40.

8. A Phantom in a Hoodie

New Orleans, February 2000

 
           Once again, Marc called Lauren to tell her Circe had mysteriously shown up at his door. "This time she had plenty of time to go the three miles, but still, it's bizarre. I have no idea how or why she's doing this, Lauren."

"I'm telling you, Marc, you're broadcasting pheromones she's somehow attuned to. Don't ask me how or why that could happen. I'll come over tomorrow. Maybe we should just let her stay with you. She obviously adores you. And it's been hard for me to really bond with her when she keeps trying to get away from me. I don't get the feeling she hates me, just seems indifferent. Not at all how she was when I first met her! It's like she was trying to get to you through me. Maybe we shouldn't fight it."

"I've never owned a cat, Lauren."

"You obviously like them though, always visiting Scallywag. I'll help you."

This was all the convincing he needed. "You're sure?"

"Yes. I certainly won't have time to keep dealing with this. I start work Friday."

41.

Lauren is your Veronica. He pulled off his hood. Marc had no idea who he was. A complete stranger. A little gaunt with beady eyes, fairly large straight nose, bushy brown beard, very short hair. Can you please get us to shore? Marc asked, but suddenly found himself being grabbed by the stranger clutching his soaked shirt. Look at me! Don't I at least look familiar? He now loomed over Marc and started shaking him.

“Let me go!” Marc cried out. He grabbed the stranger’s arms and tried pushing him away as he awoke--and found he had managed to turn himself ninety degrees, so he was up against the headboard clutching a post with both hands, and both pillows gone. He had thrown them on the floor. The rest of the night was quiet, and when he opened his door in the morning Circe was lying right there, stretching herself across the threshold, purring, looking at him like, "I'm nothing if not patient. I've waited here peacefully all night."

When Lauren came over the next day, Circe seemed genuinely glad to see her, accepting caresses and licking her hand.  "Has she wanted to go out at all?"

"No," said Marc. "Hasn't shown any interest at all. Follows me around, sits near me or on my lap." They were standing in the living room, both in tee shirts and jeans, hers much tighter than his.

"You don't think she'll follow you to work, do you?"

"No, she knows this is my home." She jumped up on the sofa and curled into a contented ball of black fur.

"Hers too now." Lauren’s smile produced a single dimple, first time he'd seen that.  "Thanks so much for taking her, Marc. What time are you going to work?"

"In a couple of hours. Would you like something—"

"Oh yes," she said, and strode into his arms.

"I've wanted you," kissing her neck, "since that day in the bookstore." They kissed, her breath smelled of hazelnut. No lipstick today. No makeup at all, come to think. She doesn't need it.

"Me too!" She was nudging him toward the sofa. "Don’t know why I’m so drawn to you. I’m never this . . . quick."

42.

As she bent over to pick up her underwear he started to feel aroused again, even though he'd had two orgasms. Pretty good for pushing forty, he thought as he looked at his erection. I'm ready again. "You need to get ready for work," she said, glancing at it, "and I have to get all the cat stuff out of the car."

"I'll help you," he said, carefully extricating Circe's claws from the sheet as he lifted her off him. He lost his erection quickly as he dressed.

After a crash course on the use of the litter box, which he placed in the large hall bathroom, Lauren was ready to leave. They made a date for dinner at his place, his cooking, Monday night. "I'm not sure I can wait that long to see you," he said.

"It's only four days. Four very busy days for me. We can talk on the phone, okay? late at night." She kissed him short but hard.

"Saturday's your first day on the air, right?"

"Yes, I'll do Saturdays and Sundays and probably most holidays, and any other days that Bill feels like taking off."

"He's the main weather guy? I don't watch the weather much. That all changes on Saturday."

"You don't have to. You might make me feel self-conscious."

"I won't be here anyway. I'll be at work—but I was planning to tape it."

"I'll allow that," she said as she gave Circe a few caresses. “I can trust you with her, I know I can.” She smiled.

After she left, he hugged Circe in his lap and thanked her profusely for bringing them together. But after his nocturnal pillow-throwing episode, he decided to continue closing his bedroom door at night. Doesn't this mean I'm admitting I have a problem? But throwing things, that’s not the same as punching. I'm not a puncher. I don't punch. I couldn't have done that, it was an errant elbow, that's all.

 

Lauren showed up at his door late Monday afternoon in a short dress, not the kind she wore for the weather (a below-the-knee navy blue wrap-around), but a slinky nylon-spandex number, dark green and low cut. Her thick red hair was free and wild, not primly bound for the TV audience. And again, very little makeup.

"I did. There's a personal connection. My grandmother was killed by the hurricane that hit Long Island in 1938. I never knew her. She was actually visiting friends in the Hamptons at the time, they went to the movies, no one knew what was coming, they were watching a matinee and the whole theater was swept away, can you imagine? Twenty people including the projectionist, all drowned in the Atlantic after the storm surge carried them two miles. My mother lost her mother that day."

