The Smell

August 16, 2023January 4, 2024 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 6 Comments

“What’s that smell?” Ben asked.

Lydia inhaled deeply. “I don’t smell it.”

He stood and walked to her. “It’s you. It’s coming from you.” He sniffed the air around her. “Definitely you.”

“Thanks. Tell me more about how I stink.”

He lifted her arm and brought it to his nose. “It’s the shirt. The shirt stinks.”

She pulled her arm back, insulted. “I just bought this shirt.”

“Well, it smells…like you got it off a dead body.”

“I got it at the thrift shop. That one on Gulfspray.”

“Then it probably did come off a dead body.” He started to go to the kitchen but stopped in his tracks. “There isn’t a thrift store on Gulfspray. That’s a residential area.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Such a gaslighter. If there is no shop, then how did I get this shirt?”

He shrugged. “Smells kinda like you pulled it out of Satan’s ass.” He knew he was right about Gulfspray, he drove by it every day on his commute.

He looked at the shirt again. He had thought it was a red and brown tartan pattern; now it looked orange and tan. “You washed it right?”

“Of course, I washed it!”

“Well, it smells.” He whispered the next part, “And it changed colors.”

“I don’t smell it, you’re crazy.”

As Ben walked into the kitchen, he considered that he might be crazy. It wouldn’t be the first time that he had seen something, heard something, or sensed something that Lydia was oblivious to. He had never had an olfactory hallucination and he took medications for the others. Lydia preferred to live a pharmaceutical-free life and she sometimes disassociated to the point of disappearing. There were times when he would not know where she was or what she was doing and she would return, tight lipped and cementing psychic walls of privacy. He had learned to respect that, and he respected that their relationship was one of feast and famine in terms of intimacy. At the moment, he had little respect for someone calling him crazy or a gaslighter when they were seeing mirages in the form of thrift shops. “It’s in here now. The smell, it’s following me.”

“You’re crazy,” she repeated.

Crazy or not, the smell permeated the house despite the warfare enlisted. Ben tried incense, perfume, and sage. The windows and door were propped open. Nothing made an impact and Ben swore that he could taste the smell. It made it so that he had to skip dinner and that was unheard of for him.

That night, Ben dreamt of spoiled food, rotting carcasses, and noxious garbage dumps. Each hour brought an increase in the olfactory assault, and his mind conjured images in accompaniment.

When he woke, he found Lydia in front of the bathroom mirror, clad only in the shirt that now appeared to be purple and crimson. He rubbed his eyes, hoping to reset the colors, but it still appeared with different hues than the day before.

“You’re wearing that shirt again?”

“It’s my shirt.” She was standing at the bathroom sink, looking at her mouth in the mirror. She was sticking her tongue out as if a doctor were waiting with a tongue depressor.

“What’s wrong with your tongue?”

“nhuthin,” she replied, keeping the tongue on display.

Reading her body language, Ben went to make his coffee and give her some space. The sound of his ancient Keurig was overwhelmed by Lydia’s coughing. “You alright?” he called, bringing the cup of coffee close to his nose in the hopes of quelling the odor. It didn’t work and he was tempted to toss the coffee out and purchase a latte on the way to work, but those coffee pods were expensive, and he hated to waste one.

From the other room, Lydia’s coughs graduated to a throaty gag.

“Lyd? You ok?”

“Fine.” Her voice was raspy and phlegmy to the point of being difficult to listen to. In fact, it was almost the auditory version of the smell. Almost.

Once he was ready to leave for work, Ben gave Lydia a kiss on the forehead. As he pulled away, she whispered, “Spider tonsils.”

“What’s that, Lyd?”

She made eye contact, but the person behind the eyes was far away and Ben recognized this as his cue to exit. If he pressed, she would grow agitated, and her isolation would last longer than he was comfortable with.

She lowered her head and picked at the thread of a loose button. “Spider tonsils,” she repeated.

Ben wanted to ask which one of them was crazy now, but he knew that was insensitive to her very real mental health issues. Experience had taught him that she would snap out of it, and he was looking forward to putting in hours at the office as a respite from the odor.

When he returned home, there was no Lydia and no note. There was only the shirt, crumpled on the floor in the bathroom. It was damp and sticky.

The smell was as strong as ever, but the shirt was no longer the source. The shirt, now blue and green, had no odor at all.

He tracked the scent like a bloodhound. All he found for his troubles was an old candy wrapper and a large, long-legged spider weaving a fresh web in their closet. Without hesitation, he put the spider out of its misery.

Leaving the closet to start dinner, he realized that the smell had disappeared.

Ben ate alone and in peace. He made a plate for Lydia in case she returned hungry. He then showered, finding pleasure in the pleasant fragrances of his hygiene ritual. He was sure that Lydia would return home by the time he was ready for bed.

His instincts had proven wrong, and he slid beneath their scent-free sheets alone. He left one voice message and one text for Lydia but reasoned that more than that would look like he was not respecting her boundaries, and he knew that upset her. Now that his world was without noxious fumes, he could grant Lydia a great deal of grace.

The next morning, Ben pulled a shirt off the hanger in his closet. It was a shirt he had no recollection of buying. The tag was still on it, and it was from a thrift shop. Lydia must have bought it as a surprise for him. He would google the name of the store later, to find out where it was truly located.

Ben felt guilty that he had not given her the chance to give him the shirt; he had been so focused on obsessing over the invasive smell. When she returned, he would be sure to apologize.

This shirt did not smell. And it fit perfectly. He decided to work from home so that he could be there when Lydia returned. She was not answering her cell and it was unlike her to be out of contact for so long. Ben didn’t want to alarm her family, but he resolved to contact them if he hadn’t heard from her by lunch.

The thought of lunch made his stomach rumble, even though he had just eaten breakfast. He tried placating his appetite with a strong cup of coffee, but as he brought the mug to his lips, his stomach recoiled.

He dropped the mug, gagging as the fumes from the spilled coffee entered the small space.

As he cleaned up the mess he had made, he was overcome with a coughing fit. He coughed until his throat felt ragged. Then he gagged. It wasn’t nausea causing him to gag; there was something lodged in his throat.

Moving to the bathroom mirror, he opened his mouth and peered at his throat. Directly behind the uvula, there was a dark shadow. Ben made a low growl in his throat, seeing if the shadow would move. As he watched, a long, spindly spider leg crawled onto the back of his tongue.

He now knew what “spider tonsils” meant and he knew what had happened to Lydia.

∼ Elaine Pascale

Prince Charming

May 31, 2023April 18, 2023 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 4 Comments

He had always known he was different.

The celebratory ball had been planned years prior, at a time when he had been a child playing “castle” with little Ella who was brought to the courtyard by her nanny. Current day Prince Charming wanted to scream at his parents for being so blind. Didn’t they realize he did not want to marry, or at least, he didn’t want to marry a princess? Did they need a more obvious hint than his always insisting he was the queen of the castle when he had played with Ella?

