What She Doesn't Know (30 page)

He clicked on the icon to submit a proclamation.
 

Citizens of Xanadu:

Alta, your king, is back. I thank Sira for keeping things on track, but I am now able to resume my duties as your leader. The Gathering will commence as planned, and I look forward to meeting with my faithful citizens.

“You’re planning on going as Alta?” she asked as he clicked on Submit
Entry.

“Sure am.”

“She’ll know it’s you.”

“Exactly. It’ll rile her up. As much as I plain out hate this whole role playing thing, posing as Brian is the only way to flush her out.”

“Then I’m going, too.”

“Hell you are. You can go to the funeral, but you’re not going to the Gathering.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, ready for the fight. “I am part of this. You would have never even found out about this if it weren’t for me.”

He rubbed his forehead. “Rita, I won’t let you put yourself in danger.”

“Everyone makes his or her own choices in life. Brian chose to create this strange Internet world. Your girlfriend chose not to leave town, but to trust a man who had all the best intentions and not the right training. Your friend Billy chose to climb onto the roof with you. And I am choosing to stay here and take part in the Gathering. There is nothing you can do to stop me, so you see, you can claim no responsibility for me.”

With that, she leaned forward and added a few more lines to his message.

I would also like to introduce a new resident to Xanadu: Atir. The flaw she is discarding is that she will no longer care what people think of her. She will not have to maintain an image of the perfect, got-it-together person. I beg your forgiveness for using my authority to forgo the High Council’s decision, but timing is imperative. I am making Atir my queen and presenting her at the Gathering.

“There. That ought to get her blood boiling.”

“You’re not—sending that,” he added when she clicked on the Submit button.

“See, you couldn’t do a thing about it. Besides, I’m a psychologist. I can read people. And I know what Sira looks like, so you need me. Two is better than one. You have no choice. ‘Nuff said?”

“Rita…”

“Don’t yell at your queen,” she said with a tilt of her head and gracious smile. “Oh, my, I’ll have to get a costume.”

“That’s where you’re out of luck. You won’t find a costume anywhere this close to Mardi Gras. And you can’t show up at the Gathering wearing worldly clothing.”
 

She had a gleam of determination in her blue eyes. “Then I’ll make one. I got an A in my high school sewing class. I’m sure I can find a fabric shop around here. When can we go?”

He wanted to throw her over his knee and spank that…that snarky little grin off her face. “Rita, you’re a fool.”

Her smile did fade at that. “I know. But there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Oh, great, she’d shot an arrow right into his chest, and that sad quirk of her mouth twisted it. He exhaled. “We’ll go after I get back from some errands.”

“Can’t I go with you?”

“No. I’ll wait until Emmagee gets here so you’re not alone.”

“Yes, my king.”

He opened his mouth to say something but closed it again. His queen. Those words had a strange effect on his stomach, somehow getting mixed up with the pain in his chest. Before he realized what he was doing, he slid his finger beneath her chin.

“You’re the queen of nothing.”

“Nothing can be turned to something. With a little magic. Or hope.”

He wanted to kiss her so damned bad it hurt. She knew it, too, when his gaze dropped to her mouth. She moistened her lips, never taking her eyes from his.

His whole body was rigid with the fight, and finally his good sense won out. “Nothing is nothing. Don’t ever forget that.”

Later in the day, Emmagee came by to do her twice-weekly cleaning. Christopher left Rita in her company while he went out and dealt with the hospital, attorney, and the funeral home. The smell of pine scent sent a rush of those Saturday cleaning memories again. The sound of Emmagee sloshing a sponge in the bucket brought a new memory: squeals of laughter, suds flying between mom and daughter, sliding over the tile floor, first Rita falling on her butt, then Angela.
 

Her mom hugging her. “Aw, baby-girl, I know it’s work helping your mama out like this, but I enjoy our Saturdays together.”
 

Why had she buried that memory? She felt something moving closer to her conscious. Another memory? Something else? But Emmagee interrupted her thoughts.

 
“I cannot believe he’s gone. That good lookin’ guy locked away in a vault. It’s so sad, so sad.” She tossed her sponge in the bucket and shook her head, making her curls bob to and fro. She still wore the funky contacts. “So, I guess you and Chris are gonna be heading home, huh?”

