Kurt Newton
Everywhere Mary-Alice looked she saw dog-headed men. There were dog-headed men on the city bus that she rode to work each night. Tonight, there were at least three that she could count. She sat near the front of the bus and watched them in the driver’s mirror. They disguised themselves well, because no one else on the bus seemed to notice them. In fact, when Mary-Alice gathered the courage to turn and look one of them in the eyes, their head would reshape and look human again.
When her stop arrived, she hurried out onto the sidewalk. Fortunately for her, the building in which she worked was less than a block away and well lit. The doorman let her in.
“Good evening, Ma’am.” The doorman tipped his hat.
“Thank you, Gerard. Good evening to you, too.” Mary-Alice hurried in, risking a glance over her shoulder to see if the dog-headed men had followed her.
But no. The sidewalks were free of them. Mary-Alice breathed a sigh of relief.
Gerard closed the door behind her and locked it. Gerard was an older gentleman. He had been the doorman for this particular office building since before Mary-Alice was hired. His head was far from dog-headed. In fact, he had a nice round head with soft eyes and a kind smile.
“There’s a fresh pot of coffee in the lunchroom,” Gerard told her. “And some superb cinnamon buns from the bakery down the street.” He nodded his permission.
“You spoil me, Gerard.” Mary-Alice unbuttoned her coat and headed for the maintenance closet.
“Somebody has to,” said Gerard with a chuckle under his breath.
Mary-Alice reappeared minutes later pushing her cleaning cart, her hair tied in an unglamorous knot on top of her head, her coat exchanged for a light blue smock. She aimed her cart toward the elevator.
“Don’t forget the cinnamon buns,” said Gerard with a wink and a smile. Mary-Alice tried not to blush.
For Mary-Alice, her job at the office building was her sanctuary. During her shift, dog-headed men rarely entered her thoughts. The only things on Mary-Alice’s mind were empty waste bins, vacuumed carpets, shiny desks and clean, well-stocked washrooms.
Each floor had its own janitor’s closet (all except the penthouse, where Mary-Alice wasn’t allowed access). The closets supplied the toiletries for each bathroom. She could safely put the argument over which bathrooms were messiest to rest – ladies’ or gentlemen’s? The answer was both. Each had their challenges and each were equally disgusting, at times. People were people.
Except when they revealed their true identities. Such as the dog-headed men who revealed themselves to Mary-Alice.
There was a time when Mary-Alice believed there was a reason why the dog-headed men appeared to her and her alone. Although it frightened her, it made her feel kind of special in a way. But then she realised she had never told anyone about what she had seen. Perhaps there were others like her, only they, too, chose not to speak of their experiences. There might be a whole group of people out there living in fear of dog-headed men. A conspiracy of silence. So far, Mary-Alice had not been physically harmed by any of these creatures. Who were they? What did they want? Why her? These were all questions that worried her and reshaped her waking life into one of nightmare, and, in her darkest hours, forced her to question her own sanity. Which was the prevailing reason why she kept this horror to herself.
But tonight Mary-Alice was not thinking about any of that. Instead, she was lost in the pleasant monotony of spraying and dusting, tidying and bagging, and the rhythmic dance of vacuuming. The music she played that streamed from her MP3 player to the buds in her ears also helped. She preferred the music of the 70s. It was a happier, more innocent time for her, before the tragedy came and took her mother from the Earth and left her father in a near-vegetative state for more than a decade. As she vacuumed one of the many narrow conference rooms, the overhead lights began to flicker. She turned toward the doorway and saw Gerard pointing to his watch. Mary-Alice smiled and stood the vacuum upright.
“Break time!” said Gerard.
“I’ll be right there,” said Mary-Alice. She pulled the buds out of her ears and stuffed them into the pocket of her smock.
* * *
The lunchroom was typical of any small corporate break room. There were vending machines along one wall, a table outfitted with hot coffee and tea, and a microwave for reheating food. Gerard sat at their usual table, the cinnamon buns proudly displayed. “Twenty seconds in the microwave. Magnificent!” He kissed his fingertips like a French chef. “So? What’s new?”
Mary-Alice thought about the increasing frequency of the dog-headed men and was tempted to tell Gerard everything. But she decided to broach the subject in the way a student might ask a professor, out of curiosity rather than concern.
“What do you know about dog-headed men?”
Gerard laughed. “Dog-headed men?”
“I know, it’s silly. Never mind.”