"Today they all would've evacuated, I'm sure."

"All my life I've tried to imagine what it must've been like, to be hit without warning by a wall of water, to feel yourself torn from the earth and driven by the surge all that way. Was she still conscious? I almost hope not, it must've been so terrifying. Anyway, I guess I became kind of obsessed with hurricanes after that."

"And here you are now, in Hurricane Alley."

"They say the Big Easy is overdue for the Big One."

"True." He wanted to tell her not to call New Orleans the Big Easy, but thought better of it.

"I'm glad hurricane season doesn't start for months. By then I'll at least have some experience."

"You're a natural up there, Lauren. You'll do fine." They were sitting on the sofa with Circe between them. He picked up the cat and gently placed her on the floor by the coffee table, so that he could sit right next to Lauren, who put her wine down and slipped onto his lap. "We could work up an appetite," he said, hiking up her skirt as she straddled him.

"Let's hope your pheromones don't drive her wild," said Lauren. This time they made love without taking anything off, just pulling things down. Circe had jumped on the coffee table, but she was indifferent, unaffected.

Later, he cooked shrimp Fra Diavolo (its heat coming from red, white, and black pepper—a mixture he’d picked up from Paul Prudhomme) with sautéed zucchini, yellow squash and artichoke hearts over Louis' fresh linguine. Since Marc’s version of the dish had no tomatoes, he served (and cooked with) white wine, his favorite Gavi, which they polished off with dinner, followed by some Prosecco that he'd been saving for a special occasion.

"From the Veneto, I see," said Lauren, reading the label. "I've been to Venice."

"I'm envious."

"I'm sure you'll go, one of these days."

44.

“Wow! A restaurateur with a touch of the poet,” said Lauren with eyes glazing—he hoped it wasn’t just the Prosecco.

“I have no idea where that came from,” he admitted.

“Your soul, of course.” As she perused several shelves of CDs, he hoped she saw them as evidence that he and she must be kindred souls.

“I just remembered I dreamt about you the other night,” he said.

“A pleasant dream, I hope.” They sat together on the loveseat. Her cheeks were blushing from wine.

“Well, you weren’t actually in it. Some weird dude in a hoodie—or was he a monk in a cowl?—said that you reminded him of a woman he loved whose name was, I think he said Veronica.”

“Weird dream, Marc. Veronica who? Saint Veronica?”

“He didn’t say.”

 “Actually there is an obscure saint that I seem to look a lot like. Let me show you. May I?” She gestured toward his desktop computer in the corner.

“Sure.”

She tapped and clicked her way to a site on Hieronymus Bosch. "Guess where I saw this? Venice. It's kinda weird, almost uncanny. I saw this painting in the Doge's Palace. What do you think?"

 

             Even though the picture was old and faded, he saw the resemblance right away. "Holy shit, Lauren, it looks just like you!"

In the central panel of a triptych, a girl was bound to a cross like Christ, her mouth slightly frowning but not in a grimace. Her golden crown, red dress, and black under-dress hemmed in gold embroidery all suggested royalty and wealth. "Who is it? Oh, I see," reading from the website, "St. Julia."

"Actually I've done a lot of research on this painting. Most scholars now think it's St. Ontkommer, also known as Liberata and Wilgefortis."

"She seems kinda bored, considering her situation."

"I don't think that's boredom on her face," she said. "It's not agony either. She's stoic and defiant." Tracing with her forefinger, "the high forehead and the way her cheekbone curves, the whole shape of her face, especially her mouth, exactly like mine."

"It is . . . striking, but the painting is so old, isn't it? It's not just this print, it's really faded and deteriorated.”

45.

"I hope he didn't tie her to that cross."

She let a little laugh escape. "I'm sure he didn't."

"How do you know he used a model?"

"He must have. She looks like a real person, not some generic saint."

"The odds seem astronomical that you’re descended from her."

"I know, but we sure look like we share some genes."

"I'd like to see the real thing. You'll just have to take me to Venice some time to see the original."

"Sounds romantic." She smiled at him.

"So why is this poor girl being crucified, anyway?"

"She was the Christian daughter of a pagan king—a virgin who prayed to God to give her a beard so that she would be unattractive to the pagan suitors her father forced her to endure. The prayer was granted, the beard grew red and bushy, but her father had her shaved and crucified. I like to think that man swooning at the foot of the cross is her father, regretting what he's done."

            46.

            Eventually, as they were ready for sleep, they let her curl up between them.  She occasionally licked and nibbled their arms and elbows as they drifted off. Alcohol-induced sleep made Marc unaware of anything until hours later, when he suddenly felt like he was being chased. An animal or a person? Or both? I can outrun you! I was a sprinter in high school. Ran the hundred-yard dash in 9.8 seconds. You'll never catch me! Or was he running in place? The shadowy pursuer was coming closer, getting larger. A panther? About to pounce—

"Marc! Marc! Wake up!"