Eager to get rid of us?
“We have things we need to take care of.” Best not to give too much information, just in case. She didn’t want to think Emmagee was Sira, but she couldn’t afford to be off-guard. “You said you didn’t know Brian well.”

“Not really. I knew who he was, growing up. He wasn’t in my social group, know what I mean?”

“Did you like him?”

“Didn’t have to. I kep’ his place clean and cashed his checks.”

She didn’t seem to harbor any ill will toward him. Or possessiveness.

“What did you mean when you said Brian was locked in a vault?” Rita was sipping coffee and nibbling on a beignet. She leaned against the counter.
 

“We don’t bury our dead in the ground like most places. Can’t. We’re so close to sea level that the bodies come floating right back to the surface.”

Rita choked on powdered sugar. “Oh, yuck.”

“I bet it was, walking to the cemetery to say hello to your loved one and having him laying there all rotted saying hello back. The fences are to keep the dead in, not the livin’ out.” She shivered dramatically. “If you know what I mean.” She wrung out her sponge. “Speaking of cemeteries, you gotta go to Marie Laveau’s tomb before you leave. She’s the famous Voodoo Queen. Her spirit’ll grant you a favor if you go to her tomb, turn around three times, knock three times on the slab, and mark a cross with a piece of brick.”

Rita waited for Emmagee to laugh at her own joke, but she merely went to work on the front of the refrigerator. “You’re not kidding?”

“No, ma’am. I asked for a favor, to never grow old.” She gestured down her body. “Ain’t seeing a dimple or wrinkle yet.”

“And you’re what, twenty-five? It sounds silly.”

“Nothing’s silly in New Orleans, baby. You should give it a try. Maybe you can combine it with that Carnival magic I told you about.”

Rita shook her head. “That kind of thing goes against my beliefs. Besides, magic isn’t going to help Christopher. He doesn’t want to be helped.”

Emmagee smacked her lips. “Well, honey, sleepin’ with him ain’t gonna help.”

“I didn’t—” At Emmagee’s knowing nod, Rita amended. “How did you know?”

“A woman’s got a glow about her when she’s been thoroughly loved. You certainly didn’t have that look last time I was here. You had that uptight it’s-been-a-while look.”

No, she’d had the it’s-been-forever look. Rita sighed. “You’re right; it didn’t help.”

“Don’t give up on him yet. Maybe his brother’s death will knock some sense into him. You know, the whole mortality thing.” She pulled out a long-handled squeegee from the utility room. “I hate doing windows, that’s f’sure. Be outside if you need me.”

Rita picked another beignet off the tray and wandered out to the parlor. She searched through the family pictures again. As she stared at them, she shivered at the realization that she and Christopher had something in common: they’d grown up in a home that appeared normal and substantial on the surface, but belied a neglect deep within. She looked at the swords and felt a spike of sadness for two brothers who’d lost out on each other.

The doorbell rang. She looked out one of the side panels first, finding Henri standing on the doorstep with a handful of dark roses. His longish, silver hair floated on the breeze beneath his cap.

“Hi, Henri. Listen, I don’t know what kind of deal you had with Brian, but he, well, passed away. I’m sure Christopher will pay you whatever you’re owed. He may have you continue on, I don’t know.”

Henri didn’t remove his dark sunglasses as he held out a gloved hand. “I heard he passed, and I wanted to offer my condolences. It’s a sad thing when one that young goes beyond. I brought these for you.”

She stared at buds black as death. “Thank you. I’ve never seen anything like these. They sure are…dramatic. I’ll put them in a nice va—ouch!” When he’d shoved the bouquet at her, a thorn pricked her finger. She sucked on the tiny pinprick.
 

“Sorry ‘bout the thorn. Thought I’d gotten all of those. Well, have a nice day.”
 

He tipped his cap and walked down the steps. She looked at the bouquet. That was the only thorn on any of the stems.

A few minutes later, Emmagee walked back into the kitchen.
 

Rita was putting the flowers in the vase she’d found beneath the kitchen cabinet. “Strange traditions you have here: black roses for a condolence bouquet. Henri brought them just now.”

“That’s no tradition I ever heard of.”
 