“Mary-Alice, no question is ever silly. A question is a thirst for knowledge. Now, let’s see…” Gerard brought a hand to his chin and adopted a more serious tone. “Did you know that Saint Christopher was said to have had the head of a dog in his sinful youth? Only when he was baptised did his head change to what we see on all those Saint Christopher medals people wear.”
Mary-Alice thought about the dog-headed men she’d seen and wondered if they were somehow caught between a sinful life and a righteous one. But then weren’t we all? she thought. She sipped her coffee.
“No?” said Gerard, humoured by Mary-Alice’s response or lack thereof.
Mary-Alice smiled. She stared at Gerard. His eyes were the kindest she’d ever seen. Surely, he could be trusted. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”
Gerard took a bite of cinnamon bun. His eyes lit up, intrigued. “Go on.”
Mary-Alice took a deep breath, then blurted it out before she could stop herself. “I’ve seen them.”
“Who?” A morsel of sugary confection clung to Gerard’s lip before his tongue darted out to retrieve it.
“The dog-headed men. I’ve seen them.”
Gerard stared at her as he licked his fingers. He sighed. “You’re not supposed to tell,” he said, his voice hardening. “They will come after you now.”
“So, they are real?” Mary-Alice grabbed her chest to keep her heart from pounding through.
Gerard burst into laughter. “Mary-Alice…” Tears rolled down his cheeks. When he realised she was serious, he quickly retracted his grin, unsuccessfully. “I’ve hurt your feelings. Forgive me. I thought you were joking.”
“No, I’ve seen them,” said Mary-Alice, “and they’ve seen me. What should I do?”
Gerard struggled to answer. He pushed the cinnamon buns away to achieve a better level of concentration. “Well, fortunately for you, I am a loyal friend and good listener. My advice is: tell no one, for they may not be as understanding as I. I will research the subject further and maybe together we can get to the bottom of it. Until then, mum’s the word.” He pursed his lips and pretended to lock them shut with an invisible key. Then he smiled. “Did you know the expression ‘mum’s the word’ has nothing to do with the mummies of ancient Egypt but originated in the fourteenth century, and is closely related to the word ‘mime’ which means to keep silent?”
Mary-Alice was always amazed by Gerard’s breadth of knowledge. It was as if he had lived several lifetimes.
* * *
When Mary-Alice’s shift ended, it was time for her to go home and brave another bus ride. Something she dreaded. The morning sun was just creeping into the city as she waited at the curb.
Behind her was an alley. Along one wall of the alley sat a series of large cardboard boxes and over-stuffed shopping carts. There were noises coming from one of the boxes: growls and scratching. Mary-Alice tried not to look but fear compelled her to. She gripped her carry bag and dug her fingernails into the canvas. She glanced toward the alley one more time.
One of the cardboard boxes bulged near its entrance and a large dog-headed man crawled out from inside. It immediately locked eyes with Mary-Alice and began approaching on all fours. It arched its back and howled.
Mary-Alice was frozen in place, her chest heaving. The creature’s howl sounded like the cries of the damned. Mary-Alice was about to run when the bus pulled up in front of her, its brakes shrieking, its doors offering escape. When at last she sat and the bus doors were closed, she chanced a look into the alley.
What she saw was only a homeless man standing, stretching in the morning light.
* * *
Mary-Alice Tuckworth lived on the fourth floor of an old apartment building. Her neighbours often cracked their doors to see who it was in the hallway when she passed. Mary-Alice would usually greet them with a wave or a whispered, “Good morning,” to which they would respond with a tsk or an eyeroll. She didn’t know any of her neighbours’ names, except those shouted during arguments or when the Super came to issue an eviction notice. Which was fine with her.
This morning she made it down the hallway without a single door opening.
With her apartment door closed and locked behind her, Mary-Alice could at last relax. This was her domain. It wasn’t much, but every morning it felt like she was returning from the wilds of the city to a den of peace and solitude.
The first thing she did after kicking off her shoes was put the water on for some tea.
The apartment was spare. A visitor might even say it was cold. There was very little colour. The furniture was two decades old, the upholstery patternless, as if the pigments had been drained from the weave. Lampshades, curtains, paintings on the wall – all purely functional. The only thing out of place was the bookcase. There were no books on the shelves, only photographs, framed portraits going back in time to the beginning of photography. Her family: mother, father, aunts and uncles, grandparents and great-grandparents – a lineage of Tuckworths dating back to the late 1800s. Some of the frames were just as old and likely more valuable than all the other items in her apartment. But, for Mary-Alice, her most valued possessions were the photos themselves – the faces that looked out at her from across time, that watched over her – reminding her of her lineage: her family, of which she was the last living member.
