Читать книгу Catch 26: A Novel - Carol Prisant - Страница 11

Frannie stumbled to a chair.

What had just happened?

Was Randi in the ladies’ room, laughing at her? Had that finger been just sleight of hand? Hairdressers, she thought, as a tiny light bulb flared: hairdressers have more than their share of manual dexterity, don’t they? But how could she be so naive, or so drunk, to have been taken in like this?

She was grateful for her anonymity. She twisted her gold wedding ring.

But was she disappointed?

Oh my God, she was, she was! She’d been completely ready to give up everything for this shining second chance. Her very soul. She’d offered that Randi her soul. What a vile, despicable trick to play on an old woman.

But wait. Perhaps she was lucky it hadn’t been real?

Well, maybe.

And had anyone seen … whatever it was that she’d just experienced? She looked around, but no, no one was paying the slightest attention to her, which must mean that no one had seen a thing. So she walked back through the half-light to the booth, clicked her compact softly closed and dropped it in her purse. How gullible she seemed to herself right now. She probably was. But was she really that desperate?

Or maybe this was all something she’d imagined.

And had the same thing happened to Arlene? She would call her tomorrow. No, she wouldn’t. It would be too humiliating, even if it had.

So, here she was. Good old Frannie Turner once again. Not always good, maybe, but most definitely old. And nothing was any different. Nothing had changed. Which wasn’t so bad.

Really. It wasn’t.

And then, despite the mysteriousness and peculiarity of the events of this day, Frannie brightened.

And so. And so, since nothing she’d bargained for had happened – not even beauty tips – she might as well go home. She was still trembling, though, and steadying herself (her legs felt terribly weak) Frannie headed in the direction of the stairs, detouring to set her empty glass on the bar.

But as she passed the roulette wheel, she stopped and checked her watch. It was early yet. Not even 9:00. And here she was, in a gambling casino with money in her purse and – given that she’d just been ready to take a huge, inconceivable, risk – why not just, well … risk a little something? Even though she didn’t usually gamble. Even though Stanley said gambling was throwing your money in the toilet. Even though, basically, she agreed, but still … five minutes, maybe. Just for the Hell of it?

“The Hell of it?” Frannie smiled lopsidedly.

So. Roulette? Blackjack? Craps?

She thought she’d choose some game that looked particularly busy and watch for a minute or two. That way, she wouldn’t be noticed if she chose not to play right away. Spotting a tall empty chair at the far end of a horseshoe-shaped table and, squeezing through, she bumped an adjacent chair hard. Its occupant was so engrossed he didn’t even seem to hear Frannie’s overly profuse apologies, or to notice her at all. She, on the other hand, noticed him.

Because he was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man she’d ever been this close to.

He was tapping his fingers as he studied his cards. From the corner of her eye, she watched. He’s a dancer, Frannie felt sure. Even seated, he held himself like a dancer: his back arrow-straight, his neck long, his shoulders thrown back, his head … was “noble” the word? She caught just a whiff of a citrusy aftershave. He seemed to be dressed all in black, too. Interestingly his jacket was black; his sweater was black with slices of white at the neck and wrists. No wedding ring she noted (stupid old woman, she thought, but couldn’t help smiling), and … unhappily, the rest of him was blocked by a meaty young woman to her left who’d pushed herself between them. As casually as she was able, Frannie leaned forward. The prince was absorbed in his cards (what were they playing here?). And his face, in profile, was beautiful-rough, though his eyes were invisible.

Stolidly, the woman next to her obscured her view, and defeated, finally, Frannie sat back to watch the game. Oh – blackjack. Right.

She didn’t actually know how to play blackjack, but based on the other players there – a touchy-feely couple (the girl was obviously not wearing a bra and Frannie was envious); a pair of unshaven, swarthy men arguing heatedly about every bet; a boyish, three-donuts-away-from-obese young man in a short-sleeved, too-tight plaid shirt. If this miscellaneous group could play it, the game couldn’t be all that hard, she concluded. Which meant that she could pick it up. But Frannie wasn’t able to concentrate. Citrus.