Ironically, the ball was considered a “coming out.” It was meant for the debutantes to be offered as if they were impersonal wares instead of daughters that were cherished.

At the ball, the maidens were paraded in front of him, each one growing more unappealing than the one before. Finally, Prince Charming signaled that it was time to dance, and his parents reluctantly conceded. They had hoped he would select a bride prior to drinks and dancing.

Prince Charming managed to avoid contact with the slavering single ladies as he swayed alone in a corner. Then he saw her.

He hadn’t seen Ella since her mother had died and her father remarried. He strolled across the dance floor and asked her to dance. She was perfect: no one remembered her, no one was chaperoning her, no one would interfere. Furthermore, her sense of style was flawless. As they twirled, he ran a hand over her back.

“Silk?”

She winked. “Magic.”

“It is some sort of magic that made you appear.” He smiled. “We used to have such fun together; we were quite the pair.”

Ella could not match his smile. “I believe that is the last time I ever had fun, and the last time I was ever called by my real name.” After some gentle nudging, she recounted the abuse she had suffered since she had last seen him. She confided that she had to sleep on a bed of ashes and that her meals were the spilled food she secretly scavenged from the burning coals of the fire. “If I were to remove these gloves, you would see nothing but scars.”

Prince Charming’s heart broke for his old friend. “No one helps you? What about that kind nanny?”

“She was fired when my father remarried. There is no one comforting me except the feral animals I have befriended. My stepmother and stepsisters take turns beating me; it is how they find enjoyment.”

Prince Charming considered this sad information throughout the next song and then he told her, “I could help you escape, but you would have to live a different life than you may have expected.”

Without hesitation, she said, “Any life would be preferable to the one I live.”

“Then I have an idea. I noticed your beautiful shoes that are unlike any others I have ever seen…”

She leaned closer, “I told you; my outfit is magic.”

“I fully believe it and we will need more magic to get away with my plan. What I was thinking was…”

The two hashed out the details while deflecting the envious looks of those who wanted a turn to dance with the prince. At midnight, as planned, the girl accidentally left one of her glass slippers behind. The prince dramatically swept up the shoe, held it aloft, and proclaimed he would marry any girl who could fit the slipper. He said he would go from house to house the following day, until he found the maiden with the right shoe size.

Also as planned, he only visited one house.

When the door opened, Prince Charming realized that two of the ugliest eligible bachelorettes from the night before were Ella’s stepsisters. The women were beside themselves when he entered their home. They knocked each other with their elbows, pushing so that they could be the one closest to their visitor.

“You are here about the shoe?” a stepsister asked.

“Indeed, I am,” the prince said loudly. He knew that Ella was waiting for her cue. “May I ask how many maidens live in this home?”

“Just the two of us,” the other stepsister answered.

This lie made it easy for the prince to follow through with the plan. “Then please be seated on the sofa.”

The women perched on the edge of the cushions, kicking off their large satin shoes.

The prince handed a shoe to one sister followed by the other, confident the dainty slipper would never fit their large, calloused feet.

The stepsisters grunted and struggled, but the glass construction would not give. They fought over the shoe, believing they could make it fit. Each woman panted and cried, “I can make this work, give me a minute…”

The prince scoffed, “I don’t think either of you really wants to be a princess. If you did, you would make the shoe fit.”

Both stepsisters sobbed and wailed, “I do! I do want to be a princess!”

“Those sound like magic words,” the prince announced, and Ella appeared.

“What is she doing here?” the women scoffed.

“Just this.” Ella put her fingers to her mouth and whistled loudly. A mischief of rats ran into the room and the stepsisters pulled their feet up onto the cushions; their squeals and squirms rivaling that of the rodents.

“More magic,” the prince exclaimed. Ella looked alarmed but he had made a solemn promise to keep her secret.

What happened next was far outside of the realm of courtly decorum. The rats were not shy about attacking the women’s feet, devouring toes and heels quickly.

When the stepsisters fainted from blood loss, the prince called loudly, “Is there no other woman in the house to try the shoe? Even a widow who might like to live in the palace—”

Ella’s stepmother ran down the stairs and looked from Ella to the prince expectantly.

“We have a special shoe for you to try,” the prince explained. Ella pulled the iron shovel from the fire.

“That’s for scooping ashes,” the stepmother noted.

As their plans had not included touching the abusers directly, Ella whistled, and two large hawks landed on her stepmother’s shoulders, forcing the woman to sit on the sofa.

“That shovel has many purposes,” the prince assured her as the rabbits Ella had called forth pushed the shovel onto the soles of the woman’s feet, scorching the skin with a sizzle that could be heard above her screams.

Prince Charming and Ella vacated the house, understanding that they could have left without bringing harm to anyone, but feeling fully satisfied with their revenge.

A month later, they had an extravagant royal wedding. When it was time for the groom to kiss his bride, their lips met but there were no fireworks, no tingling spark. In fact, there was no feeling of romance at all.

Ella smiled knowingly at the prince and whispered, “I will keep your secret, too.”

In their happily ever after, Ella no longer suffered abuse and Prince Charming was free to be the queen of the castle.

∼ Elaine Pascale

The Taste of Soap

March 8, 2023February 26, 2023 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 9 Comments

Shirley hated the taste of soap, and she hated the smell of cigarettes.

“If you didn’t tell lies, you wouldn’t get the soap,” her mother reminded her when the girl complained.

Shirley would be instructed to hold the bar between her teeth for three full minutes. She would gag and drool and her drool would create amalgamated bubbles with the soap. The only positive aspect of the soap was that it smothered the smell of cigarettes that lined her mother’s clothing like stale satin.

The next time they were at the store, a very tall man with no eyebrows dropped an item into their cart when Shirley’s mother was not looking.

At the checkout, her mother questioned Shirley about the unintended purchase. When Shirley described what she had seen, her mother folded her arms and frowned. “Good thing ‘the man’ gave us soap. You will be tasting it soon enough.”

Shirley tried to protest, but her mother wouldn’t listen.

Later, as Shirley gripped the new bar between her teeth, she saw a horrible vision. She saw her father being held at gun point. “Dad’s in trouble,” she announced when her mother retrieved the soap from her mouth, “I saw it.”

“Keep up the lies and I will put this right back in,” her mother ordered, only she was putting the soap away and reaching for a cigarette.

Later that night, a call came explaining that Shirley’s father was in the hospital. Her mother paled and clasped Shirley’s shirt between shaking hands. “What you think you saw doesn’t matter now. We won’t speak of it again.” Her mother went to the hospital, leaving Shirley in the care of their neighbor, Mrs. Johnson, who promptly fell asleep in front of the television.

Left unattended, Shirley found the bar of soap and placed it between her teeth. She saw her mother sitting at her father’s side, gripping his hand and crying. Her mother was speaking, even though her father’s eyes were closed. She was saying, “Please don’t leave me….please don’t leave me alone with her.”