“People are so nice here, at least some of them. Even Christopher has his moments.” Rita started to pick up her coffee, but felt her stomach turn at the aroma. She set it down and took a seat at the table.

Emmagee dumped out dirty water from the bucket. “It’s getting to you, ain’t it? New Orleans, I mean.”

“It does have a magic all its own.”

Emmagee slanted her a wise look. “Does it have anything to do with Chris?”

“No, of course not. He doesn’t even like it here.” Her voice sounded airy and thin as gauze.

“Ah, I think it calls to him. He says he orders the coffee from a shop here, won’t even drink regular coffee. He jus’ has some bad memories. He needs some better ones. Hey, what’s wrong? Your head’s a’tilting.”

Rita held onto the edge of the table. “I feel a little dizzy.”

“Baby, you can’t be getting morning sickness already!”

Rita forced a laugh. “I’m sure that’s not it. I was in a car accident a few weeks ago. Sometimes I still get dizzy.” She pushed herself to her feet, then had the strangest sensation that she was floating. She checked, just to be sure. “Think I’ll go upstairs…lie down.”

“Sure thing. Need some help on those stairs?”

“I’m fine, thanks. I’ll be careful.” If she did get sick, she wanted to be alone. That old inconvenience thing was hard to break out of.

She navigated the stairs by clutching the banister. As soon as she reached the landing, though, she started to feel better. Maybe it was one of the cleansers Emmagee was using.
 

She glanced down to find Emmagee watching her. “I’m fine.”
 

The girl shrugged and went back into the kitchen. Rita sucked in a deep breath to clear her mind and then looked over at Brian’s bedroom door. “I wonder if anyone’s responded.” Her words sounded slurred.

When she walked inside, it seemed the room was deeper and that the computer was blocks away. She took another breath and started the journey, using furniture to guide her. She dropped into the chair and stared at the screen. Even it looked farther away. She reached out and touched the flat, cool surface.

It took three tries before her hand connected with the mouse. Her throat tightened. Was this some kind of delayed reaction from the accident?

After navigating the passageways, she reached Xanadu’s continuing story line. There was a new entry. From Sira. Rita blinked, trying to make the letters stay together.

Sira wanted to know who this stranger was, this Atir. She didn’t like this sudden intruder and was suspicious about Alta’s intentions. After all, he had been her lover for more than eight months, and she had been part of Xanadu since the beginning. If anyone deserved to be queen, she did. Atir would get a visitor who would give the intruder a poison apple. Rita couldn’t hide from a woman scorned.

Rita blinked several times, staring at the correct spelling of her name. A typo? No, Sira was playing the game, too. She’d know exactly who Atir was.

The room tilted, and she felt herself shrinking. Worse, she couldn’t feel the chair anymore. The odd floating sensation had returned. All at once, her bones turned to rubber, and she slumped to the floor. She tried to call out to Emmagee, but her mouth wouldn’t obey her command.
What’s happening to me?

A poison apple. The words drifted through her mind. No one had given her an apple. Only…roses. She hadn’t eaten them, for gosh sakes. No, no, not eaten. Just put them in a vase. Henri wasn’t Sira. He was an old man.
 

With no wrinkles on his face.
 

Rita’s vision undulated like a moving fun house mirror. She kept trying to open her eyes wider, tried to move the hand lying in front of her. It wouldn’t even twitch. A drop of blood oozed out of a hole in her forefinger. Seemed to have a luminescent quality. Like pearls. Like blood red pearls.

The rose had pricked her.

What did he put on the thorn?

She tried hard to get up. It took a long, long time to even move a little. Legs were feeling rubbery. Had to get…where? Who to trust? She heard a humming noise downstairs, like a thousand bees. Bees were coming to sting her.
Get out! Hide!
She couldn’t move. Maybe they wouldn’t see her. If she didn’t move. The black carpet looked like oozing mud, and she was sinking into it.
 

Then she saw a shadow moving just beyond her vision. What was happening? She tried to lift her head. Everything looked tiny and far away, like looking in the wrong side of a telescope. Whenever she could turn her head, everything flowed in a colorful stream.

“Chris,” she said in a slurred voice.
 

“No, baby, it’s not Chris,” a disembodied voice hissed. “Sira wants a word with you.”