Sub Rosa, page 13
“She doesn’t have a specialty yet. She lacks that Glory magic. And city men expect more these days,” Arsen argued. Even through the metal vent, I clearly heard frustration in his voice, and my chest began to pound in defence. First told him I was lucky, that I was a goldmine, that she had never seen a Glory as good as me. “She has no magic,” Arsen countered each of First’s praises. “She’s the Dark Days title holder; people want to see a warrior. She still acts so young.” He said it so many times I couldn’t lie there and listen any longer. I paced the library with my hands cupped over my ears. I threw a few books on to the floor—big books, like The Best Poems of the English Language and Gray’s Anatomy—so that they might hear me in the next room and quit their conversation. I marched out of the library, through the living room, and knocked on the ladies’ room door.
“Little, we were just talkin’ ’bout you,” said First as she came out. “We decided to throw your debut a week from Saturday.” Behind her Arsen was slumped on the bathtub’s rim, his foot tapping against the tiles.
We started party planning the next morning. First woke us up before noon with a long list of to-dos. Second was bleary-eyed from lack of sleep. On our way out, she took a satisfying spill on the last step, thumping into the back of the door. She complained of wanting to go back up to bed. “This party reflects our whole family, and so we’re plannin’ it as a family,” First told her.
We did the same rounds as on my first day on Sub Rosa, except this time I knew exactly where we were going and exactly what I wanted to buy. “What’s your favourite colour?” asked First as the seamstress showed us samples. I chose green, like the sheen of my pearl ring or, it just so happens, the colour of Arsen’s eyes, but that was incidental. First adjusted my choice slightly to turquoise, and ordered us each a silk strapless dress and crepe scarves.
We dropped a fabric swatch with Eartha and Astrid for them to arrange matching nail polish and hair accessories. Eartha held the swatch up to her forehead and murmured, trance-like. “Some party,” she said, waving the fabric at me.
“Just make sure we have the place to ourselves. We’ll be needin’ all of Astrid and your attention for ourselves,” First said. She booked our appointments and shuffled us out of there in a hurry.
Another swatch was brought to Babycakes, so that even the cake would complement our dresses. Maria, the baker, made cakes that could wake the dead. Second livened up after tasting half a dozen samples. She refused to offer her opinion, though judging by the speed with which she swallowed up the Black Forest, I’d say she has a taste for cherries. I ordered a Hungarian dobosh torte before I even knew what it tasted like. Maria said the words “hazelnut” and “caramel,” and it was decided. My ring finger sunk under my tongue; phantom hand slipping between cake layers. “This is serious, Little!” warned First, waving a fork full of cake at me. “You will taste all the cakes, then decide.”
“I can decorate it with candy almonds, if you like, Little,” said Maria. “Turquoise candy almonds to match your dress.”
Arsen turned up around dinnertime with invitations already printed on scallop-trimmed paper. “Little” was embossed on the front in glossy letters, white on white, mirage-like, in Gothic lettering. It reminded me of how I saw phantom hand, an apparition floating around in the tangible world. “Simple and tasteful. Subtly feminine. This style is the stationery shop’s best seller,” Arsen boasted. He opened the card and read from the metallic silver writing. “The House of Arsen is pleased to introduce Little,” he said, giving my hand a squeeze as he said my name. I couldn’t help but giggle. “Join us Saturday for her debut party in the Mayflower Ballroom.” He finished reading before I noticed that all of us were huddled together, inspecting the invitation. First’s idea had come to fruition; we were practically acting like a family. She was so pleased with this glimpse of amity that she sent Second and me to deliver the invitations together.
“Give twenty to every business, and make sure they put a few up in the window. Put two through each apartment letter slot. And most important—listen careful—go to No’s, and throw a few handfuls into Advent Alley so live ones will find them around.” Arsen winced, though he didn’t object to her instructions.
“Can we please stop at the Mayflower for something to eat?” asked Second. Arsen double winced. First patted him on the cheek as he gave us permission.