Once her father recovered, he was a changed man. He spent less time working and more time with Shirley. In her father’s company, Shirley rarely got into trouble. Her mouth was veritably soap-free with the exception of the time that she began speaking of the man with no eyebrows again. Her mother had instituted the soap punishment and Shirley experienced a vision of Mrs. Johnson sitting dead in her reclining chair in front of the television.

“What is it?” Her mother snapped, taking the soap from Shirley and noticing that the girl was more agitated than usual.

“I saw Mrs. Johnson. She was dead in her chair.”

Her mother snorted. “You’re insulted because she doesn’t want to play your foolish games with you, so you are making this up. I am sure she is fine.”

When the ambulance pulled up the following day, and Mrs. Johnson’s body was removed beneath a sheet, Shirley’s mother watched from her porch while having a cigarette. Shirley’s father decided to take Shirley away from the tragedy of Mrs. Johnson, much to her mother’s chagrin.

“Your father spoils you,” her mother scolded. “He is your parent, not your friend. He needs to be more of a disciplinarian.” Her mother began inviting herself on their excursions so she could “mold Shirley’s behavior.” Since they were often on the go for their outings, “molding” involved clandestine swats out of her father’s sight. Her mother couldn’t be expected to remember to bring the soap.

At a picnic, Shirley turned down her mother’s offer of pasta salad, saying she didn’t like it.

“Liar,” her mother’s anger rose quickly, and Shirley cowered, awaiting a sharp smack. Since her father was in view, her mother simply said, “I have seen you eat it before.”

Shirley was certain that in this instance, it was her mother who was not being truthful, but she knew better than to argue. She watched her mother consume a cigarette, knowing the woman would not forget that she had a punishment coming.

When they arrived home, her mother grabbed her arm and pulled her into the bathroom. “You know what lying girls get,” she said with vehemence and removed the soap from the cabinet. Once the bar was between her teeth, Shirley saw another vision. This time her vision was fueled by delirium, making it as confusing as it was horrific. She saw the tall man with no eyebrows approaching her mother. Her mother pursed her lips to exhale cigarette smoke and the man took that opportunity to turn into vapor and enter her mother’s mouth. Her mother wheezed, clutching her chest, gasping for air.

Shirley wasn’t sure what that meant, but she knew her mother was in trouble. Her eyes teared.

“Let me guess, you had another vision.” Her mother rolled her eyes. “We don’t talk about them. I don’t want to hear your lies.”

Shirley blinked back her tears and ran water in her mouth. Her mother looked at her accusingly. “Well did you? See anything?”

“No,” Shirley lied. She vowed to continue lying since she was not allowed to speak of her visions. Her lies became larger as her mother grew weaker. Eventually, Shirley no longer had to smell smoke or taste soap.

∼ Elaine Pascale

Back Seat Driver

December 21, 2022November 28, 2022 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 4 Comments

“The road was a ribbon of moonlight…”

Like Noyes’ highwayman, Laurie came “riding—riding—riding” but the road she traveled more closely resembled the steel bars of a prison than a ribbon. She knew she could not go home. There was no escape beyond this road.

Words had been said.

Pieces of the past had been resurrected, memories acting as an unwanted Lazarus now squatting in their shared space.

Her necklace had found its way into the garbage disposal. There had been no explanation—a mystery. That the necklace had been a gift from a former lover lessened the mystery, but it wasn’t the necklace that had led her to take the seat behind the wheel.

It was the words. Words that could not be repossessed. Words that assured she could not go home.

Susan had stayed home after the fight. Susan always did what she was supposed to and right now women were told to stay home.

There was no official curfew, but nighttime was considered the most dangerous. Two women had disappeared, their bodies later found. Smiles had been carved into their throats, screams escaping directly from their voice boxes with no use for the mouths that had been sewn shut.

Two bodies had been found: one short of labelling the murderer a serial killer.

Little more had been disclosed. Secrets were necessary for matching the random confessions to the actual criminal. And secrets, along with swallowed truths, had been necessary for keeping Laurie’s relationship afloat.

Only there was no floating on this road. Only driving and more driving.

Laurie knew that Susan had seen the belongings that had been piled on her backseat. The pile had been there long enough to become partially disclosed beneath wrappers and coffee cups and the jacket that had been too warm to wear this early in the season. Laurie had wanted to instill doubt in her partner. She no longer wanted to be taken for granted. She had also wanted to convince herself that freedom was but a choice, hers for the taking. All she had to do was get in the car and drive.

They were both too mature to be playing these games, but whenever they tried to talk through a problem, the words formed into a monster, a threat.

There were no businesses, no homes, no signs of life on this empty road. Laurie again remembered the poem she had been forced to read in school so many years before:

For the road lay bare in the moonlight;

Blank and bare in the moonlight;

And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.

When had her heart last throbbed for Susan? Their relationship had been incredibly passionate in the beginning. Then it had devolved into the beige existence that Susan seemed to prefer. Laurie needed more. Maybe that was why she was on the empty road despite the cautions. Maybe she wanted to worry Susan into a frenzy that would result in a rekindled passion. Maybe she could go back home after some time had passed and there was space between them and the words. Susan, who was so orderly, would manage to sweep those words away. Susan would make things tidy again and Laurie would swallow truths just as if her mouth had been sewn shut by an insane killer.

But the words they had said were heavy enough to require two people to vanquish them. Susan would not be able to tidy them alone and Laurie wasn’t sure she would ever be ready to face the words. She considered that she might never go home.

That thought did not bring freedom. It brought sadness, desolation. She was growing tired of relationships dying over things unsaid. She would make this right. She would own her part of the fight; she would expose the secrets she had been keeping hidden. She would take the pile of possessions from the back seat and put them in a permanent place in the space she and Susan shared.

Laurie sniffed, plump tears crawling down her cheeks.

“Here,” a man’s voice said from the darkness of the backseat. A hand with bloodied fingernails handed her a tissue.

∼ Elaine Pascale

The Suit

October 5, 2022September 16, 2022 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 4 Comments

She had always feared this day would come.

The dark musings had been anxiety provoking and had included the suit being handed over ceremoniously. But that could only happen in a world where her identity was known. Where the true identity of her husband was known.

Instead, a man had stumbled out of a nondescript car and handed her a box sealed with tape. Not the nice kind of tape, either. Not the smooth type, but the brand with the biting string embedded in it.

The cheap kind.

She had looked at the box and looked at the man. His eyes had been hidden behind large sunglasses. He had been as generic as the box. He had turned and left without so much as a nod.

The box, when opened, had given off a smell that she recognized. Even superheroes had favored brands of soap and deodorant.

The suit itself was harder to recognize; it looked different without her husband in it.

God, she missed him.

She wondered if she would miss him less if they had been able to recover his body; if she had had something to say goodbye to.

Without the suit, her husband was just a man. Without the suit, he blended in. Recovering the body would have required someone knowing who to look for.

