Spillway Review
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DISTINGUISHING
FEATURES
by
Phoebe Kate Foster The clowns came and took Jane. It happened in front of Galatoire’s venerable and dignified door. The clowns bubbled up from the teeming stew that was the Mardi Gras crowd and reached out with hands gloved in huge furry purple paws the size of throw rugs to take Cecil’s wife. One of the clowns was carrying something resembling a scepter or wizard’s staff, and when he raised it, the thick throng miraculously parted like the Red Sea to admit them and Jane into its anonymous roiling depths. Then it swallowed them up and Cecil was left, staring at an impenetrable wall of feathered headdresses and seething flesh and flashing sequins and false faces. “Jane!” he shouted, corkscrewing his way through the tightly packed bodies in the direction he thought the clowns had taken. Abruptly, he encountered an immovable object—the stiff white satin and brocade chest of a very tall man dressed in the ornate robes and towering miter of a pope. Cecil stared up at his face, which was concealed by a skull mask. “The one you seek is not here,” the man said, in a confidential tone. Then he cried, “Where shall wisdom be found? And where is the place of understanding?” and disappeared once more into a rowdy crowd suddenly rife of harlequins and Holy Fathers with horrible faces and women in animal masks baring breasts at anything that moved and people screaming—whether from joy or terror, Cecil couldn’t tell. All he knew was that he was trapped by the mob, doomed like flotsam and jetsam to go in whatever direction the tide of revelers took him. *** It was late when the Dionysian horde finally swept Cecil back to the hotel, where he was sure his wife would be waiting for him. The room, however, was dark and empty. Cecil turned on the desk lamp. The glow it offered was faint, like the dying flicker of a firefly. He turned on all the lights, but the darkness remained a stain that would not be bleached. “That’s what you get for staying in a second rate place,” he muttered. “Forty watt bulbs. What a dump.” He poured an inch of Johnny Walker Black in a glass and drank it neat to steady his nerves before he called the police. He picked up the phone, dialed 911, let it ring once and put the receiver down. For the first time in his life, Cecil Pittman wasn’t sure what to do. After his fourth drink, he called the front desk. “Happy Mardi Gras, this is Voletta,” a smoky female voice answered. “Any messages for Mr. Pittman in Room 619?” “No, none.” “Oh, God,” Cecil mumbled. “Where is she?” “Is everything all right, Mr. Pittman?” Something about the way she spoke his name affected him. “Yes—well, no, to be honest. My wife was taken by—went off with—some people in costumes. I haven’t seen her in hours. How long must someone be gone to be considered missing?” I don’t know,” Voletta replied. “But I have a friend who’s a cop. He’ll be by here on his break soon. I’ll send him up and you two can talk.” Twenty minutes later, a uniformed policeman and a woman in a black raven mask with feathers that towered over a foot in the air knocked on the door. “I’m Voletta from the front desk,” the woman said, “and this is Marlin Tenebray from the NOPD.” "Some mask you have there,” Cecil remarked, as her feathers beckoned to him like languid dark fingers. “How festive that your manager lets you wear costumes.” “Nooooo, not exactly,” she laughed. “He’d have a shit fit if he saw his staff like this, but he’s off tonight and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” She winked at Marlin. “I’d better get back downstairs.” Cecil gestured toward a chair and the policeman sat down. The expression on his face was impassive, but not unpleasant. A confident look, Cecil thought with a rush of reassurance. A man who knows his business. “Voletta says you can’t find your wife,” the officer began. “Some people in costumes abducted Jane on Bourbon Street.” “Abducted? That’s a strong word. Are you sure?” Marlin raised an eyebrow. “Did she struggle? Scream?” Cecil’s head hurt and it was hard to think. “I—I can’t recall. It all happened so fast. One minute she was there, the next she was gone with the clowns.” “Jesters, you mean.” “No,” Cecil insisted. “Gigantic, grotesque circus clowns—only instead of having funny, nice faces, theirs were ugly and nasty. They weren’t jesters—these guys weren’t cute and they weren’t joking around.” “How do you know it was men in the clown suits?” “Well, I don’t, really. I just assumed. But they meant business, whoever they were. They walked right up to my wife, like they knew her.” “How could