
Like her, he seemed to be waiting for someone. Ellen’s disappointment was almost irrational in its intensity. She tried to think what to do.

Out in the corridor, a white-haired black man pushing an empty luggage cart rattled past; he glanced in and gave Ellen a friendly, if mildly curious smile, making her acutely aware that she must look as lost and miserable as she felt.

Hesitating briefly, she left the waiting room and hurried out into the corridor toward the stairs leading down to the baggage area. Amidst a lot of amplified static and crackling, a female voice paged Mr. Donald Ramsay, and Ellen found herself listening for her own name to issue from the sound system. Fancying again that she had somehow managed to miss Gail, who was no doubt at this very moment collecting her luggage and wondering where in hell her big sister was, Ellen broke into a half-run, her shoulder bag slapping soundlessly against her hip, the heels of her boots clacking down the wide marble stairs, faint hope buoying her spirits.

At the bottom of the stairs, however, even as she looked frantically around, her heart sank even lower. There was no sign of Gail, as she’d known deep down there wouldn’t be. In an airport as small as this one, Gail would have had to be in deep disguise for Ellen to have missed seeing her.

Gazing down at the empty, revolving carousel, it seemed strangely to mock her. On the verge of tears, she turned away, spotted a pair of pay phones beside a row of gray metal lockers, just past the gift shop.
Why don’t you call her apartment?
She might have gotten sick at the last minute, or maybe the Mustang broke down on the way to the airport; she’d been having some trouble with it lately. But Ellen made no move in that direction. Suddenly burning inside her parka, she unzipped it.

She eyed the phones a moment longer, then, as if they posed some sort of threat, she turned away and went back up the stairs.

~ * ~

"And what was the name again?" the pleasant young man in uniform asked, taking in the light auburn hair, the trim, sensuous figure under the off-white parka—a shade that gave her complexion a flattering glow, he thought, as that shade tended to do with certain skin tones. He knew he was staring, but it was next to impossible not to with those incredible eyes looking so beseechingly into his.
Cheekbones to die for.
God, this one could almost make him forget he was gay.

"Morgan," Ellen said, stepping closer to the counter. "Gail Morgan. She’s my sister. She was supposed to be on flight 267 from New York."

The man tapped the information into the computer, waited, while Ellen began fidgeting with her purse strap, twisting it into rope.

A woman in high-topped sneakers and socks, wearing something purple tied around her hair, was half-heartedly pushing a broom across the floor, reminding Ellen of a Carol Burnett skit she’d seen on TV. Ellen had to execute a quick move to avoid the broom that came within inches of her boots.

"’Scuse me," the woman mumbled.

The young man rolled his eyes. "Bertha, really!" he admonished her.

"I said, ’scuse me. Whadda ya want?" Pushing on, she stooped to retrieve a gum wrapper from under a chair, stuffed it into her sweater pocket.

"We have to make allowances for Bertha. She had dreams of becoming a flight attendant. Is that the Gail Morgan?
The singer?"
He flashed
her a
toothpaste ad smile, his eyes lighting hopefully.

Ellen said it was, and heard the clipped tightness in her words. Any other time would have found her warming instantly to the subject of Gail’s career, but right now it seemed almost trivial. Sensing her impatience, he returned to the matter at hand.

"Ah, yes, here she is, all right. Gail Morgan. She was booked on flight 267, held a ticket for seat E5.
Window seat."
He tapped more keys, waited. "She never boarded, ma’am," he said, looking up at her. "The seat went unoccupied. And there’s no record of her canceling."

The sound system crackled to life. "Would a Mr. Joseph Ingalls please come to the
phone.
" Ellen watched as the elderly man with the pipe left his seat, took the call, and hurried off toward the corridor, soon disappearing, leaving Ellen feeling somehow betrayed by him.

A memory was prodding her consciousness again, the way a tongue prods a loose tooth. She pushed it back. Beyond the window, a 747 was taking off. She watched it soar higher and higher until it was no more than a silver streak flashing in the sun.

"Ma’am?"

Ellen turned to see the young man frowning at her. "Yes?" The coffee she’d consumed earlier now seemed to have alchemized into a burning acid in her stomach.

"Are you all right?"

"I’m fine."

"I was just saying you could probably call her in New York. Something must have..."

"Yes, yes, I will. Thank you."

"The telephones are—"

He’d begun to point, but Ellen was already headed in that direction, cutting him off, thanking him over her shoulder for his help.