75.

12. Vivica

 New Orleans, February 2000

 

"Okay," said Marc, "time to take off the mask."

Her place was half a shotgun duplex, in need of a paint job. Her dog, a little dachshund/beagle mutt, was jumping all over them as they entered the house. She apologized for the mess, which wasn't all that bad, although she did have to clear the unmade bed of clothes, most of them black, pink and red. She told him to sit in the living room.

"Fifty bucks to see my face," she said.

"Jesus!"

"Do I look like a cheap ho? I don't even flash for beads."

He took out his wallet. "You take plastic?"

76.

"I'm not into that."

"Hah! Good, cuz I don't think ya could afford it." She fluttered her eyelashes and laid the yat on even thicker. "Besides, I'm a good Catlick girl. I don't do dat, dawlin." She was squatting, black satin crotch suddenly flashing, as she felt under the sofa for the leash. "Ah, here it is. Come on, boy, let's go." The dog was so excited Marc didn't think he (the dog) could contain himself. I need to work myself up to that point, he thought as she left, saying, "Back in a New-Yawk minute." She's great, really sexy, I don't care how much it costs. He had only paid for sex once before, in a brothel on Ninth Street in New York and that was a total failure because he felt ashamed and couldn't get it up. What a waste of money I didn't even have back then. Drunk then too. But it's carnival and I don't feel shame.

He found a bottle of Abita in the fridge, opened it and drank steadily for several minutes. A voice suddenly next to him: "Walk out the door right now, Marco DiCaso, before she comes back."

Startled to see sitting beside him an all-too familiar figure in worn-out clothes—black frock coat, baggy pants, yellowing white shirt, crooked black cravat—Marc spoke at the large square head: "I'm not asleep, you shouldn’t be here. I'm begging you, leave me alone. Go away!"

"Back to the Night's Plutonian Shore? I cannot. I'm trying to reunite with my soul, remember? I'm no more thrilled than you are that you happen to embody it, Mr. DiCaso. Maybe I ought to take my chances on the next palingenesis."

"What the hell are you babbling about?"

Poe stood up and walked toward the front window, looking out. "You deny it? Let us not argue the matter. Keep in mind that the realities of your world affect me only as visions, just as I affect you, while the wild phantasms of your land of dreams are my substantial existence."

"Good, if dreams are your reality, then why don't you just go to sleep?"

"Speaking of dreams, Marc, remember the one you had about a woman in a mask? That was a warning. A warning to expel the beast." He watched the woman through the window as she approached. "And I don't mean her dog." He vanished.

"Told yuh. New Yawk minute." She came in and he was glad to see the contented dog take off down the hall. "Let's have a nightcap. Yuh like Jack Daniels?" She tossed her purse on the coffee table.

"With soda if you got it. Otherwise water." He chugged the rest of his beer.

"I got it." She made the drinks and sat with him on her sofa, right where Poe had just sat. Her red skirt rode up, revealing black garters.

"So is the two hundred enough to see you naked?"

"Y'awready spent fifty on the mask." She held up her glass. "Mawdee Graw!"

"Salute." He drank. She chugged. "Jesus, take it easy."

"Hey, I'm allowed. My boyfriend just dumped me."

"Really? We have something in common, then."

She giggled. "Just m'luck. Yuh boyfriend dumped you too, huh?"

"No," he said firmly. "My girlfriend. Actually it was over a month ago. Then I started seeing someone else, and she's probably about to dump me, too."

She grinned. "Yeah you right." She put her glass down and took off all her Mardi Gras beads. They clacked noisily as she tossed them on the messy coffee table, covering her little purse. Then she crossed her arms, lifted her dress over her head and off in one swift motion. She dangled it in front of him. "Like it? Slinky polyestuh wit' just a little Spandex." She got up and tossed it like a rag to the floor, where it looked like a glittering scarlet puddle, and she stood in front of him now dressed in a red satin push-up bra, black thong, and red garter belt with black lace trim and suspenders, to which black lace-top nylons were attached.

"That's not fair," he said, instantly aroused. "I've already spent a hundred, right? fifty bucks an item, and you've got all this, this stuff on."

