CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

 

A tiny clang within the front pocket of Christopher’s shorts, a sound too inaudible to be heard against the blaring chatter of bar patrons across the street and the growling of engines hovering for precious parking spots. A small pendant he had just found lying near the stairs leading to Trixie’s apartment building now blending comfortably with his loose change and keys. He couldn’t figure out how he’d even noticed it with only a dim streetlight to guide his eyes. A death’s head—a skull and crossbones painted hot pink. The opposite of a lucky rabbit’s foot. He recognized it immediately. There was no mistaking its former owner.

He wondered why the hell Cypress had been here. What she might have been planning. Did she even know Trixie lived here, or was this just a conveniently weird coincidence? No, the latter had to be a farfetched hope. The death’s head was just a casualty of Cypress’s war.

Christopher ascended the stairs like a death row inmate about to meet his maker. He couldn’t stop thinking about everything Cypress had told him. Maybe she had been bluffing. Maybe he and Trixie would have a big laugh about it later.

But maybes were promises that could never be kept. Deep down he felt certain this was no bluff. Cypress may have made hemorrhoids seem like a soothing alternative, but she wasn’t known for being a liar.

Yesterday after reluctantly returning Cypress’s call and dealing with the hell that some called her voice, he had run through every little detail of his relationship with Trixie, and the reveal just plain made sense. All the jigsaw pieces so desperately trying to force themselves to fit elsewhere had now found their proper place. With each step, he contemplated how he should approach the situation. Slow, hesitant steps.

Christopher passed through the lobby doors and reached the inner staircase only to find four Junkie Creeps sprawled across the steps. Their deadened eyes stared through him like he was a speedball specter. The sleeves of their blue jumpsuits were rolled up, the infected holes in their arms puckered and ready for a precious needle kiss. He swallowed in disgust and approached the stairs slowly.

“Excuse me,” he whispered. The Junkie Creeps did not react, save one who grinned with what was left of his bottom teeth, jagged shards caked with tar. Sweat glued his matted hair to the side of his face. Christopher made exaggerated steps around each of their bodies to avoid touching them. Even sharing the same airspace didn’t seem safe. As he reached the landing between floors, he swore he felt a tickle at his ankle. He made a mental note to consider wearing socks sometime. Muffled laughter bounced below him. He ignored it and moved on. One more flight to face the real problem. He knew that Trixie knew that he knew. She had to.

Soon it wouldn’t matter. Soon he could force himself to stop caring.

He arrived at Trixie’s door and knocked, a soft, noncommittal rap. He contemplated bailing from the scene, but once he heard light footsteps from the other side of the door, he understood it was too late to back out. She opened the door and raised one of her freshly plucked eyebrows, offering him her signature awkward smile, the bottom edges of her incisors barely grazing her lower lip. This time the awkwardness was accompanied by something else. A knowing? A wary understanding? Fear, sadness, perhaps a mix of the two?

Trixie smelled fresh and familiar, like berries and vanilla bean. Her body was mummified within a giant, purple towel, her soaked hair hidden beneath a tightly wrapped matching turban. Christopher could have stepped out of a shower onto her body and dried his feet thoroughly. This was the real Trixie. Sans makeup, dress and styled locks. Nothing to hide who she really was. Just a face. Smooth and beautiful, one that could belong only to a young woman. One that could only belong to the woman he had fallen for.

“What are you doing, you weirdo?” Trixie asked, her performance already worthy of an Oscar. Christopher was impressed with her chosen character, the Everything’s Normal Girlfriend. She linked her long fingers into his stringy hair and tightened them like a barrette, then pecked him near his ear. His pores felt the sensation, but his brain did not register any of it. It was as if his entire body from head to toe had tuckered out and taken a big nap. “You know I always leave the door unlocked for you. I guess that’s not safe, though. Maybe I should just suck it up and give you my duplicate key. If I can trust anyone, it’s you.”

Christopher did not respond beyond a half nod. He wandered into the apartment without having a clue as to where his legs were leading him. Federico was lapping at a bowl of milk, blissfully ignorant to the realities of romantic mishaps. New Order’s “Bizarre Love Triangle” kept a quiet beat in the background. Christopher was surprised he even recognized the sounds as being music.

“Geez, you sure are talkative tonight,” she said, grabbing his clammy hand. “Here, come with me, babe. I need to dry my hair.” She pulled him along like a stubborn child, grabbed her blow dryer, plugged it in and faced her cracked full-length mirror. She removed the towel from her head, let it drop to the floor and began the buzz of the blow dryer. The physical candor she presented, so vulnerable and so near nude beneath the high wattage lighting, was a sign offering the comfort of a long-time spouse. Christopher sat on the toilet behind her, his lips numb and limp.

He pulled the death’s head pendant out of his pocket and rubbed the anti-talisman between his fingers, wishing these motions were able to make this moment disappear. He held it near his face, analyzing it like an ancient artifact from a far off land. Maybe if he thought about it hard enough, he would discover it had time traveling capabilities. He could travel back to that late night at Audrey’s when he and Trixie had first met and never offer her his number. Or maybe he could figure out a way to enter this relationship knowing The Truth from the start and see if his feelings would develop as organically as they had in reality. But there was no way to know if either of those alternatives would have turned out any better. He needed to stop fantasizing about the what-ifs and the could-have-beens. He knew he had to deal with this situation based on reality, the way everything legitimately went down.

“What’s that you’re playing with?” Trixie asked, her voice now raised to battle the blow dryer. Christopher popped with surprise. He had forgotten she could see every move he made, thanks to the mirror.

“Oh, nothing,” he replied. “Just some crap I found. Stupid toy or something.” He placed the pendant back into his pocket, made a mental note to toss it when he got home. Forget all about it.

“You’re such a pack rat.” She paused the blow dryer, brushed out the length of her damp hair and started drying a new section. She showed him her cutest grin, the one that he absolutely couldn’t—but absolutely had to—resist. “I can relate, though.”

Christopher let the dead weight of his arms hang to his sides. Federico crept from around the corner and began aggressively nudging his head against Christopher’s fingers. He pulled his hand away and Federico meowed as if offended. Trixie had seen the entire exchange and released a tiny, uncomfortable giggle.

Christopher stood up, framed himself within the doorjamb and toyed with different positions. He turned and faced away from Trixie. Each time he turned back around and caught her glance she looked like a frightened fox in a hunter’s scope. The blow dryer sounded like a 747 about to crash into the apartment. Perishing in that carnage might have been preferable to what Christopher was going to have to put her through.

“So I was thinking,” Trixie said, “maybe tonight we should—”

“Trix?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“I think we need to talk.”

“What, hon? Can’t hear you.”

“Would you mind shutting that off for a sec? Please?”

The blow dryer halted its hurricane. The room became a silent vacuum. Trixie did not turn to face him.

“Come again?” she asked.

“We need to talk. About us.”

Their eyes met in the mirror, Trixie’s hovering right at one of the cracks. It made that side of her face look like an insect’s. Christopher wondered if a connection via reflection could be considered real, or if a person’s expression did not count if it was not met head on.

“What…what do you mean, Chris?” Cracks were forming in her act. Within seconds it would be completely demolished.

“I know.”

“You know what?” Her last chance to stall. Her time had run out.

“I know The Truth.”

Nothing more needed to be said.

An enormous bang echoed through the bathroom. Shards of plastic from the blow dryer skidded across the floor like crapshoot dice.