She needed to have the smell of the suit around her. In their years together, she had barely touched it. It had been his: his responsibility, his power. She had respected that. But he was gone, and she was grieving, and the only thing she knew to do was to put the suit on. It slipped over her skin as his hands once had. It didn’t snag, it didn’t require awkward tugging. Despite their differences in size and shape, the suit fit perfectly.

The suit was made of latex and some charmed materials and had been secretly manufactured in a hidden lab. The suit maker was no longer alive. No one who knew the identity of the suit’s owner was alive, except her.

She wrapped her arms around herself, capturing the first hug she had felt in weeks. Still holding her arms tightly, she moved to the mirror, wanting to see something of him, anything of him. The suit had looked blue on him; it was a deep purple on her.

Inside the suit, his scent grew stronger. The feel of him, his essence enveloped her. She closed her eyes, to catch her breath, to ground herself. She whispered, “I wish I could see him.”

The mirror granted her wish in the worst possible way. The perspective was startling. It appeared as if she were on her back, looking up at the sky. She could not move: her hands and feet were bound. A cold wind blew over her and she shivered. The air bit at her skin, giving her the impression that she was naked. The sound of breathing filled her ears. It was breathing she would recognize anywhere. It belonged to her husband.

She was not seeing him; she was him. She was him in his last moments. But why was he on the ground? Why was he naked?

The vision of the sky was blocked by a face she has seen on the news. It was the Disposer. He had been terrorizing the tri-state area for months. The Disposer smiled at the shivering body, he smiled at the gasping breath. He was more menacing in person than he was in his mug shots. The Disposer’s eyes were like black holes: they absorbed everything and gave off nothing.

The Disposer pursed his lips as if blowing out a candle. Instead of spewing air, dirt poured out, filling her husband’s eyes and nose and mouth. The dirt smelled of rot.

The Disposer, watching her husband die, said, “I get to teach you something today, professor. You get to research death first-hand.”

She understood. Without the suit, the Disposer had no idea who her husband was. He only knew the alter-ego. Feeling her husband die did not provide closure. In fact, it provided the opposite: a thirst for answers.

She felt raw and battered as the mirror switched perspective to reveal a bit of distinguishable scenery. That glimpse could help her find her husband. Or it could help her find the Disposer. She did not know which outcome she wanted more.

The suit had always been an image of trust, of safety. So why had her husband taken it off when a known villain had been near? She had been accustomed to her husband’s strange hours and secretive behavior. The months leading up to his death had been filled with greater absences and a larger gulf between them. He had not been confiding in her as he had before. Had he been confiding in someone else?

The suit was now the cause of mystery and confusion. What had once been a source of pride was now a source of uncertainty. The only thing she was sure of was that someone knew her identity. The person who returned the suit was either someone close to her husband or an enemy inciting a new foe.

Strangely, she hoped it was the latter.

∼ Elaine Pascale

Pandora’s Box

July 20, 2022July 4, 2022 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 5 Comments

“What’s your favorite constellation?”

Lek was baffled. “I never thought about it. What’s yours?”

“It’s probably cliché but Orion.”

He laughed; he often found himself laughing at her. “Why is that cliché?”

“Because I feel like everyone would say that.” Dory leaned close, whispering, “You have to keep an eye on his belt. The gremlins will move the stars.”

He slid his hand into hers. He had always imagined what it would be like to walk with her on the beach, as they were now doing. The beach was so open, so public, at contrast with their secret relationship. “Why do the gremlins move the stars?”

She cocked an eyebrow before answering, “To make planes crash.”

He loved how she treated every topic with equal seriousness. Her response to the recent terminations at work had been parallel to this discussion of gremlins. She had a passion for the mundane and could make an emergency trivial.

“Gremlins are killers,” she said decisively, squeezing his hand for emphasis. A thrill ran through him as he imagined her hand squeezing other parts of him. He could smell her above the ocean, the sour smell of her sweat that brought him to life. The first time he had been close enough to smell her, that first time on the factory floor, he had known that she would change his life forever.

Dory felt so new but familiar. She felt right. It was as if he had been hungering for something his entire life but the banquet that had been laid before him had never been adequate. Then he had tasted her. And now he could feast on her daily. He had seen to it.

“It’s something we should know about each other…favorite constellations and things like that,” she continued. “I want to know things about you and trust that I truly know you.”

He smiled in a way that he believed she found charming. “I am happy to tell you anything you want. I don’t have secrets from you.”

“We are the secret,” she said and dropped his hand.

Her voice sounded funny. He tried to remember how it had sounded on that first day, when she had been brought around by the supervisor and introduced to everyone. She had smiled at him, and he had known the smile was just for him, but now he couldn’t remember her saying anything. It vexed him that he couldn’t remember.

“Look.” She pointed to the water where two dark figures were creating arcs along the surface.

He smiled. “Dolphins.”

“One for each of us.” She sighed. “Spirit animals.”

“And what do dolphins represent?”

She smiled mischievously. “Lust.”

“That is not true. Our relationship—”

“—is based on what?”

He wanted to argue that lust was a type of love and there were many ways to show love. He leaned in to sniff her hair. It didn’t smell like anything this time. He closed his eyes and forced the memory of her scent to become real.

“Sometimes I feel like I live only inside your mind.”

He stopped and looked at her, really looked at her. He loved the small freckle on the right side of her nose. He loved the way her hair curled over her ears, and the shiny star earrings that dangled from her lobes. He loved that her eyes were a sparking green…or were they a deep brown?

“That makes me sound crazy. Do you think I am crazy?”

She didn’t answer. She kept watching the dolphins. He envied how free the dolphins were. They could frolic as they wished. They could hide in the depths or bask in the sun when desired. They basically lived in two worlds, something he had been unsuccessfully doing.

When the layoffs had been announced, he stopped caring about keeping her a secret. He realized how transient everything was, how temporary. He wanted the world to know everything. He wanted for their love to be remembered.

He took her hand again. The warmth surged through him. He felt it everywhere, radiating out from their conjoined hands. He wanted to make a joke about their burning love but thought the better of it. He didn’t want to say anything that would cause her to pull her hand away again.

“The gremlins never get in trouble,” she mused.

“For moving the stars?”

“For causing fatalities. It wouldn’t be a crime to simply move the stars. It is the impact on human life.”

“Some lives are more important than others. If the layoffs taught us anything—” He noticed a small drop of blood on her earlobe.

“Did you scratch yourself?” he asked but she ignored him. She was looking at the dolphins again and smiling as if they were the only things that mattered. Her happiness legitimized what they were doing. It justified what he had done.

He gave her a quick peck on the cheek. He reminded himself of how he had tasted every part of her. He repeated words inside his head that described the way she tasted. If he said the words enough times, they became real.

The water was glowing, and the dolphins were oddly stationary. Usually, they hunted at dusk.

“Dory?” He loved saying her name. It reminded him of the word “adore.” He squeezed her hand and another shock of warmth surged through him. “I don’t think the dolphins are playing anymore.”