A change of clothes, a cup of herbal tea while sitting in the well-worn recliner… her eyes soon closed and sleep came like a soothing mist creeping up out of the darkness. Her dreams often took her to places she had never been. Other cities around the world, smaller towns and outposts on barren, forbidding landscapes. She attributed these ‘flights of fancy,’ as she liked to call them, to the presence of her ancestors’ photographs and her own imagination conjuring what life might have been like for each of them. After all, she was the sum of the blood and the genes, and perhaps even the memories, of all who had come before her. She didn’t know why she believed this, but it was a comforting thought in a life that was, for the most part, unadventurous and, at most times, uneventful.
Except when she encountered the dog-headed men.
Thankfully, the dog-headed men had yet to populate her dreams. But she could sense them, lurking in the shadows, waiting just beyond the periphery of her vision. She knew it was only a matter of time before they showed themselves and she would learn their true nature.
Today, her dreams took her to the hot, dry grasslands of the African savannah. She and her clan were stalking their prey: a wildebeest. It was large, muscular, meaty. The grass protected them like a shield. The breeze carried their scent downwind. Through an invisible communication, the moment came and they struck. Mary-Alice could feel the movement of her body through the grass, feel her heart pumping as she rushed with an explosive burst toward the unsuspecting animal. The next thing she felt were her jaws sinking into warm meat, crushing the bones beneath, and the taste of blood flooding her senses…
She awoke panting, beads of sweat on her brow and an uncomfortable, yet not unpleasant, ache in her loins.
She went into the bathroom and ran the shower. While she undressed, the hot water steamed, returning her to the fog of her dream. Naked, she stepped under the shower head and let the water blanket her with heat and sensation. She reached down and caressed her engorged clitoris. In her mind, she returned to the savannah and replayed the hunt. Moments later, her legs shuddered as she orgasmed.
Afterwards, Mary-Alice looked at herself in the mirror. Her clitoris had always been unusually large, embarrassingly so, appearing, for lack of a better word, like a small, semi-erect penis. In high school, she found reasons not to take showers with the other girls after gym class. As for boyfriends, some found her anomaly repulsive, while others were obsessed with it once it was discovered. After a while, she simply gave up men and focused on pleasing herself when needed.
But as she examined her body, moving her clitoris from side to side, there was one thing for certain. It appeared to be growing larger.
* * *
“Good evening, Ma’am,” said Gerard.
Mary-Alice quickly closed her umbrella and slipped through the doorway. “Thank you, Gerard.”
Rain had come to the city, wetting everything with a glistening, clear coat. The rain, however, did not stop the dog-headed men from coming out, showing themselves briefly to Mary-Alice on her evening commute. The rain reminded her of her shower earlier that day and she was reluctant to meet Gerard’s eyes for fear of him looking into her soul and seeing her naked. She hurried off to the supply room and got to work.
When break time came, Gerard was waiting for her. Today he had avocado toast and chocolate-almond Danish. “I researched your dog-headed men a bit further,” he said, broaching the uncomfortable silence that had developed between them.
“You didn’t have to,” said Mary-Alice, biting into a piece of avocado toast. “Like you didn’t have to bring this. Although, it is scrumptious.”
“And full of vitamins K, C, B5, B6, B9, E. Plus potassium. Good food, no matter what it is – as long as it is prepared in a way that preserves its natural nutritional value – is good for you. Good for the soul.”
Mary-Alice eyed the Danish with scepticism.
“Even chocolate has its beneficial properties. Almonds. Raw sugar. Sweetness does not automatically demote a snack to junk food status.”
Mary-Alice smiled. Gerard had a way of always presenting things in the best light. She lopped off half the Danish and slid it closer. “So, what did you find out?”
“The dog-headed men. Ah, yes. I found many excerpts and accounts from travelogues and encyclopedias. Fascinating subject.”
“You make it sound like you have your own personal library.”
“I do.”
Mary-Alice laughed but this was one of those very few occasions where Gerard was serious.
“You should see it some time.”
Mary-Alice blushed.
Gerard broke off a corner of the Danish and popped it into his mouth. “Are you ready for this? Did you know the Egyptian god Set possessed a man’s body and the head of a dog? He was master of disorder and warfare. According to Egyptian mythology, Set and his brother, Horus, battled all the time. On one occasion Set was said to have sexually violated his own brother. On another occasion he tore out one of Horus’s eyes. A whole cult of worship evolved around this jolly fellow. Imagine that.”