“Be back by sundown,” he shouted after us.
“Yeah, like you have any say around here,” Second mumbled after we were out the door.
I expected Second would suggest we split up, or at least that she would argue about which side of the street we should start with. To my surprise, we agreed: the Diamond Dowager’s would be our worst stop, so we should start there.
The air around the Dowager’s house smelled like the old bouquets in Advent Alley. “Why doesn’t the Dowager fix up her house?” I asked, but Second just widened her eyes and shushed me. We crept up the dirt path, the invitations already in my hand, my eyes fixed on the letter slot. “Watch she doesn’t sic Royal’s ghost on you,” Second said, slowing down so that I’d have to cross the veranda alone to get to the front door. The floorboards groaned a predictable groan. The letter slot squeaked when I pushed the invitation in. Someone inside was singing. I pressed my ear to the door and listened. There were no lyrics that I could hear, just a whole song of “ah,” like sex noises put to a melody. Second stamped her foot, urging me to leave, but I wanted another moment of this enchanting wordless song. I could have told you I’d get caught crouched there, that the song was a lure, and I was trapped well before the black curtain in the bay window was flung open. I could have told you the Diamond Dowager would be standing there with her fierce eyes fixed on me, the curtains billowing behind her like living fury. What was I supposed to do but run? I scooped up Second’s hand as I hit the path and the two of us ran together like schoolgirls. I would have taken anyone’s hand then.
“She’s going to hate me,” I said as we hid across the street in the beauty shop lobby.
“Us,” said Second. “She’ll hate us.” And she started describing the many horrible things the Dowager might do to avenge herself; leeching and strangling and slaps, oh my! We didn’t know whether we should laugh or convulse with fear. Second stuck out her tongue and rolled her eyes back in mock death, then collapsed on the paisley carpet. “If I die,” she said, her eyes still half closed, “I want you to know that my real name is Jill.”
“Jill? That’s your Glory name?” I asked without thinking. For once, I didn’t mean to judge Second. It was just that all of us had special names, like Little.
“No,” Second spat out. “Don’t you notice anything around here? Apart from the live ones, everyone around here calls us Seconds by rank, by a fucking number. Like prisoners, right?” I nodded slightly, and screwed up my mouth with scepticism at the same time. She had a point; I had learned Second Man’s name was Emanuel, the same name as his Daddy, though no one ever called him that. I had never heard Ling’s Second’s name, she was only referred to as “Ling’s Second.” The Seconds in all three families seemed to suffer from a kind of middle-child syndrome; they were place markers for the Glories before or after them. “Jill might be a dumb name,” Second went on. “Nothing fancy like Della O’Kande, but it’s mine. Mine. I came into the world with it. And don’t you forget it.”
Though she spoke in her usual abrasive manner, there was a low note of vitality in her voice that I had never heard. She closed her eyes completely and turned her head away from me. I promised I would remember her name, always.
Jill, I repeated in my head as we continued to deliver the invitations. I let my arm brush against Second a few times as we walked. Unlike First, she didn’t take my hand. And when we reached the Mayflower, she stiffened up as Ling greeted us out front.
I trailed behind her to a booth where Ling’s Second slouched across the table. I’d been on Sub Rosa long enough that I should have known everyone, but I still had yet to say a word to this red-haired Glory. I hovered around them for a while, waiting for an introduction. Neither of them acknowledged me. Second’s face resumed its normal snobbery. She was probably trying to outwait me with her silence, until I got discouraged and left. “You’re Ling’s Second, right?” I finally asked.
“She has a name,” Second hissed, “remember.”
“I’m sorry,” I started to say, then thought better than to let Second give me attitude. “Well, are you going to fucking introduce me?”
Second put her arm around me. “Listen, if you just leave us alone for a while, then maybe I won’t kick your teeth in.”