“You made them stop.” Her voice was different again, a new voice. She wiped the blood from her earlobe with her free hand. “Why did you do it? Why do you make everyone hurt?”

He looked at the sky. He couldn’t understand why the stars weren’t visible yet. The sun should have set. The iridescent pinks and purples appeared as a frozen streaming video, like time was standing still. The water was an explosion of oranges and red.

She frowned. “You want to hide in the darkness. You can’t hide anymore.”

“I am not hiding,” he protested, “I am doing the opposite of hiding. I made a declaration. I made things right.”

As he said this, the sun dipped below the horizon, yet there was an extraordinary brightness to the sky. And smoke. He looked at Orion’s belt and a star seemed to be missing. He turned his head to warn Dory, but she wasn’t there. She had never been there.

The sun crawled up the sky like an alpinist climbing the sheer face of a mountain. This was not a sunrise; this was a reversal. The dolphins swam back into frame from left to right. They slapped the water with their tails and Lek realized that it was a firehose slapping the concrete that was making the noise.

He wasn’t on the beach; he was sitting on a gritty curb and the brightness was the flames engulfing the factory.

He looked down to his hand that was covered with second degree burns. It radiated with warmth. In his other hand, he held an earring that dangled a silver star from its hook. He turned the earring over, puncturing his thumb with the hook, hoping to draw blood to mingle with the drops that were encrusted on the jewelry.

“How many people were inside?” The police officer was asking the floor supervisor. They were close enough to Lek for him to overhear. He had been told to stay where he was. He was in no condition to move. The hand that held the earring was cuffed to a pole, and he had been hit by his own shrapnel. They would take him in after they made sure that they had not missed any survivors.

“Twenty-four. The ones unaccounted for…” The supervisor began listing names for the officer. Lek perked up when he mentioned Dory. “Those last three: Dory, Rodrigo, and Esteban, they didn’t really speak English. I don’t think they have family here to notify, anyway. They came together, like left their country and came here. They kept to themselves.”

“And what part of the building were they in at the time of the explosion?”

“The basement, near the boiler.”

“And him?” The officer was pointing at Lek.

“He wasn’t working. He…had been fired. Misconduct. He must have snuck in; security had been told to keep him off the premises. We had reason to believe…” The supervisor ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “It’s like we knew something like this would happen.”

“You can confirm he was inside the building?”

“Yes. He was seen; he was identified. Someone said they saw him…grab that woman’s, grab Dory’s earring, and then run out. And then the explosion.”

“He went straight to the woman and then the explosion?”

The supervisor nodded.

“Were they in a relationship? Was there any chance they were in a relationship?”

The supervisor turned his head to meet Lek’s eyes. “I don’t think she had any clue who he was.”

A Rash of Karens

May 4, 2022April 26, 2022 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 4 Comments

“You should have your nametag in clear view where we can see it. “

Captain Rick untucked his nametag knowingly. He understood that this type of passenger liked to collect names for complaints. The fan on the airboat was not quite loud enough to cover the women’s conversation, which was an obnoxious combination of denigration of the local culture and denigration of him.

To drown them out—and the idea of drowning them was appealing—Captain Rick began his speech. As he discussed his native Florida, the women continued to speak to each other, acting as if his words did not matter. As if he did not matter.

These two were absolutely perfect.

As he knew his speech by rote, he was able to observe the invasive species in front of him. Both women were wearing dresses and shoes that were impractical and incompatible with an airboat ride. Their arms were laden with bracelets, their hands heavy with rings. But he was not interested in robbing them; he was interested in them for another purpose.

Captain Rick knew how to get their attention. He was confident he would be able to get them to say the things that would confirm his choice with the warden. The women did not know about the cameras that recorded each trip. They did not know that certain passengers were selected for a higher purpose.

They would never know.

Captain Rick began to cover the topic of the negative impact that humans have on the Everglades, especially relating to the introduction of invasive species.

Some invasive species are better than others, he thought. He knew that the foreign reptiles still had something to offer in the way of tourism and trading. Soon, these women would also have something to offer.

He continued, “Some of the alien species include Burmese pythons, several types of boas, and Nile crocodiles.”

“Aliens?” The woman on the left, who he heard the other call “Brenda,” asked.

“No, ma’am, alien species.”

Brenda’s friend leaned toward her but spoke loudly enough that the leaning was unnecessary. “Like that man we saw fishing at the marina. You know right away if someone is alien.”

“He definitely did not belong,” Brenda agreed.

“And boat slips are for boats, not fishing.” The friend turned to Captain Rick, suddenly wanting to include him. “How do we report that? Can you reach the sheriff or constable or whatever you call them down here? You have one of those.” She pointed to his belt. “Walkies.”

“These are for official communication and emergencies only, ma’am.” And for other types of communication that these women did not need to be privy to.

“You don’t think this should be escalated up the ranks to ‘official’?” She turned to Brenda. “He is disregarding my right as a concerned citizen.”

Brenda pulled herself up, looking like a hen stretching. “Citizenship confers power, sir.” The word “sir” was venom-soaked. “We are citizens.” She wiggled her hand back and forth between her friend and herself. “Those…men…the ones we saw fishing on the boat slip, obviously are not. If they were to ask for the walkies, then it would only make sense that those types are denied.”

He nodded. Not because he agreed with the sentiment, but because these two were so perfect. The last few tourist groups had not taken the bait. Thus, they had not been treated as bait. He peered over his shoulder to make sure that the camouflaged camera was capturing this exchange.

“You know, my husband—” the friend began, but Captain Rick cut her off by pointing toward the water.

“If we are quiet, we might be able to get up close to those crocs,” he instructed.

“Why would we want to do that?” Brenda asked, wrinkling her nose as if confronting a bad scent.

“So, you can tell your friends back home,” Captain Rick suggested.

The ladies laughed. “This was more of a…lark,” the friend explained, “we would never tell anyone that we climbed onto this…old boat to skim along some smelly water. We didn’t even tell our husbands.”

Brenda laughed louder. “Our friends think we are in Turks and Caicos. I mean, Florida? Who vacations here?”

“Rednecks.” her friend told her. “It’s the redneck Riviera or something.” She turned her attention back to Captain Rick. “We only came because our husbands had business.”

“I understand. But since you are on the boat anyway, you might want to see some of these species up close.”

“Not really.” Brenda sniffed. “We can go back. We had our fun…I guess.” She rolled her eyes dramatically. Captain Rick was thrilled; she was looking directly toward the camera. The warden would love this.

“I shouldn’t mention this…” If only the women had known that Captain Rick had been trained in the theater long before he retired and dedicated his time and energy to protecting wildlife and helping the state of Florida. “I guess…no…it wouldn’t be right…”

The women were only half-interested. He continued regardless.