"Hey, could be worse. No cami and slip. The stockin's count as one, how's that?" She grinned and turned around, revealing a gorgeous rear, the thong only visible above her cheeks and covering only dimples, he guessed. She unhooked the bra and dangled it, tossed it and spun around again, treating him now to her lovely breasts. "A hundred 'n' fifty." She turned around again, arched her back so her bottom protruded. "So what'll it be, then, jawny? The thong or the garter belt?"

"No contest," he said. "May I?" She nodded, her luxurious black hair waving. Marc put his glass down and reached for the waistband of her thong.

"Ooo your hands are cold!"

"Sorry." So he didn't caress it down, he pulled quickly and yes, she did have dimples. She kicked off the tiny garment and grabbed his hand, tugging him. "Two hundred! Let's go to bed, Marc." She kept giggling. He wondered as they lurched and stumbled into the bedroom if either of them was capable of intercourse, but he didn't much care, she was such a feast to the eyes, so slender and firm, almost as sexy as Lauren, whom of course he'd rather be with if only she would just get over her ridiculous fear of sleeping in the same bed with him. But she won't, so here I am, sweet girl, lovely sex therapist, I will never call you whore.

78.

"Sorry Vivy, you wiped me out."

"Thaz okay, cuz y'know what? I kinda like you."

He caressed her breasts and thighs, getting stiff again. This time he was able to stay in and actually copulate for several minutes, but orgasm was nowhere in sight thanks to all that beer and bourbon. He kept at it anyway, conjuring his favorite sights of Lauren naked on her back with her legs together in the air, her glorious red hair swirling all over the pillow, God how he already missed her! He might have succeeded but when he noticed Vivica was sleeping he went soft again and slipped out. Bad enough to be fantasizing about someone else, even with a sex worker, but to do it while she's passed out—Getting dangerously close to necrophilia. That's more your department. I know you're there, you voyeur, hiding behind the door.

"The door Circe opened. Yes, I'm here. But never think your pathetic attempt at congress with this harlot excites me. Now is a good time to get up and go, Marc. You can even take your money back."

"You would. No, I'll go but she can have the money." He tried to reach for himself, intending to pull off the rubber, but he couldn't move his arm. He couldn't move at all. He could hear her snorting and snoring on her back beside him, and he wanted now very much to turn her over, he'd heard horror stories about drunken sleepers choking on their own vomit. But he couldn't move at all. He felt paralyzed lying there on his back.

Poe's voice. ". . . a species of epilepsy not unfrequently terminating in trance—a trance very nearly resembling positive dissolution." I am asleep, right? He was answered by a screeching cry and a black flutter. The crow landed right on his chest, its black eyes and talons quickly piercing. He tried again to move his arms, to grab the crow and throw it. Still couldn’t move. Get off me, you fiend!

"And the raven," croaked the crow, "never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting on the pallid breast of Marco in the chamber of the whore." The bird's head was slightly cocked, revealing one red eye. A demon's eye, or is it Vivy's answering-machine light? Wish I could move my head. She's grunting now, moaning. I really think she's going to throw up. Still can't move. I need to turn her over before she pukes. Get off me! Talons were gouging his breast.

One more monumental effort to move his arms, and suddenly his hands were around the wretched bird's neck. As he tried to pull the crow off him, its talons only sank deeper into his chest. "What are you doing?" Poe again. "Stop that, stop! It's not the raven—"

I know, it's a crow! You said to expel the beast, didn't you? Marc kept trying to pull it off, to no avail. He had no choice, it was stabbing him in the chest. He squeezed, with both hands.

"NO! You have no idea what you're doing!"

He woke around 4:30 in the morning with a major headache and an urgent need to piss. Vivica was still passed out, still on her back, but no longer snorting or grunting. It was only when he stumbled from the bathroom back into bed that he noticed her chest wasn't moving, she was completely still. As soon as he switched on the night-table lamp he knew. Two tracks of dried brown drool issued from both corners of her open mouth. Vomit. And her tongue was slightly protruding. "Vivica? Vivica! Wake up." He got out of bed and shook her by the shoulders. No response. "Please, please wake up." I tried, I really tried to turn you over. I couldn't move, I was paralyzed. Then he saw purplish marks on her neck. "No." His head was shaking as he backed away. No, I didn't do that. I couldn't have. She choked on her own vomit. "Yes," he said aloud, pointing to poor Vivica's neck as though he were demonstrating to Poe, who had not reappeared, or to some appalled bystander, "those marks are old, made by some sick trick who got a little carried away. I couldn't have done that in my sleep." Check for a pulse, idiot.  Nothing.