they? The whole point of masks is to conceal the wearer’s identity.” “Jane wasn’t wearing a mask. She refused, and wouldn’t let me wear one, either. She said it was creepy. I told her that we didn’t come here to act like we’re back in Topeka—she needed to get into the spirit of the thing. Loosen up and have fun, for a change.” Cecil sighed. “As usual, she wasn’t interested in my opinion.” “Ahh, that’s a cheval d’une autre couleur—a horse of another color. ” The officer smiled with satisfaction at a mystery solved. “Someone may have indeed recognized her. People tell amazing stories about running into past acquaintances in the most unlikely places—old school friends or former teachers—” “Ye-e-e-e-s,” Cecil hesitantly agreed. “—or an old flame where they least expect it,” Marlin continued. “This party draws folks from all over the world, you know. Anything’s possible.” Cecil frowned. He couldn’t recall Jane mentioning anything about previous romances—although she certainly must have had them. They’d met right after college and made the decision to wed rather quickly—perhaps a little too quickly, Cecil thought. “You said you and your wife argued earlier today.” “Argued?” “About her not getting into the spirit of Mardi Gras.” “It wasn’t an argument. We just—didn’t see eye-to-eye.” Marlin leaned forward, conspiratorially. “Voletta—she’s my girlfriend, you know—when she gets pissed at me, she always does something to make it clear just how pissed she is.” He smiled sympathetically. “Perhaps your wife pulled a disappearing act because she’s mad. Women do that sort of thing.” He laughed unpleasantly. “Believe me, they do.” “Jane doesn’t act that way,” Cecil insisted. “She’s a paralegal. She’s logical, not emotional. She deals with facts, not feelings. In the five years we’ve been married, she’s never done anything irrational like that.” The policeman gave him a strange look. “But isn’t that the whole point of Mardi Gras? To have the freedom to do what we’ve never done before? To be what we aren’t? And to do it all guiltlessly, because come Ash Wednesday, we’ll all return to being our old selves—whatever that is.” Cecil’s eyes evaded the officer’s unwavering gaze. “If you’ll give me some information, I’ll keep my eye out for your wife,” Marlin continued, resuming a businesslike demeanor. “What’s her age?” “Twenty-seven. But she looks a lot younger. I don’t think she uses any makeup. She could easily pass for sixteen.” “Do you have a photo?” “Ummm…I’m not sure…” Cecil pulled out his wallet and flipped through the plastic-covered snapshots. The policeman pointed to the last one, a striking woman with short auburn hair and sultry eyes. “Is that her?” “No,” Cecil said, a little too emphatically, and put his wallet away. “Ohhh. I see.” Cecil resented the officer’s tone of voice. “It’s just a friend, that’s all,” he explained. “A friend of ours. Of my wife’s and mine—” Marlin wasn’t listening. “Can you describe your wife?” Of course I can describe my wife! Cecil thought with annoyance. “I guess she’s about average height, average weight. She’s—average-looking,” and before he could stop himself, he added, “A plain Jane.” The officer squinted at him. “Jane’s her name—I told you that, didn’t I? You know how an average-looking girl is called a ‘plain Jane’—I was just making a little joke—” Cecil babbled. “Distinguishing features?” Marlin demanded brusquely. “Well, she has—uh, let’s see—maybe a—umm…” Cecil struggled to recall the details of his wife’s appearance, but she remained a blur that wouldn’t come into focus. The officer was scrutinizing him closely, waiting to hear about a mole or birthmark or Roman nose or crooked teeth or close-set eyes. To fill the uncomfortable silence, Cecil asked, “Are many people reported as missing during Mardi Gras?” “I wouldn’t exactly say they’re missing,” Marlin replied. “More like temporarily misplaced. They all reappear, when they’re damn good and ready. And so, undoubtedly, will your wife.” He stood up. “Things happen during Mardi Gras. That’s why thousands flock here each year. Because things happen.” He walked to the door and opened it. “Take the advice you gave your wife and do what you came here to do. Laissez les bon temps rouler.” “What?” Cecil said. “Let the good times roll!” Marlin roared, his voice echoing in the empty hall, and disappeared into the elevator. Cecil poured himself another Scotch and stood at the window, watching the gaudy merry-makers down in the street swirl like an oil slick in the murky puddle of night. *** Things happen…things happen…where have I heard that before? Cecil tried to remember as the half-hearted dawn warred