“I had a group of ladies on this same boat earlier this morning. When we got to this same spot, this very spot…”

Brenda scratched her shoulder where a mosquito had been snacking earlier. The thought of her being snacked on made Captain Rick smile. He lowered his smile when she asked, “What is it?”

“The one lady leaned right there.” He pointed to a sand bank a few feet to the left of where they were currently idling. “She wanted to see the wildlife.”
Brenda rolled her eyes again. “So?”

“Well, she…it really is the funniest thing, but she didn’t find it funny, of course…”

“Listen, either you tell us what happened, or you turn this boat around right now—” He was no longer sure which one was speaking as they both whined at the same frequency and his mind was already a few steps ahead.

“She had been wearing a bracelet. A real pretty one, and fancy too…it had all these diamonds on it. Her friend said it was a…Carter?”

The women gasped in unison. “Cartier?”

“That’s it. That’s the one. By gum if it didn’t come loose right when she was leaning and plop into the water below us. We tried to find it with no luck.” He winked at the ladies. “I was hoping to come back and find it without her. You know, a secret.” He winked again.

“That’s disgusting,” the friend chastised him. “You are basically robbing the woman.” She looked around the boat while Brenda’s eyes tried to bore beneath the surface of the murky water. “I will be using that net.” She pointed to the implements behind him. He had nets and hooks and many other useful items.

He feigned surprise. He was delighted that all was going according to plan. “You want to find it?”

“Of course. You wouldn’t even know what to do with something like that. But I—” She glanced at Brenda. “I mean, we…we know what to do with that sort of thing.”

Brenda nodded. “Of course, we will look at your passenger log and see if we can track her down.”

“Of course,” the friend agreed, and Captain Rick did not have to know them well to know they were both lying. But their lies only solidified how the rest of this cruise would go.

He handed the friend the net and watched as they both leaned over the side, scooping the water uselessly. As the women teetered precariously, Captain Rick could see the water parting on both sides of the boat. The crocs were used to this by now. They knew what to do, which absolved Captain Rick of having to lift a finger.

He remembered the camera and raised his hands behind the ladies’ backs, gesturing wordlessly, as if he were warning them away from the end of the boat. The women did not notice the snouts breaking the surface, but he did.

The first few times, he had needed to chum the water to get the crocs in a frenzy. They were now conditioned, and they knew exactly how to grab the women and pull them into the water. As if they had been trained.

The women screamed for help but there was nothing Captain Rick could do, not once they were being subjected to the death rolls. And the camera captured it all in case anyone came with questions.

But no one would.

Captain Rick had been right, the warden happily watched the film and agreed with the decision that had been made on the water. The warden slapped Captain Rick on the back and said, “That’s what tourists are good for, making our reptilian visitors feel at home.”

∼ Elaine Pascale

Supernova

February 16, 2022May 6, 2022 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 4 Comments

“I am a ticking time bomb,” Penny announced earnestly at dinner.

“That is what the doctor said?” her husband asked, “He literally told you that you were like a bomb, ready to explode at any time?” He stirred his mashed potatoes. She had made them the way she liked: clumpy and with skin. He hated them that way.

She ignored his question. She was not going to answer if it destroyed her narrative. “I am ripe, is what I mean. I could conceive at any moment. We need to be prepared.” She fashioned a few mountains of potatoes onto her plate, adding rivulets of gravy. She topped the potatoes with several large pieces of fried chicken. “I just wish my health were important to you.”

He eyed her plate but said nothing.

She loved to eat. Always had. She ate until it hurt, and she craved that painfully full feeling more than she craved food. If she weren’t in pain from overeating, she felt empty.

“Empty” might be extreme. She was often accused of being dramatic, of exaggerating. It was just that she believed in telling her story, her truth. Once she had a narrative, she stuck to it. The current narrative was that, at nearly 320 pounds, every ounce of her ached with love. And she wanted to give that love to something that was hers. Something that belonged to her.

Her own marriage did not belong to her. It had been constructed by her mother. Penny and her boyfriend had been at a flea market with her mother who had spied a jewelry stand. “This one is perfect, don’t you agree?” Her mother had pointed to a small diamond ring. “And you won’t find another like it for that price,” she continued, putting him on the spot. There had been no proposal, no celebration, only a pre-worn ring thrust onto her finger, witnessed by tables of tchotchkes, unwanted dolls, and fabrics.

But a baby would be hers by choice and by design. She would lavish affection; she would nurture. She would give this baby the attention she had never received. Her mother could not celebrate others because she was the star of her own movie. While Penny craved food, her mother craved notice. Her mother had been a child actress, scoring a national commercial with a tagline that had been reproduced on t-shirts. She had been the picky eater whose parents found magical pancakes fortified with vitamins and minerals. The girl had eaten so many pancakes she exclaimed (with a syrup-lined mouth), “Imma ‘bout to explode!”

Sometimes people still recognized Penny’s mother. She went to conventions and sat at a table, waiting to autograph old shirts and pancake boxes for $5.00 a pop. She had always told Penny that her career had been about to hit a resurgence when she had become pregnant. She never failed to remind Penny that she was the reason she was seated at folded tables instead of being paraded across red carpets.

Penny knew this was not true and it certainly was not part of her narrative. What was true was she wanted a baby. That had been the impetus for the appointments with teams of doctors. And while she was not conceiving, her waist expanded. Her narrative told her that she was in the second trimester based on the last time her husband had managed to remain sober enough to finish.

“You are not pregnant,” her husband said.

“You are not pregnant,” the doctor confirmed. But her body told a different story. Something was definitely growing inside her. This was proven by an internal ultrasound that showed tiny, glowing specks orbiting her uterus.

“He said they look like stars,” she told her mom proudly.

“What did you expect” her mom asked, bored. “You were on the pill forever and that causes all kinds of problems.” She knew her mother was jealous because Penny had taken some control over her reproductive life.

“Stars are bad?”

“Anything that was not there originally is bad,” her mother sneered, “even a baby. Will the doctor be removing these ‘stars’ and how much will that cost? You know I was planning a cruise.”

Penny’s face burned with anger, a burn slightly less intense than the one she had begun feeling in her lower abdomen. “We have money.”

Her mother scoffed and Penny attributed this to more jealousy.

Tests could not determine the nature of the stars, nor could they ascertain where the distressing abdominal cramps were coming from. “Imma ‘bout to explode,” Penny murmured. She found it difficult to take more than a few steps without having to sit and wait, in agony, for the pain to pass.

When she could no longer pull her elastic-waist pants over her growing abdomen, Penny returned to the doctor.

“Are there more stars?” she asked as he scanned her latest ultrasounds.

“Penny, there is something…a tumor. I am going to take a biopsy and have it sent to pathology.”

“A tumor? Not a baby?” She couldn’t understand what the doctor was saying as it did not support her narrative.

“Penny, we discussed that your difficulty conceiving may be attributed to your weight, which increases each time we see you. At your size it would be dangerous and irresponsible…” she didn’t listen to the rest of his words and instead reminded herself that she would be finishing her third trimester and ready to give birth at any time, like a ticking time bomb.