He got dressed, tried to think. His head was splitting. Shouldn't I call the police? It was obviously an accident. Even if I did it. No, no I'm out of here. No one has seen her with me, just make sure you keep it that way. Just walk out of here, get in your car and go. What about fingerprints? The glass, just take it with you. And the beer bottle. The dog was following him around, wagging its tail. "Go back to sleep, Frankie." Not likely.

After one last look at the horrid sight on the bed, he put the covers over her breasts, using only knuckles and the sides of his fingers just in case prints could be gotten from sheets.  No DNA, I didn't come. I am so sorry, Vivica. I tried to move you, I really did, but I couldn't move myself. Then I passed out too. But they'll never believe me. They'll think I strangled you. On purpose. I've got to go. And obviously so did Frankie, who was squealing and jumping up and down repeatedly pawing the front door.

Holding the doorknob with his shirttail covering it, he opened the door. Frankie bolted. Damn dog! Marc turned the little latch on the inside knob to lock it, looked around the neighborhood to make sure no early risers were about, and slipped out the door. He couldn't lock the deadbolt, of course, but at least the door was locked. Last he saw of Frankie, the dog was sniffing around a neighbor’s bushes looking for a spot to go. Sorry to abandon you, Frankie. Best for me you don’t come back. God, I feel like a murderer. But I'm not, I know I'm not. It was an accident. Either way.

80.

"You read my tales, Marco." A whisper in his ear.  "Remember 'Berenice'? 'Ligeia'? It's all there, what a man may do in a stupor, in a trance, in a night terror."

Marc tightened his arms around his head. "Go away, leave me alone."

"I'll only go when Circe goes. I follow the soul she tracks, hoping soon to reunite with it."

"Then I'm dumping her, if it means being rid of you. I'm beginning to think she's bad luck anyway."

"You know that won't work. She'll be back. She keeps coming back to you because she senses you're going to die soon, Marco."

"What are you talking about?"

"She needs to be with you when you die, it makes the tracking so much easier."

Circe's warm purring body was snuggled next to him. He sat up and stroked her fine soft fur. "No point in trusting what he says, is there, Circe? He's the one who wrote about hanging you."

Marc saw him now standing in a dark corner where bookcases intersected. "No, you idiot," said Poe, shaking his head, "the hanged cat was Pluto. A fictional creature. The second cat, the one with no name in the story, the one the murderer walled up with the corpse of his wife, that one was modeled after Circe." He approached the desk as Marc turned the chair to face him.

I'm not awake, I can't be. "But that cat had a white splotch on its breast, I remember, it was shaped like the gallows."

"That was a projection from the narrator's guilt-ridden soul," Poe explained impatiently, "a phantasmagorical premonition of his fate. I thought I had made that obvious. No, Circe is black as night. She's my cat who could open doors, remember? I wrote about her in 'Instinct vs. Reason.' You see, she is still very good at opening doors."

He had no recollection of ever having read that piece. But he had read "The Black Cat" for that college lit. course he'd taken. He stood up and faced Poe. "Your sick fuck of a narrator cut out one of Pluto's eyes. Didn't the second cat only have one eye? Circe still has two."

"I was writing fiction, Marco, fiction. I was just adding some grue to the witches' brew. Giving readers what they wanted. But I am not here to talk about my work, except to remind you that a man may sometimes . . . do something without even knowing he's doing it."

Marc shook his head. "I refuse to believe I'm that fucked up."

"To what a sad state language has degenerated in this twenty‑first century!"

No response. "And the cat. Maybe the cat isn't really a cat." Come on, she eats, sleeps and excretes just like any other cat. She's got to be real. Not a ghost, but maybe a demon. Yes, come to think of it, she always likes it warm, always lying in whatever sun she can find. When it's cold she's right by the fireplace. Or the heater.

Marc hated to have to validate old wives' tales and foolish superstitions, but try as he might, he could no longer convince himself that Circe was just an ordinary stray with an uncanny homing ability. More and more she seemed an omen or worse, a nemesis.

After pacing around the place for several minutes, he realized that coffee was not a good idea. He found a Sonata sleeping pill, took it, stripped to his underwear and went to bed. Circe found him almost right away, of course, and jumped on the bed to curl up with him. Perfectly normal feline behavior, right Circe? No demon, no nemesis.