Eventually, the woman beside her left and risking a full-on look, she found herself in instantaneous love with the man’s high cheekbones and the line of his short straight nose, a little broader than it was fine. He had fair, smooth skin and something a little slack – something cruel? – about his mouth. The single most striking thing about him, however, was his remarkable hair. It was as white as a summer cloud: white and abundant and worn unfashionably long. George Washington-style, he’d gathered it low on his neck in a narrow black cord. He couldn’t be more than thirty-five, Frannie estimated. If that.

How would it feel to be young enough for a man like that right now? A spasm of loss cut her in half and she gasped.

Randi. Randi, that self-styled gatekeeper. Had anyone even seen Randi in this place, actually? Except for her? She’d find one of those men from the bar and ask. Or maybe the “headband” boy. And she actually half-rose from her chair. But then she’d lose her place beside her … prince. She subsided back onto the stool.

All right. If there had actually been some spectacular vanishing act, or even just the terrible accompanying sounds she thought she’d heard, people would have noticed. And, obviously, no one had. So there couldn’t have been a scroll or a pact. No gatekeeping Randi at all. But had she imagined The Hair House.

No. That was real.

And overwhelmed by loss once again, she brushed away unwelcome tears for … what … the fourth time that day?

No, she’d concentrate on this blackjack. She was good at self-distraction. A minor perk and inadvertent side effect of the passage of years.

She’d need to buy some chips.

From her wallet, Frannie withdrew her hundred-dollar bills. It wasn’t often she carried this much money around, but without Stanley there she’d felt unsure of things like parking charges and entry fees. And nothing should be left to chance tonight, she’d decided before she’d left. Well, some joke! She handed the dealer her folded bills. Tonight had been all about chance.

The blackjack dealer, a sad, stringy blonde, accepted Frannie’s money and, with one fabulous, pink-taloned hand, slid a small stack of chips smoothly across the felt. After arranging the chips in mini-stacks – a kind of enjoyable thing to do, Frannie thought – she sat there, pretending to be pondering, but actually ill at ease. She had absolutely no idea what to do next.

The man to her left, however, the prince, had somehow noted her uncertainty, however, and rode to the rescue. With a lovely warm smile (as she planned to report to Arlene), he plucked a single chip from his diminished pile and tapping its edge on the table between them, caught her eye to silently indicate he would help. That was when she saw his mouth and saw it wasn’t cruel at all. It was sensual. Like Brando’s.

A card sailed onto the felt in front of her – a ten. She scanned the horseshoe to see what everyone else was doing and noted most players placing chips in front of them – some more, some less. Hopeful, she turned to her left.

“Basically,” the prince had a whispery, smoky baritone “basically, you want your own cards to get you as close as they can to twenty-one. You’re playing against the dealer’s cards,” he pointed to the face-up card the dealer had dealt to herself, “and the trick is to get as near twenty-one as possible without going over. Over twenty-one, you lose.”

He was so close she might have stroked his cheek. Instead, she inhaled his lovely scent.

He pointed to the card in front of her.

“You have a ten, for instance, so you’re going make your bet on the likelihood of getting another ten, or better yet, an ace.

“You mean,” Frannie asked, “I just have to add up the cards that are dealt to me and bet?”

“That’s it,” he answered, laughing easily. Sexily. Why did she keep doing this younger-man thing? It was humiliating. She knew how she must look to him.

“It’s really pretty simple. If you can add, you can play.” He flicked his own card, a four. “Now, the really great thing would be to be able to keep count in your head. To count every played card, basically. That would help a lot.”

He grinned at the unlikelihood of such a thing and, in the process, exposed the kind of teeth that – if everyone had had them forty years ago – she and Stanley would be homeless today.

At that, Frannie had to laugh aloud at herself, which made her, suddenly, decide to have one more Bloody Mary. How exhilarating to have this unbelievably attractive man helping her, to be taking any kind of interest at all in her; a woman who – in every respect – just wasn’t a player.

He had wonderful manners, too.

So I’ll just sit next to him here for a while, Frannie decided, having given her order to one of the waitresses. Play a few hands and lose whatever I lose. She pushed two chips toward the center and awaited her first card: a seven. The dealer turned up a four. Frannie’s next card was a five and when her mentor whispered, “Don’t take another card – stand,” she did just that. And she won. What a delight! On the next hand, though, she had an ace and then a six, and was certain she had lost, but the dealer had a ten and a five, and on the next card, went over twenty-one. So Frannie won again. Now she began to leave her chips on the table, as she’d seen others do. Because she was feeling invincible, all at once. Her new hair, maybe. Or her too-close-for-comfort close call. More likely, she concluded, it was her white-haired accomplice. Half-listening to the dealer’s patter as she expertly dealt out the cards, Frannie understood – with a strange and exhilarating certainty – that tonight she was going to win.