with the obstinate night to start a new day. From that weird clerk at the gas station outside of Fort Smith, Arkansas. When the woman with a face as wizened as a sun-dried tomato and big silver rings on every finger rang up their total, she’d asked them where they were heading. When Cecil replied, “To New Orleans, for Mardi Gras,” she scowled. “I wouldn’t go there, if I were you,” she said sharply. “Things happen. Things you don’t expect and can’t control.” Visibly agitated, she shook her head. “Not good, not good. Oh God.” She glanced at Jane. “Poor thing. She knows what I mean.” She slammed Cecil’s credit card and receipt on the counter, and glared at him with undisguised disgust. “Jesus, Jesus…” she muttered, and turned away. “Sure got some nuts in Arkansas,” Cecil remarked to Jane as they left. Jane just shrugged. She’d told him that she didn’t want to go to New Orleans. But he hadn’t listened, of course. *** Cecil remained in the room all day. He wanted to go out, but it was unavoidably the right thing to do to stay there. He ordered from the room service menu, drank more Scotch, and waited for Jane to return. It was dark when he heard a soft knock. She better have a damn good excuse for being AWOL twenty-four hours, he thought as he opened the door. Voletta stood there, in her outrageous raven mask and nondescript gray uniform of the hotel desk staff, holding a box. “I thought you’d like to go out and look for your wife, but probably didn’t know where to start. I know some places she might be. Off-the-beaten-path type places, where people go who don’t want to be found.” Cecil hesitated. “Aren’t you working tonight?” She ignored the question. “In this part of town, you need a guide. I’ve lived here all my life. Visitors shouldn’t wander around the Quarter by themselves during carnival.” “So I’ve been warned. Things happen.” Voletta smiled. “Okay, let’s go.” “You can’t go out like that.” Voletta held out the box. “I have a surprise for you. Close your eyes and I’ll put it on you.” He felt a mask of some sort being adjusted over his face and head. “What am I?” He started to look in the mirror, but Voletta pulled him away. “No peeking,” she chided in a playful voice. “I said it was a surprise. You’ll find out when the time is right.” On the street, he tried to see his reflection in the store windows, but he couldn’t be certain if he was looking at himself or someone else in the crowd. *** With great effort, Cecil opened his eyes. Horrified, he closed them again. The ceiling was only three inches away from his face, and it didn’t resemble any ceiling he’d seen before. He remembered bar-hopping with Voletta and having a flock of Sazeracs as she pointed out women and asked, “Is that her? How about that one over there?” Finally, she shoved him toward a girl whose hair resembled Jane’s. “Honey—” he said, and touched her shoulder. The person turned around and grinned. “I’m not your honey yet, but the night is young,” she replied in a husky voice. “I’m Mignon. Who are you?” Below her sequined cat mask, Cecil saw the five o’clock shadow no amount of pancake makeup could conceal, and recoiled. Voletta and the man in the wig and little black dress laughed uproariously and plied him with more drinks before taking him to a party a few blocks away. The last thing he recalled was lying on a bed with Voletta and Mignon, who had taken off their clothes and his. “Double your pleasure, double your fun,” Mignon had said, and giggled. Cecil carefully opened his eyes again and studied the strange-looking ceiling suspended just above his nose. It was the bottom of a box spring. He was lying on the floor under a bed. He gingerly poked his head out to survey the room, then closed his eyes again and whimpered. He had no idea where he was. When he finally managed to crawl out and shakily clamber to his feet, he saw himself in a mirror. His mask was gone, and he looked, quite on his own, like the living dead—only not that good. *** He was going to check into another hotel. Or get the car from the five-floor garage where he’d parked it and leave town. Or call the police and report his wife missing. Or phone their families back in Topeka. It would be like an epiphany to hear their familiar bedrock voices. He was going to do a dozen different things. He did none of them. Instead, he had six double Bloody Mary’s on the way back to the hotel and slept until dark. Then he dressed and waited for the knock on the door. Again, Voletta insisted he close his eyes when she took the mask out of its box. She put it over his head, and once more they plunged into another never-ending bacchanalian night, where people