He turned onto his back and Circe jumped on his chest, where he had always liked to feel her purr vibrating above his heart, regenerating him. But now, her weight recalled the crow, her claws its talons. He fought the link, broke it and tried to relax. Circe was, after all, living proof that he didn't need anti-seizure meds, for he routinely fell asleep with her right there on his chest, and he never socked her or strangled her in his sleep. Further proof, if he needed it, that poor Vivica choked on her own vomit. There she was again, pale as the mask she'd worn, two trails of brown drool, awful to see but proof, wasn't it, that he hadn't strangled her in his sleep?

"No proof at all, Marc." Poe was standing over the bed. His clothes were no longer shabby. He was dressed tidily in frock coat and cravat. "Or proof only of what a fool who didn't listen to wise counsel from friends may do."

Marc groaned. "Leave me alone."

"I'm still trying to save us from you, Marco. You've almost ruined everything, you know. With homicide blighting our soul it will not rise for heaven knows how many more incarnations. Thanks to you, we'll remain in this limbo a lunary soul. But there's still a chance for redemption: Atonement. Only if you face up to your deed." He bent over him, one hand supporting his weight, the other stroking Circe. Marc thought he could smell stale whiskey on his breath.

Some conscience! "I didn't do anything. I was sleeping. When I woke up, she was dead." Poe had apparently given up. All was quiet now, Marc drifting off.

The Sonata gave him four hours of deep sleep, after which he got up, made some coffee and called Lauren. "Hi Marc! Happy Mardi Gras!"

"I'm feeling sick this morning, Lauren. Awful hangover. I'm going to have to pass on the parades today, so sorry."

"I’m sorry too, Marc." He wasn’t sure she meant it. "It's okay, I'll go with Charlene."

"What, you two are friends now?"

"Working on it. We hit it off when I told her you kicked me in your sleep. She tried to warn me. She looked out for me."

Jeez, I gave you two something in common. "I told you I'm making an appointment tomorrow. My doctor already referred me to a specialist at Tulane."

"I'm very happy to hear that, Marc."

"I do have a favor to ask you, Lauren. I'm thinking maybe you should take Circe for a while, until I'm on the meds. I might open the door in my sleep and let her in. I'd never be able to forgive myself if I hurt her too." He didn't tell her, of course, that he hadn't closed his bedroom door for over a week.

"What's the point, Marc? She'll only run back to you again."

"Just don't let her out. It won't be long."

"How do you know you'll get an appointment so soon?"

"I'll mention that I'm a danger to anyone who sleeps with me, how's that? They'll squeeze me in, I'm sure."

"All right, I'll just make sure she never goes out. I'll come over around two, okay? I've got to be at work by four."

82.

As he waited for her to arrive, he drank over a quart of black coffee and tried to keep Vivica's image out of his head. Somewhat perversely, he accomplished this by rereading Poe's story "The Black Cat"—a choice prompted by his dreams. He remembered his professor insisting that it was important not to confuse Poe's psychotic narrator with Poe himself. But wasn't it possible that writing had been a catharsis for Poe? That if he hadn't written it he might have committed some of the atrocities depicted in the tale? The alcoholic narrator cuts a cat's eye out, then hangs the poor creature. Later, he ax-murders his wife.

"You do look terrible," said Lauren as she came in the door. "Here, a present for you, from the Zulu parade." She handed him a coconut. "They throw coconuts from the floats! I loved it!"

"I have something for you too," he said, taking the Orpheus beads from his coat-rack and draping them over her neck. Under normal circumstances, the exchange of Mardi Gras throws and putting a necklace on her would have charmed him. Her clothes, too—she was dressed smartly for work in gray skirt and black jacket, over which her thick red hair newly cut shoulder-length was striking. But he felt dead inside, or rather he felt the dead inside him, Vivica still there beside him.

"I'm not at all well, Lauren." He attempted to look sheepish. "I guess I tried to drown my sorrows."

"Oh Marc, I didn't say I never wanted to see you again. I just don't want to sleep with you until you get on those meds. Let's have Sunday brunch somewhere. How about Commander's Palace? I’ve never been."