“You can hang out with the triplets,” offered Ling’s Second, sounding more exhausted than mean. I turned to see the triplets in their regular booth, all drinking coffee and knitting. “They keep asking about you. Little this and Little that.”
“Oh my god, you guys, look who’s finally coming over here,” I heard the triplets say as I shyly approached them. Their clicking knitting needles froze in mid-air. Myra patted the seat beside her. “Spill it,” she said as I squeezed in, trying not to crowd her.
“Spill what?”
“Duh, everything. You’re so overdue.” Likka and Portia tapped a drum roll with their fingernails on the table. They were different than when I met them with First, more animated and human.
“Let’s review, shall we?” said Portia. “Two Dark Days, girlfriend. Then you land the Widower as a regular—you’ve got the Dowager pissed at that.”
“We’ve been waiting for you. Any longer and the gossip would have been yesterday’s news,” Likka said, sinking her knitting needles into a ball of yarn.
“You can’t expect to be the ‘it’ girl if you don’t mingle with your public.”
“We had to bite our loose lips, didn’t we, when you came over with Candy. You know how she hates gossip.”
“But now we’ve got you alone, girl. I hear the rules are pretty strict at House of Arsen. How’d you weasel away from your First, anyway?”
I was too stunned to answer for a second or two. I’d never given much thought to First being strict; if anything, she spoiled me. Then again, it was the first time I’d left her side. I slid the party invitation across the table, speechless. The triplets scooped up the invite and began to comment on the font: it was too delicate, too fine; and the paper: too virgin white. “Arsen kept it really simple, eh?” Likka said as she stuck the invitation to the window next to their fashion-magazine collage. The three of them exchanged glances that I couldn’t interpret. “He doesn’t get you … yet. But we do. We see what you’re up to. We expect great things from you.”
“Now this ring, this ring is you.” Likka pulled my finger so hard it felt as if it would pop off. “Gorgeous,” she said as she held my ring finger under her nose.
“Gorgeous,” Myra and Portia agreed, looking from their rings to mine. “It’s like, kinda unusual. Like weird pretty.”
“Mr Saragosa said it captures the spirit of the Dark,” I said with a shrug. The triplets gasped and barraged me with questions:
“How much of the Dark did you cover?”
“Or does it go on forever?”
“Did you run into any wild dogs?”
“And those flying bugs?”
But I was unable to answer any of their rapid-fire questions. The only thing that went through my mind was the Jellyfish, and every time I had mentioned her someone got upset. “I got the amnesia,” I confessed, and the triplets let out a disappointed sigh.
“It’s okay,” Myra patted my shoulder. “We probably would have got it too, but we had each other to help us remember.”
“We did our Dark Days together,” Likka lifted her hand for a high five. “Power of three!”
“You remember it being cold?” Portia probed on. Myra tried to shush her without me seeing.
“Listen, we’re not twisted or anything. We just like to figure stuff out about the Dark. Like a mystery novel, you know?” said Likka.
“Yeah, we’re not obsessed with it. We just think it’s neat, in a scary way.”
“Right. So do you remember being cold?” Portia started chanting “cold, cold, cold,” her hands on either side of my head to draw the memory out through my temples. Sure enough, a funny chill came over me. “Well, maybe. I remember First bought me these cheap white gloves to keep warm.”
“Cold, check,” said Myra, making an invisible check-mark in the air with her finger.
“Chronic humming?” Portia asked. I concentrated again and then nodded my head.
“Zombie men?”
“Zombie men? Wait ... Eww, yeah,” I said, my voice high and excited like theirs. “I wish I could forget them.”
“Glories always think they got amnesia, but it’s more like we just don’t bother to ask questions,” said Portia.
“Don’t be so weird, Portia,” Myra told her, then turned to me with an apologetic face. “You know who those men are?” she said. “The zombie men? They’re all the Dowager’s bad dates, from back in the day when she was a prostitute. After she became a Glory, she banished them to the Dark.”