What a rollercoaster tonight had been! First, terrified and humiliated by a pranking hairdresser and now, the ally of this drop-dead young man, and risking serious sums, for her, on this game she’d never played before.

Which was why, perhaps, when the winning began in earnest, when the good cards kept coming her way, when the bright-colored chips piled up, fell over, then piled up again, she wasn’t surprised. Not even when she’d accumulated so many chips that she built a little house with them – then, a mansion – then a palace. Not even when the other players began making grudging jokes about her luck, or even when, out of nowhere, groups of kibitzers pressed around her and her prince, applauding every card. Every so often she’d lean to her left to whisper “Bet.” And while her ally seemed doubtful at first, as the hours flew by, he was asking her advice. Eventually, it was just the two of them at the table, winning and laughing and bantering with their groupies, and Frannie was delightedly reckless and lightheaded. And maybe, still, a little drunk. But unbelievably full of some nameless and magical bliss.

At length, her seatmate stood to stretch, then bent to whisper in her ear.

“I don’t know what I can do to thank you. If the drinks weren’t already free, I’d buy you a drink.” He saw the dealer watching them suspiciously and hurriedly resumed his seat, continuing aloud:

“You’re my lucky charm tonight, but what’s your name? Lady Luck? Whatever you’re doing, you’re doing it right. I’ve never won at cards like this. Never.”

Even his breath was fragrant, thought Frannie. He slid his arm along the back of her stool and squeezed her shoulders. A hug, if she wasn’t mistaken. And then he turned her face to his and kissed her full on the mouth. Blushing and shaken, Frannie looked hurriedly down. It had been so long.

Kiss me again, she silently prayed.

But she answered aloud, “Frannie. My name is Frannie.”

She would never, ever, forget him. Or this night. If it had all been real, if she’d been allowed that priceless second chance, this was the man she knew she would love.

“Frannie,” he laughed aloud. “Canny Frannie! I love you!”

He hugged her hard once more.

A little delighted, a little scared, she gracelessly freed herself.

“Listen. Thanks so much for the offer of the free drink,” she smiled up at him, “but I think I ought to go home now. I’ve had a very big night.”

And casting a bewildered glance around the room, searching for, suddenly … she didn’t know what. “I wish I could tell you what kind of night it’s been.”

“Well how about my night?” he countered. “Thanks to you, I think I’ve won something like …” he clicked expertly through his stacks of chips. “… $22,000. My God.”

Again he stood. “Why not let me walk you to your car, anyway?”

But Frannie was afraid to be alone in the dark with a stranger – even this beautiful, desirable stranger – and when she’d cashed in her own chips, she might have a good bit of cash on her, too.

“No. No thanks. I’ll be just fine.”

Looking pointedly at her watch, she lied. “Someone’s picking me up in a few minutes anyway.”

“I’m so sorry you have to go,” he replied. And swiping at some feathers of downy-white hair, he offered her something that seemed like a bow and almost whispered (she must be imagining this, she thought.) “It’s been totally amazing, Frannie. I’m incredibly lucky you decided to sit beside me.”

“I’ve felt kind of lucky all night, too,” Frannie replied. “Well … almost all night.”

Walking away, she couldn’t help but look back. He was blowing her a kiss.

Giddy, and probably tipsy, she wandered, first, into a dark mini-dining area and then into a vacant private gambling room, until ultimately she found her way to the cashier’s window, cashing out her winnings – $35,640, omigod! – and picking her way through the still-dense crowds to the quiet of the shadowy stairs. Despite the fiasco with Randi – which seemed days ago already – Frannie was euphoric. A beautiful young man had just hugged her, kissed her on the lips and asked her name. Wonderful! Ludicrous!

And she’d won a lot of money as well.

As she made her way to the street, it occurred to her that now, if she wanted to – and, yes, she did – she had more than enough to buy that old painting.