Mary-Alice was still recovering from her blush. She tried to avert her eyes from Gerard’s insightful stare, but to no avail. Gerard continued.
“Another fun fact. The Egyptian dog, the Basenji, is the only breed of dog that doesn’t bark. It’s relatively mute.”
Mary-Alice nodded, mesmerised.
“Did you know there was a sacredness to being mute? Monks went years without speaking. It was a purification process – a way to eliminate the outer voice so one can focus on the inner voice, which, in ancient circles, was the voice of God.”
“I would very much like to see your library,” Mary-Alice said. She felt she was committing to some kind of date and felt a girlish swirl tickle her stomach.
Gerard sized her up. It was as if he was peering into her very soul. He nodded. “Soon,” he said.
* * *
The cavern was as large as a multi-storey home. She could hear the drip of water. She could smell the sweet aroma of grass bedding.
The clan was resting after a night’s hunt, the daylight a golden shimmer outside the cave entrance.
Restless, she ventured deeper into the cavern. A scent caught her nose and she followed it, until she came upon a pile of bones where the stripped skulls of the clan’s enemies stared at her. Her nostrils flared and she instinctively bared her teeth, even though the bones posed no threat.
She sniffed at the pile and found a morsel to sink her teeth into. The taste of blood and fetid meat filled her senses…
Mary-Alice awoke. In the past several days she had experienced an increase in the dreams that visited her with visions of hunting and killing. It was as if some violent alter-ego had infiltrated her psyche. When she awoke, she was exhausted. Only hot tea and a long shower seemed to relax and cleanse her mind of the awful images and restore her energy. That and sex. Self-gratification untangled any remaining knots the dreams may have left in her.
However, with her hyperactive libido, came a marked increase in the size of her clitoris. So much so she began to question whether she should see a doctor about it. It could be the onset of a tumour. Or an imbalance of some hormone she wasn’t aware of. Either way, it worried her as much as it excited her – this newfound plaything that now rivalled the size of an average man’s penis when engorged – albeit, thinner and without foreskin. It was also extremely sensitive. Mary-Alice took to wearing two pairs of panties to keep it trussed in place to avoid any unplanned stimulation.
Meanwhile, the sightings of the dog-headed men had also increased to the point where she kept her head down at all times when she was outside, her eyes only lifting to navigate the bus steps or the sidewalk curb. The office building had become as much of an oasis as her apartment, Gerard’s understanding eyes and kind smile a refuge she looked forward to every evening.
Like tonight.
Mary-Alice hurried in as Gerard held the door. She had found it harder and harder to meet his eyes as she responded to his pleasantries.
“A beautiful evening, isn’t it?” he said with a smile in his voice.
She wanted to say, I wouldn’t know. I can no longer enjoy the evening knowing dog-headed men lurk at every corner! Instead, she offered a quick glance and an even quicker response. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
“Mary-Alice?”
The tone of Gerard’s voice stopped her. It possessed a firmness she wasn’t used to. “Yes, Gerard?”
“Meet me in the break room at our usual time?”
“Of course,” she said. “See you then.”
* * *
When Mary-Alice finally came down to the break room, she noticed a square box on the table where she usually sat. Gerard was waiting for her with a small platter of confections for her to indulge in.
“You have to try the baklava,” he said. “The filo is like thin layers of heaven. When you bite into it the honey oozes between your teeth like the sweetest kiss.”
“You make it sound so decadent.”
“It is. Here – have a bite.” Gerard leaned forward. He lifted a piece of the baklava and held it for her, cupping his hand beneath her chin to catch any crumbs.
Gerard’s description was accurate and then some. Along with the honey came the woodsy flavour of pistachio and cinnamon spice. Along with another flavour she couldn’t place. She took another bite before turning her attention to the box.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“That’s for you,” said Gerard, watching her enjoy the pastry as if he’d made it himself.
“What is it? A gift?”
She examined the box. It was about six-by-six inches square and about ten inches tall. It appeared old, made from a fancy type of cardboard once used for hat boxes or for premium grades of liquor.
“No, not a gift. It belongs to you,” he said. “Or, I should say, it belongs to your lineage… of which you are the last remaining member. I’ve been holding onto it all these years, waiting for the right moment to present it to you. From what I see, that moment is now.”
Mary-Alice blushed. “I don’t understand.” She felt the first subtle wave of drowsiness hit her, but she attributed it to the strangeness of Gerard’s words, and her recent lack of sleep.