The pain inside of her made Penny truly feel like a ticking time bomb. She felt full all the time even though her appetite was nonexistent. Despite eating limited bites of food here and there, the scale continued to herald higher and higher numbers. This feeling of fullness was less pleasurable than the one derived from a surplus of food. She reminded herself that there was a growing person inside of her and that the pain was worth it.

She spent most of her time in bed until she was called back to the doctor to discuss the results from pathology. She was to report to the hospital instead of the medical offices and when she arrived there were two doctors in the room. She knew this was unusual but assumed the new doctor would oversee delivery.

Her regular doctor sat on a stool that allowed for sustained eye contact. He spoke slowly and asked her to verify that she understood that the tumor was not made from her tissue or cells, that it was completely foreign.

She repeated the words obediently but had no concept of what they meant, and they were not what she wanted to hear.

The doctors nodded at each other as if working up the courage to continue. “We will be keeping you here. We want to remove the tumor surgically.”

“A c-section?” she gasped.

“No, Penny.” The other doctor approached her and laid a gentle hand on her arm. “There is no baby, only a tumor. I am afraid it is dangerous to your health to not remove it immediately.”

“You’re saying the baby is in danger, or I am in danger, or both?” she asked incredulously.

The doctors exchanged equally incredulous glances. “No baby, Penny. It is only you and you are in danger.”

She allowed them to admit her to the hospital and had them call her mother and husband to see if someone could keep her company. They found a gown large enough to cover her and left her lying on a very narrow bed, waiting for the baby that she knew to be there.

Her pain escalated. “This must be contractions,” she whispered, “the baby may come before the c-section can be performed.” The pain moved down into her bowels, and she hoisted herself out of the bed to enter the very tiny bathroom. She crouched over the toilet, feeling the worst cramps of her life. She simultaneously wanted to push and wanted to avoid the pain of pushing. She groaned and pushed as that aligned with her narrative.

Something wet slid from inside her and she looked down to see a great blob, the size of a pancake, stuck to her thigh. It was bloody and pulsating and it looked to be riddled with stars.

“Oh my…” Penny lifted the blob to her chest and cradled it. She wept and rocked the shimmering sphere in her arms. She carried it with her back to the bed, snuggling it and murmuring to it until it cracked open.

“This isn’t…what is this?” she asked the empty room, as the shell of the sphere crumbled away, exposing tiny, moving spider-like creatures.

Penny reached for her purse and retrieved the magnifying glass she had purchased at the flea market when her husband had been strong-armed into proposing. The creatures crawled over her lap and appeared to be trying to burrow into her flesh.

She heard a gasp and looked up to see her mother. “I am nursing,” Penny said proudly, while the creatures’ miniscule jaws tore into a roll of abdominal flesh.

Her mother screamed and once Penny’s condition was noted, her room became packed with medical personnel. They talked to Penny and took notes and photographs of the strange phenomenon. Penny saw her mother, backed into the corner, red with anger that Penny was now the center of attention.

And this was Penny’s new, happy narrative.

∼ Elaine Pascale

The Sidewalk Artist

December 1, 2021May 6, 2022 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 3 Comments

The city is my canvas. The city sidewalk in particular.

I live in a high rise, on the twelfth floor in a tiny studio condo that my parents had purchased for me. This arrangement was made so that I could remain true to my calling.

I had been stuck in a creative draught until I experienced an accident, an accident so infinitesimal that only a true artist could conceive of its significance.

I had been leaning on my windowsill, letting my condensed breath mingle with the exhaust ascending from the cars so many feet below. A large spider—he would have been more at home amongst jungle palms than on some slab of cement—unwittingly, or purposefully (one never knows with spiders), tickled the back of my hand with one of his eight legs. I swatted and he fell, turning and twisting in the air until I lost sight of him. His fall, while shorter lived than an arachnid’s already abbreviated life, was more elegant and coordinated than a professional Paso Doble: the building’s wall being his final dancing partner. Now this was art!

I dashed down the back stairwell in the hopes of finding some representation of this performance on the street below. As I bent to examine concrete, not only did I realize that any number of common stains could belong to my spider, I also noticed that no one, not one single person, had witnessed the elaborate fall and subsequent squish of the spider. I had run down twelve dizzying flights for nothing. That could not happen again.

I have always been the type to dabble in an assortment of mediums. While the large spider had been satisfying, the body mass was not adequate for the expected performance. I knew that I needed something larger, something I could watch the entire way to the bottom. The resolution is often the most important part of a performance. I also needed something that would attract attention…and fans. I needed a rat.

The performance of the rat was much greater than that of the spider. First and foremost, sidewalk voyeurs notice falling and splattering rats. It surprised me that some should simply step aside and keep walking when I provided them with such a fascinating tableau. I experimented with sending two or three rats at a time. The result was brown/yellow/red tie-dyed concrete: masterful! Yet, the pedestrians most often failed to assume their role as voyeurs and I was, as always, disappointed.

It never ceases to amaze me, what garners attention in this age. It is a mystery that billboards filled with overpaid newscasters or carcinogenic soft drinks are more eye-catching than art. TikTok videos of super mommies dancing is considered entertainment. People spend more time looking at fuzzy conspiracy shots on the internet than in museums. Consumers are starving, yet unaware that they are creatively malnourished.

I spent months with mice and rats. Snow was always a disappointment. The body shape melts, shifts, or is partially obscured before the elevator can deposit me on the street; and there is never as much blood. Sidewalk voyeurs had their vision blocked by umbrellas and hats and scarves. Like horses wearing blinders, they sloshed right through my art in their unrelenting hurry. No one ever bothered to look up and I grew bored with rodents; and, honestly, I grew lonely. What was the purpose of a creation if no one takes notice of the creator? I had a captive audience, but they refused to assume position. I needed to shake things up.

Thankfully, true artists always experience evolution. I was no exception to this cosmic rule.

Cities are full of starving and pathetic animals. As a picture is worth a thousand words, I simply cannot begin to describe the various scenes I painted on the sidewalk so many stories below. I can confirm that, at that height, it no longer matters that cats always land on their feet.

Yet, no one noticed.

I still was not a famous artist in this big city. I have seen the most depraved things pass as art: photographs of swollen private parts, pedestrian performance art of the most vulgar sorts, mimes. It is true that we no longer appreciate great culture, our taste buds have de-evolved and man is a mindless critic. But, like any virtuoso, my compulsion to create propelled me. I would rise above the desperation of the unsatisfying blood stains, the disappointment, the lack of art.

I realized that I need a showstopper, something so large it could not be ignored. Not large in the sense of elephants and killer whales; big in terms of psychological splash. I am talking about a sacrifice so high up on the evolutionary scale that the loss will resound and be on the lips of everyone.