The drive home felt long – so long that all her elation was melting away.

Stanley. Should she tell him? And if she didn’t, how could she possibly explain all this money? She touched the envelope beside her, to be sure it was there. And on top of everything else, there seemed to be a problem with the car: its heater was running uncomfortably hot and the heat was making her itch. Her chest. Her belly. Her thighs. Beneath the sleeves of her good navy coat she felt poison ivy, maybe, or major mosquito bites. But this was March and poison ivy was dormant, so what could have bitten her? Insects weren’t around now. But her scalp and neck were suddenly driving her crazy, too. Crazy enough that at the first stoplight she came to, Frannie tore off her gloves, stuffed them into her tote and scratched herself fiercely all over. She scratched and rubbed until it hurt, but none of it seemed to help. She’d need to get that heater checked tomorrow. Maybe some kind of mold in the vents? She turned the heater off and accelerated. She wanted to get home. But still, she felt queer. Too close to the steering wheel, for one thing. And so, on Washington Avenue, right near Tucker, Frannie pulled the little car to the curb because her shoes were also hurting her madly and she needed to kick them off her feet, right away. In the weird green glare of the overhead streetlight, she leaned down to yank off one pump, but straightened up so fast her head banged the steering wheel hard. Her right foot was huge! She leaned down to feel it again. Her stocking was torn, in fact, and it seemed her long second toe was gone! But wait, Frannie said to herself: it was dark down there on the floor. She had to be wrong. Bending to remove her other shoe, she noticed her sleeves. Her wrists stuck out well beyond them. Frannie grabbed at the hem of her skirt and pulled it up off her thighs. Then she swung both legs over to the passenger seat and turned on the roof light.

Long, long legs. Long, long legs with slender ankles and incredibly narrow feet. No long second toes. Vomit rose in her throat. She threw the money in back and examined these legs and those feet. They were slim and lean and there, on the inside of that left ankle, she could almost make out a sort of mark. A mole? Something small and very odd. Frannie scrabbled again in her purse, found her glasses, jiggled them on. But now everything got blurry, so she jerked them off and, crossing her left leg over her other knee, she examined that ankle up close.

It was a tattoo.

She didn’t need glasses to see what it was.

A small red pitchfork.

Frannie tore out of the car and now, barefoot, stood on the cold, prickly grass of the verge. By resting her arms on the roof of the car and bending a little at the knees, she was able to lay her forehead against the driver’s-side window. Her ragged breath was fogging the glass. Did she belong – not to Randi now – but she couldn’t remember that other, peculiar, name? Mrs. Someone? Had she actually sold her soul? My God.

She needed to get home.

Closing the front door softly, Frannie crept into the hall. No lights. No TV. Stanley seemed to have found his way to bed.

She paused inside the bedroom door to listen for his chesty breathing before feeling her way around both their beds and into the bathroom. Once there, in the dark, she quietly stripped off her clothes and pulled the door behind her, turning on the light. Her heart hammered hard in her chest as she turned to the bathroom mirror.

She was someone else.

Someone with a wavy mass of coppery hair who had to bend her knees to see it all, because this … person … was extraordinarily tall. She had an oval face, small ears, and hazel eyes (not the familiar brown). Her nose was straight and fine, her mouth was full, and her neck was, yes – Frannie allowed herself the word – swanlike.

A flawless face on the perfect body of a very young woman looked back at her.

Frannie took in the broad, smooth shoulders, the incandescent skin. And the breasts! Her breasts! They were pinkly-nippled and sitting high and heavy on a long slender torso bisected by – she could just make it out, the vertical shadow of trim, sound, muscle. And her stomach. She touched it. Porcelain-white and flat, it swelled ever so gently before disappearing into a wild russet growth of pubic hair. Turning her back to the mirror, she could see – over her shoulder – the buttocks of a Callipygian Venus.

Omigod. Omigod.

She needed to go somewhere to think. She needed to leave this house right away.

Naked, she was just trying to tiptoe out of the bathroom, when, somehow, her unaccustomed body bumped the bedside table. Something glassy fell to the floor and broke.

Which was when Stanley sat up in bed. And saw her.