removed their clothes but never their false faces. *** On Fat Tuesday night, things happened that he would never be able to tell anybody about. Nameless people in costumes appeared at his door, saying they were friends of Voletta’s. They put his mask on him and explained that Voletta had to work that night, which Cecil thought was odd because he didn’t see her at the front desk when they went out. They took him to a party in a seamy neighborhood on the edge of the Quarter, and gave him drinks and pills and white powder. Then they got in a van and drove him way outside the city to lonely spots with rotted houses in groves of tangled trees and barns and sheds that should have fallen down long ago and been blessedly forgotten. There, he saw things no one should see and participated in things so dark and dreadful that he would never find words to describe them. The memories, though, would burn forever like the unquenchable flames of Gehenna and cause him to question his sanity—and many other things—for the remainder of his days. *** On Ash Wednesday morning, he found himself standing outside St. Louis Cathedral. He had no idea how he’d gotten there. As worshipers flowed out with righteous smudges on their foreheads, they parted like the Red Sea and passed as far away from him as they could. He glanced at his clothes. He was covered in feces and blood and God knew what else. “The party’s over, mister,” a voice said. “You can remove the mask now.” He touched the material that had become like skin to him in the last few days. Slowly, he pulled it off and for the first time, looked at what he’d been. It was a handsome face, the likeness of a self-assured and successful man. It looks just like me, Cecil thought. Upon closer examination, though, it revolted him. The nose was unappealingly porcine, the eyes slitty and sly, the chin weak, the skin thick and pockmarked like an orange. The firm and wise mouth was really thin and tricky and cruel. What had seemed to be character lines, giving the countenance a likable crinkle, were actually deep fissures marring the face like scars that wouldn’t heal. He tossed it in the gutter, and when he did, he saw that the mask had a face on the other side—the hideous and contorted countenance of a demon, an incubus. He started to turn away in revulsion, but hesitated. Amidst the litter in the street, it looked up at him pleadingly. What had, at first, seemed vile and repugnant he now perceived as pathetic, and needy, and vulnerable, and inviting, and so terribly, terribly misunderstood. Cecil stared at the mask sadly for a long time. He desperately longed to pick it up, cradle it like a misbegotten child, and keep it with him. But he didn’t, and walked sullenly back to the hotel. *** He realized he couldn’t postpone it any longer. After he showered and dressed, he called the police. “I want to report a missing person. May I speak to Officer Marlin Tenebray?” And exactly whom shall I report missing? he thought, bitterly. My wife— or me? “There’s no officer here by that name,” the crisp voice informed him. “Did you say someone is missing—” Cecil hung up quickly and went down to the lobby. “I must speak to Voletta,” he said to the bald man at the front desk. “Is she here today? If not, can I have her phone number? It’s terribly important—” “Vo-letta? Who’s that?” “The night desk clerk—” “There’s no desk clerk called Voletta.” Cecil’s mouth went dry and his heart started jack-hammering. “You must be mistaken—she answered the front desk phone and told me—” “I’m the manager,” the bald man said, “and I’ve got no Voletta working for me. You’re the one who’s mistaken. You’ve had too much party, buddy. Go sleep it off.” Cecil stumbled through the hotel’s revolving door and out into the street. The sky was full of ominous clouds rimmed with black like evil sugar cookies. A car pulled up to the curb. It looked like his and Jane’s car. He blinked. It was their car. The woman behind the wheel gave him a sideways glance. She was extremely pale, her skin so white that it seemed painted. Black rings circled her eyes, which were as unreadable and perilous as a feral thing’s. She wore a top hat, and a deep, unnatural red stained her lips, as if she’d sucked berries—or sipped blood. She said nothing, just jerked her head in the direction of the passenger side. Cecil obediently walked around the car and opened the door. On the seat lay his mask, staring up at him. It had taken the Pittmans a day and a half to drive to New Orleans. He knew it would take them a lifetime to find the way back home. |
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Photo by J.J. White