"Huh? What?" Lauren was kneeling over him, shaking him awake.

"You kicked me. In the thigh." She was rubbing it. "I bruise easily. Your legs and arms were all moving, Marc. You were running in your sleep—lying down! Charlene's right." She got out of bed. "I'm going to sleep downstairs, on the sofa."

"Where's Circe?"

"I'm sure she hightailed it out of here after you morphed into an earthquake."

"I'm sorry, Lauren. I was tossing and turning."

"More like swinging and kicking. One of your fists hit my pillow."

He got up. "Let me show you the guest room. There's no need to go downstairs. Do you want a cold pack?"

"No, I think it's okay."

47.

Marc decided to go to the Monday night parade alone, feeling resentful that Lauren had given him an ultimatum. And yet he longed for her so much, he knew he would make the appointment. Right after the holiday. He'd take any pill they gave him; hell, he'd even let them strap diodes to his head, anything short of a lobotomy to get Lauren back in his bed.

The Krewe of Orpheus was his favorite evening parade, with its elaborate floats, all lit up with fiber-optics, and its cool throws. The krewe itself was an upstart newfangled one, open to anyone, avoiding the racist exclusions practiced by others. Marc found a spot on St. Charles about a block from Canal, and stood there watching people setting up stepladders along the curb. The ladders all had signs attached with family names on them. Reserved spots.

The parade was very late, and Marc spent most of his time people-watching and sipping beer. It was interesting to distinguish the natives from the tourists. The latter were dressed for summer even though it was under fifty Fahrenheit and falling, most of them hangdog all-day drunk, many of them with so many long beads around their necks they were hunched over like brightly-colored orangutans. In welcome contrast, the natives were gathering on or near their stepladders and lawn chairs, families out for a good time, pacing themselves knowing that tomorrow was another day, in fact the big day, the fat day.

48.

He became a spectator again, watching all the crazy people in the crowd competing for worthless trinkets thrown from the floats. The last float he paid any real attention to was the Leviathan. The great sea-dragon came abreast with real smoke pluming from its red nostrils and toothy maw, its scaled green body seeming to undulate in the light, its golden horns glittering and its rainbow-colored bat-wings seeming to flutter, producing a strobe effect for just a second as it glided past. Then Marc saw, across the street, through the gap between floats as a marching band sauntered along, a young woman in costume. Staring at him. He thought.

It was hard to tell, she was across St. Charles and she wore a fleshy face mask that resembled Cher or Cleopatra and that he thought looked vaguely Venetian. From this distance she seemed like a figure in a dream. The mask itself wore an ornamental mask over the eyes, embroidered gold with green feathers shooting out from it. Larger black feathers plumed out in a crown at the top of her forehead. She had on a slinky red dress, well above the knee, and black hose. Any other night, he would assume hooker. She kept hugging herself and bouncing up and down like she was cold. All right, he thought, let me find a way to cross the street, I really think that stare was an invitation. She's still looking right at me. He smiled at her, thinking he could offer her his jacket. Show her chivalry's not yet dead. It vaguely occurred to him that he was drunk. Otherwise he might think twice about such a rash decision.

49.

"Now you could compete with Wonder Woman."

"Thank ya dahlin'. I knew ya for a gentleman. I could tell, even from over here, 'speshally the way yuh let those sorority chicks get all the beads."

"Not all," he said, showing her the Orpheus pendant.

"Why aren't ya wearin' it? Must be for your girlfriend, right?"

"I can only hope." Change the subject.  He could only come up with a stupid question. "What's a pretty woman like you doing all by yourself on Mardi Gras? Or Lundi Gras."

She tugged on the stretchy chin of her mask. "How do ya know I'm pretty?"

"I'm taking a wild guess."

"Ya do know I'm a hooker, don't ya?"

Oh shit! "Oh hell. I thought it was a costume."

"Just the mask, dawlin', just the mask. Too many cops around, y' know. Not that they really give that much of a shit, but sometimes they're like, 'get lost yuh slut, don't yuh know this is a family event?' So yuh still interested? Doncha think I'm a charmer?" She pronounced it something like "chawmuh."

"You know you shouldn't be turning tricks when you're drunk. You might get hurt."

"What a' you, my fuckin' brother?"

"Can I see your face?" he asked. It didn't really matter to him, he was suddenly very horny. The resentment he was feeling for both Charlene and Lauren, the need to forget his problem, the four large cans of Heineken, even those sorority girls—all contributed.

"That'll cost ya more, Johnny."

"Why?"

"Cuz I charge more for every item I take off, darlin'. Tonight that includes my mask. And I got lotsa lingerie on too. It's Mardi Gras, everything cost more."