“Uh, me …”

The utterance trailed away as, in the semi-darkness of – was it already dawn? She watched his eyes grow wide and round. Then she saw him push himself up, try to rise, and instead, fall off his bed and onto his knees. His unchecked weight hit the floor with a muffled thud while an errant gleam of light picked out tears of surprise in his eyes. A peculiar noise issued from his mouth, a terrible high-pitched whinny, and Stanley rolled awkwardly onto his back.

“Stanley. What’s wrong?” Frannie felt her way around the twin beds and knelt at his side.

“What can I do? Stanley?”

Was he gawping at the strange naked woman cupping his face? His mouth was skewed to one side and from it, as she watched, a trail of glistening saliva slid haltingly toward his ear and slipped familiarly within.

A stroke? Had he had a stroke? His eyes were fixed on hers. Was he angry, she wondered? It looked like he was terribly angry. At her? What had she done?

“Come back, Stanley,” she cried. “Don’t leave.”

Jamming her hands into his damp armpits, she tried to heave him toward the bed, but he was heavy! So much heavier than she’d imagined. Now his left arm dropped across her bare shoulder and seemed to be sliding down her side. Frannie sat back on her heels and wept, and the arm fell to the floor, but after a minute or two of shoving and grunting with the effort, she managed, at last, to maneuver him into a semi-sitting position against the wall.

“Stanley! Wake up, Stanley.”

Fumbling, she buttoned his pajama top up to his neck and patted it smooth against his chest. She chafed his chilled hands and her fingers slid across the ridges of his nails. She knew there was a vein in the neck somewhere, but where? Feeling along his unshaven throat up to just below his ear – what pale, thin, fingers she seemed to have! – he found … nothing at all. She didn’t know where that vein should be. His eyes were open. She could see tears on his cheeks and her own tears were cold on her face, as, stroking his temples, she crooned and keened, “Don’t go, Stanley. Don’t go.”

But he was still.

Oh God. Oh, God. Oh, stupid! Call 911!”

Leaping to her feet, Frannie snapped the little lamp on and snatched the bedside phone.

A woman’s voice.

“Help! Please! My husband may be dying. My husband might be dead. Send someone! Hurry!”

A maddeningly unruffled voice sounded maddeningly impassive as it pried her address from her, and Stanley’s name … her name … his age … her name … her age …

Why didn’t the stupid bitch just send someone?

“Send someone right now, will you? Please! Please! Hurry!”

Frannie dropped the handset near Stanley’s bare foot. His scowl had disappeared. He was looking almost pleased.

“Help is coming,” she whispered.

Help was coming.

He had looked at her and died of shock.

Now their bedroom was grayed with watery light and she couldn’t be here when the ambulance came.

Throwing open the closet door, Frannie grabbed for her best winter dress, but it looked huge! Too huge! Shaking, she stepped into it and felt it billow about her body, until, frantic with haste, she managed to dig out one of Stanley’s old belts and pulled it close. That ought to keep the cold out, she thought.

But her shoes wouldn’t fit. She needed shoes.

Glancing at the clock radio, she calculated. No more than seven minutes since she’d phoned and whatever could be done, they would do. She knelt and shook her husband’s shoulder gently. His chin had settled on his chest.

Frannie stood and grabbed the photo of the two of them, then stuffed it and her winnings down to the bottom of her oldest tote. Hooking it over her shoulder, she raced to the front closet, jammed her bare feet into an old pair of Stanley’s rubber boots and slipped her incredibly long arms into her navy coat. They stuck out way beyond the sleeves, of course, and the coat was far too short now, but it was the only one she owned.

Oh, Stanley. God! Stanley! She half-turned towards the bedroom. But there was nothing she could do. She needed to leave.

Outside, the streetlights stuttered off one by one, and on the horizon, just above her neighbors’ roofs, an ugly dawn was beginning to soil the leaden sky. The snow they’d been expecting had started falling at last, and Frannie stopped on the porch, with the front door still ajar. The street was silent. In the living room, their lights and TV were off forever now.

Stanley was dead. There’d be no going back. She had killed her husband.

And Randi was real.

Boot tops smacking at her calves, she ran to the car. The engine of the Ford caught obediently, as Frannie Turner – or not Frannie Turner – pulled out into the empty street.

On the highway, she passed St. Louis Rescue in the opposite lane, its sirens breaking the day.