"They're probably already booked. Still a lot of tourists around. But it's worth a shot, and they sorta know me there. I'll call and let you know." He turned to the cat. "Okay Circe, time to go for a ride." He picked her up from the glass coffee table, her favorite place to sit, put her in the carrier and took it out to Lauren's car. Circe howled in the back seat as she drove away. "I'll call you," he said.

 

Ash Wednesday, he slept until ten, then called Charlene and asked her to cover for him today. "I'll be there tomorrow," he assured her.

"You can't still be hung over."

"No, but I think I'm coming down with something. I feel like shit." End of story. "Did you and Lauren have fun yesterday?"

"We did. She's a find, Marc. I hope you don't blow it."

"So you're not jealous?"

"Don't flatter yourself. You were right. You and I just weren't—right for each other. See you tomorrow, boss."

"Please don't call me that, Charley." But she had hung up.

After too much coffee he decided to clean the house. By late afternoon, he wanted a drink. The demon gin, right, Poe? No response: a good sign. I'll resist. Maybe I've got some pot somewhere. He hadn't smoked in years, but he found an old partly-smoked joint in a toothbrush container in the medicine cabinet and lit it up as he turned on the TV. He flipped to the news, tried to smile when the intro flashed the picture of Lauren whom they called their "Masters Meteorologist," but he was dreading word of Vivica. When he heard nothing about her, he felt no relief.

Lauren appeared in front of her map, still wearing the golden Orpheus lyre pendant, letting her viewers know how much she enjoyed her first Mardi Gras parade. After her forecast, her colleagues did their concise attempt at world news, a segment called "Around the World in 80 Seconds," which Marc thought ridiculous. But one item caught his eye. A colossal statue of a cowled figure in the middle of a square in Rome.

          Hundreds of people, many in Renaissance costumes, were parading into the square. A closeup of the statue base covered with wreaths and pamphlets, then a shot of the whole crowded square. "The Campo dei Fiori in Rome, normally an expensive outdoor food market, was transformed today into a venue for demonstrations of remembrance, indeed a 'Pope-Free Zone' where atheists, agnostics, anarchists, pantheists, even some scientists gathered to commemorate the martyrdom, by burning at the stake, of this man, Giordano Bruno, four hundred years ago today." The camera panned over the hooded head.

83.

Maybe it was the weed coming on strong, but Marc felt a sudden surge of déjà-vu. He had never even heard of Bruno before, but somehow that statue, the whole square in Rome, looked familiar to him. The feeling slowly faded away, and he decided to go for a walk, hoping to clear his head. The dope made his mind race. Maybe it didn't even happen it was just a nightmare a sweet dream turned into a nightmare. Vivy you were so funny so sweet so cute but you shouldn't have gotten so drunk I'm sure that's what happened I couldn't have done that, people just don't do that, not even with sleep disorders. They don't strangle people in their sleep thinking they're doing something else, they just don't. You never hear of that happening, but you often hear of people choking on their own vomit. He pretty much had himself convinced, and a long walk all the way to Audubon Park and back helped make him feel close to normal.

Thursday morning he scanned all the headlines in The Times-Picayune, still nothing about a girl found dead. He was beginning to think the circumstances were not deemed suspicious by police, or was she still lying there undiscovered?  He was able to go to work, where he interacted with as many people as he could, going around to tables and chatting with customers, helping Louis in the kitchen, bantering with Charlene. Still, he decided to leave early to watch the local news at five. Nothing about Vivica. The first-string veteran meteorologist was back. Since it was, as the weatherman averred, sunny and pleasantly cool, more like March than February, Marc decided to take another walk before sunset, this time just around the block. He had barely gone fifty feet when his phone rang and vibrated in his pocket. Lauren.

"Marc, she did it again! Ran out when I opened the door. I just found her in the park, climbing that live oak again. I see her on a branch. Wait, I just lost her in the sun. I don't see her now."

"Hold on." He turned around to head back home . . . and there was Circe, stretching her body up as she stood on hind legs at his iron gate, one paw on the latch as though she were about to open it. She couldn't master the complex mechanism. "Um, Lauren, did you say you just saw her?"

"Yes, but I can't find her now. She's got to be in that tree."

"Um, no. She's here." He picked her up to make sure. The tell-tale scar was there. "Okay, we're beyond uncanny now."

"I'm coming over," said Lauren.

Marc carried Circe to his house, petting her as she purred in his arms. "All right, you win. I don't know what you are, what if anything you want, but I'm not going to fight you."