“Did you know that there has been a battle ongoing for centuries between two clans?” he said, launching into another diatribe as if this one was no different than the many historical footnotes he was fond of relating. Only, this time, the glint in his eye was missing, replaced by a seriousness she hadn’t witnessed before. “Forgive me, Mary-Alice, but the dog-headed men you have been seeing are, in fact, real. But they are here to protect you.”
“Protect me? Protect me from what?”
“Members of the other clan, should they be so bold as to take matters into their own hands. But such breaches in the Code of Succession are rare.”
“Clans? Code of Succession? Gerard – you’re scaring me. If this is some kind of joke, please tell me now. I don’t think I can take much more of what you’re saying.”
“Then let me prove it to you. Open it.” Gerard’s eyes flitted to the box. He smiled.
“Okay. But if this is some kind of elaborate prank, I don’t think I can forgive you.”
Mary-Alice pulled the box closer. She lifted the top flap and peered inside. She then reached in and lifted out a large jar. Inside the jar was a thick fluid, and floating in the fluid was a tubular-shaped thing, at least ten inches long, that looked to be made of flesh.
Another wave of drowsiness hit her. She knew what it was in the jar, but she was too afraid to vocalise it. She’d seen similar jars in the photographs of her ancestors, held in the laps of the women like a prize-winning jar of preserves from a local fair.
“Mary-Alice, for years I have tried to keep your identity a secret. But they are here – those who want to unify the two clans. You have been challenged.”
It was all too much. Mary-Alice felt her head spinning. She was close to passing out. A part of her wanted nothing to do with this. Gerard was mistaken; she was not who he said she was. She just wanted to live a normal, boring life without complications. But another part of her, the part that came alive in her dreams, knew she was destined for greatness, knew her ancestors didn’t just pass on their special gifts but expected her to use them to their fullest potential.
Mary-Alice tasted blood and realised she had bitten the inside of her mouth. It roused her to action. “When is this supposed to happen?”
Gerard’s eyes never left hers. With a dire-sounding sigh, he said, “It is happening as we speak.”
The lights grew bright and fuzzy, like the hot sun beating down upon the savannah. Mary-Alice felt the world closing in. Her head felt heavy. She was unconscious before her cheek hit the table.
* * *
When Mary-Alice awoke, she found herself in an underground arena. Ancient columns stretched from floor to ceiling. There were strange symbols carved into the columns, sculpted profiles emerging from the walls. The noise of many murmuring voices echoed in the large stone chamber. Gerard was by her side, supporting her, as were a cadre of dog-headed men, some of whom she recognised as those she’d seen about the city in recent weeks. Across the arena was another group of dog-headed men, and among them a fierce-looking woman wearing only a plain cloth strip across her breasts and a wider band around her waist.
Mary-Alice looked down and realised she was dressed in the same fashion. She still felt sluggish, as if moving underwater, but another sensation was building, a sensation that was too surreal to be embarrassed about. She turned toward Gerard. “Gerard – what have you done?”
“No, my Queen, this is about what you are about to do. It is time for us to be united.”
Gerard stepped forward and raised his hand. A collective howl rose up from Mary-Alice’s corner. Across the arena, their second-in-charge stepped forward and raised his hand and a similar howl erupted. Mary-Alice watched as the man’s head transformed, brow sloping backward, ears pointing upward, his snout elongating. And then she witnessed the same transformation happen to Gerard – sweet, round-headed Gerard. He was one of them, too.
What happened next came in a flurry of ceremonial preparations. Her ‘opponent’ was stripped of her clothing. To Mary-Alice’s amazement, the woman’s clitoris was also large, engorged, pointing downward like a weighty sword. Her seconds surrounded her and began to paint her with mud. Meanwhile, her opponent’s ‘Gerard’ dipped what looked like a pig’s tail into a small bucket filled with what looked like blood and marked her forehead and chest with symbols similar to those that appeared on the stone columns.
Mary-Alice felt her own wraps being pulled away. The dog-headed men surrounded her and began painting her in likewise fashion. What Mary-Alice thought was mud was actually faeces; its pungent scent flared her nostrils. Faeces, no doubt, collected by her cornermen and applied as an offering to their Queen. Gerard held a similar bucket of blood and, while speaking in a low monasterial chant, he dipped the pig’s tail in and painted a series of symbols on her forehead and across her chest.
“Gerard, I haven’t trained for this!”