It has taken me months to reach this point. I produced countless experiments with dogs, cats, raccoons, gophers (I had to travel considerable distances to accumulate some of these materials), but all to no great effect. Even the law ignored me. I contemplated shoving my sun worshiping neighbor, who bakes on her patio the floor above me, but she could hardly be called a prime specimen. Years of drinking and sunbathing have taken their toll and, as an artist, I must consider all aspects of the medium involved. I wanted a powerful obituary piece to accompany the art, not a shriveled shell of a specimen. I had been relatively selective with the animals, so I must be entirely selective about the human.

There was the obvious choice. I would finally have my name in the papers and on the internet. I would be noticed; I would receive the recognition I deserved. I will plan the jump according to the proper weather, the proper velocity, most importantly, the proper passerby beneath me. I will land on one (hopefully more than one) and the voyeurs will no longer be able to pass blindly. If my trajectory proves perfect, I may even be able to land on a car driving below, thereby causing gridlock. Radios will announce the accident as will the television stations.

While my manifesto (another piece of art!) will not be read until after the act, I feel obliged to warn in retrospect. If I had been noticed, lives would not have been lost. In the meantime, I will make the most of those living or working in the city who keep their eyes down. I will take advantage of those distracted drivers, focusing on cell phones and food and applying makeup instead of being at the ready to apply foot to brake. I will exploit (for artistic purposes) those walking the sidewalks who walk briskly but not alertly.

The title of this final masterpiece: “Look up!”

∼ Elaine Pascale

By Proxy

September 8, 2021May 6, 2022 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 6 Comments

“Remember how we act when we see a cross?” She was glancing at him, or at the reflection of him in her mirror as she applied her makeup.

He nodded nervously. He looked so tiny and frail and she hoped he never got big. If he appeared strong, it would defeat her purpose.

“And if they sprinkle the water on you?”

He nodded again and mimicked convulsions.

“Good. Now come over here so I can look you over.”

She was lucky that he was so clumsy and bruised easily. He definitely appeared to be on the receiving end of something bad. She had lavished in the attention from doctors and medical staff, but she was now after bigger game.

She shooed the boy away and returned to her makeup. “I am having a hard time seeing…eyes all blurry.” She had been feeling strangely lately but was not going to let anything come between her and her big opportunity.

Even though the boy would be the star of the episode, she had to get her look just right. She felt that single-mother faced with a parent’s worse-case-scenario would endear her to Brent Carson. She had stalked his social media for nearly two years; he was very supportive of women’s causes and children’s charities. He was crazy about his dog, too, and she wished she had thought to adopt one to appear sympatico. Applying to be on the show had taken most of her energy and fabricating the back story with the garage sale music box had drained her of any creative impulses.

She wore a dress that was casual enough for an “everyday mom” but that showed off her assets. The boy was in his bed, thermostat turned down in his room, water strategically applied to his hairline and clothing to create the appearance of sweat. She was fighting her jitters when the doorbell rang.

Brent Carson blew past her, instructing the camera operators of how they should set up once they were in the boy’s room. She began to interrupt when Carson told her to wait where she was and that he would be back to debrief her.

She waited, as told, and listened to the sound of equipment being set up in her son’s room. She wondered if she appeared less attentive waiting downstairs while her son, her “whole world” as she had told producers, was upstairs with strange television people in his room. Then again, Carson had told her to wait in place and she wanted to convey to him that she was ready to do anything he asked.

Her uncertainty was put to rest by the sight of Carson descending the stairs. He was tall and broad shouldered with spiky hair that gave the appearance of tousled bed-head, but that she knew took time and consideration to craft.

“You have traveled such a long way…can I offer you something?” She gestured to the table she had set up with fruit, crackers, tartare, and sushi.

Carson appeared baffled. “Do you normally eat…a lot of raw foods?”

She giggled in a way that she felt was charming. “Animal urges, you know.” She shrugged and batted her eyes, not to clear their blurriness, but in a flirtatious manner. “I was once told I was too pretty to cook.”

“Maybe later,” he mumbled and made his way back to the stairs. “You can stay here, or you can come to the bedroom, but you will have to promise not to intervene, no matter how bad it gets.”

“I will do anything you say,” she replied in what she thought was a seductive, throaty voice.

He stopped mid-climb. “Say that again…”

“What?”

He paused. “Nothing. Might just be my imagination but you sounded…” He climbed the rest of the steps in silence without finishing his thought. She followed into the bedroom where her son was lying perfectly still on top of the sheets. A priest, or an actor dressed like a priest, was talking to the boy. She felt herself becoming irrationally angry at the sight of this exchange. A low growl escaped her throat.

Carson approached her. “You will have to be silent when we are filming.”

She mimed zipping her lips and slid back into the shadows of the room. The priest read some scripture and the boy laughed demonically, or maybe theatrically. She wished they had practiced that a bit more. The priest then took a small bottle from his vest and began sprinkling the boy. On cue, the boy cringed and convulsed; he writhed and hissed. Carson rolled his eyes at the camera man.

“Good boy,” she whispered and gave her child the thumbs up. He was so good at following directions, it was his most endearing quality. That, and his willingness to please her. When he had been a baby, he had been quiet and compliant—the perfect wingman for a single-mom on the prowl for some male sympathy. When he had first begun school, he had followed her scripts to a “T.” He perfectly mimicked the excuses she had given him for the bumps and bruises that sometimes appeared on him. She couldn’t always control her temper, or that of the men she brought home, but her son was continuously willing to do whatever it took to defend her.

Carson took the bottle from the priest and showed it to her. “It is fake…tap water…has he been to a therapist or received any other type of help?”

She tilted her head coyly. “I have moved heaven and earth to help him. I have left absolutely no stone unturned. There is not a moment that goes by that I am not researching how to help him, or making calls, or taking him to appointments.” She stepped closer to Carson, invading his personal space. “Please, you are our last hope.”

Carson recoiled and pointed at her. “You…your nose is bleeding and there is…it looks like blood coming from your eyes.”

The priest, or actor/priest, heard what Carson said and he turned toward her with a crucifix in his hand. The boy was watching intently, forgetting that he should react to the relic. His mother had a large enough reaction for them both.

Words came from her mouth that she could not recognize. Then clearly, in English, she said, “I know how and when you will die, but you are better off not knowing.”

Carson looked to the camera man and said excitedly, “I think we have a real one…after all this time, we finally have a real possession.”

They pushed the boy aside and strapped his mom to the bed. As the “holy water” was useless, they used prayers and other relics on her. The actor/priest had been able to obtain communion wafers, and those paper-thin discs provided photogenic evidence as they seared on her skin.

Brent Carson was salivating at the thought of the ratings for this episode.

The boy knew he should try to help his mother but watching her struggle beneath the ties that lashed her to the bed was pleasing to him. Welts and bruises appeared on her flesh, and he knew how that felt. He also knew that his mother wanted the attention of Brent Carson. He had been ordered to not interrupt the two if they were interacting, and he had been trained to follow orders.

∼ Elaine Pascale