Gerard’s smile still showed through his transformation. He gripped her face. “Oh, but you have, my Queen. Every dream… every scenario you saw yourself in – the wild hunts and the chasing and the killing – was preparation for this moment. Think of your ancestors and they will be with you – in your mind and in your spirit.”
There was something in what Gerard had said that struck her deeply, in a place where truth had lain dormant all these years. A place she always knew was there but had never had the need to tap into… until now.
Mary-Alice’s anxiety lessened, her breathing slowed, her heart-rate adopted a more regular rhythm. The clash of noises and the raw smells all contributed to elicit an electric feeling that felt as if she were about to burst through her skin.
Mary-Alice looked down. Her clitoris was as large as she had ever seen. Out of fear. Out of excitement. Out of purpose. Her display did not go unnoticed. Howls erupted from her ‘pack,’ and she felt her own howl, emanating from deep in her body, fill her chest and exit her throat. She let out a volley of shrill yips as the energy of her ancestors inhabited her. Without any external signal or call, the fight began.
Her opponent came at her in a blur. She felt the pressure of several blows, on her ribcage and face, that sent her staggering backwards. She tasted blood and the flavour of it recalled her dreams… that first bite into warm flesh… that rush of hunger flooding in and the wild abandon that followed. She turned that wildness upon her opponent and fought back.
She set her feet and charged forward, landing blow upon blow, arms and legs working in concert as if with a mind of their own. She heard herself growling, deep and feral. She not only wanted to beat this opponent, she wanted to destroy her. She clawed until her fingernails peeled skin. She bit until she tasted the oily bitterness of blood. She fought like the animal she needed to be.
It wasn’t until she felt herself being restrained that she realised she had won. Her opponent lay on the floor unconscious, bloodied and battered. Her clitoris had been removed; the place where it had been was now a ragged stump. It was then Mary-Alice realised she had the amputated organ clenched between her teeth.
She was lifted up into the air and carried around the arena on the shoulders of her followers – her disciples – all howling, “Long live the Queen! Long live the Queen!” Gerard merely nodded to her with that look of knowing she had grown accustomed to.
* * *
Mary-Alice awoke from a restful sleep in a large king-sized bed. Sunlight streamed in through tall windows. She sat up. She was in what looked like a very old penthouse apartment, based on the height of the ceiling and its ornate ceiling tiles, and the large stone fireplace in the corner with its inlaid filigree and decorative mantle – a luxurious relic of the past.
She was wearing a silk top. She pulled back the covers and saw she was wearing matching silk panties. She felt naked. And a bit confused. Was it all a dream? she thought. The jar Gerard had given her? The fight in the underground arena?
She pulled the covers back further and saw the bruising on her legs and arms. Her ribs still ached. Her fingernails had been trimmed down to the cuticles. The violence of the fight – the noise and the brutality – came back to her and she winced.
She heard the rattle of a service tray in the outer room. There came a knock on the bedroom door, then the door opened slightly and Gerard poked his head in. “Good morning,” he said. “Breakfast is ready.” He disappeared just as quickly.
There was a matching silk robe lying neatly on the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed. She slipped it on and joined Gerard.
“There she is.” Gerard bowed. He stood by a circular marble table that was nestled in a breakfast nook bathed in sunlight. On the table was a small bouquet of fresh-cut flowers in a crystal vase, and a breakfast for two: eggs, ham, blood sausage, sliced tomato, home fries, orange juice and a very aromatic tea.
“You don’t expect me to eat all that, do you?” said Mary-Alice.
“A queen must maintain her strength.”
She sat at the table. The bay window jutted out over the city. The breakfast setting, the surrounding apartment, the nightgown she wore – all of it made her feel majestic, on top of the world. “So, this is the penthouse I was never allowed to enter. Your penthouse, I assume?”
Gerard smiled. “Eat. Then we can talk about the future.”
“What about my apartment?”
“Everything you need is here.”
She noticed her belongings were now in Gerard’s living room: her photographs sat atop a baby grand piano, assembled like an army of guardian angels. Her family. She also noticed, on Gerard’s bookshelves, the jars of her ancestors, their contents floating like strange biological specimens.
“We’re not staying in New York, are we?”
“No,” said Gerard, “we’re leaving tomorrow.”
“To where?” she asked. But she could already guess by the artifacts hanging on the walls and decorating every niche in the penthouse: tribal masks, carvings of canine deities, handmade musical instruments. She could hear the drums beating across the Serengeti.
“Home,” Gerard said, “to reclaim what is rightfully yours.”
And Mary-Alice knew that this was just the beginning.