“No, they’re not. They’re live ones who refused to leave Sub Rosa. They’d rather stay captive in the Dark than go back to the city.”
“They’re not live ones! They’re pure evil, you know? Everything that lives in the Dark is bad. The Dark is, like, evil things’ natural habitat.”
“Unless …” Likka leaned in, her voice low. “They’ve escaped through the ‘other Advent Alley’ and they’re loose on the city streets terrorizing women and children right now.” She let out a horror-film laugh and the triplets shrieked and wriggled in their seats.
“That can’t happen, can it?” I asked. “I have friends in the city.”
“Eww, city people are so depressing. No one in their right mind would want to live there.”
“I don’t know,” said Portia. “Some Glories—not me—but some Glories love their trips to the city. They can’t be totally wrong about it.” Myra scolded her for saying it. The three looked over at Second’s table and flashed knowing glances at one another.
Just then, the waitress, in her pink gingham apron, plunked a burger platter in front of me. “On the house, Little.” The fries were arranged like a smile on the plate, the halves of the burger laid out like eyes, with a tiny paper cup of ketchup for a nose.
“Shirley owns the place,” Myra said as the waitress went back to the kitchen. “She’s a 101 years old.”
“Maggie and Shirley and Al are siblings. They all own it.”
“No, Maggie and Al are husband and wife and Shirley is Maggie’s live-in lesbian lover.”
The triplets’ conversation moved too quickly for me. After they debated the relationship status of the Mayflower staff, they debated the merits of gloss versus matte lipstick, the best brand of embroidery thread, and how soon their most recent order of platform Mary Jane shoes would arrive. Each new topic brought squeals and shouting, as if the fate of the world were at stake. “When was the last time you three left Sub Rosa?” I interrupted. The triplets tilted their heads at me, confused by my question.
“Ling always says you can’t leave heaven, but who would want to?” Likka told me firmly. She wiped a bit of spilled coffee to make a clean spot for her to rest her elbows on the table and then got serious about gossiping once more. “We don’t like to go to live one’s homes. We’d rather stay here. But our Second has a city boyfriend—an old flame found her here on Sub Rosa. Now look at her. She’s so mopey, can you imagine?”
“I’d be depressed too, if my city ex showed up. I don’t even know his name anymore, but I never want to see him again,” said Myra.
“I never want to see the city again. It stinks. I bet ya that’s what we used to look like all the time. Depressed.” Likka motioned to her Second. She had a fork stuck into her pastry, but wasn’t taking a bite. She chewed on a strand of her red hair instead. “Those two are always together, bitching and scheming. We call them two squared because they are so square and boring sometimes.”
“Nah, nah. That’s yesterday’s nickname. We call them two plus two equals five because their logic doesn’t add up.” The triplets giggled. Myra elbowed me in the side.
“What doesn’t add up?” I asked.
“All of it.” Myra lowered her voice to a whisper. “Like we said, our Second has contact with her city ex-boyfriend. We’re, like, ninety-nine percent sure of it. Come on, what Glory does that?”
“And your Second fools around with the boy who works at the Smoke Shoppe. For free!” added Likka. The triplets sat back in their seats, sipping their coffee and making faces at the Seconds. I put the two halves—the eyes—of my burger together and ate. The sun was killing time near the Smoke Shoppe rooftop, nearly ready to make its final rounds down Sub Rosa.
Second came to get me so we could finish delivering the invitations. Her face was somewhere in-between bitchy and impish. I meet her gaze with a smile so crooked it was practically a frown. “Wait,” said Likka to her Second. “You’re not going?” The redhead was skulking behind us.
“I’m not going to smoke cigarettes. It’s been forever since I had one and you know it,” she said. The triplets exchanged more knowing looks. Ling’s Second scooted out without waiting for what they might say next.
Second pounded on the metal door behind No’s Smoke Shoppe until Eddie Junior, the younger shopkeeper, peeked his head out. He brightened at seeing her, opening the door wide for her to step in. “Not you,” she said, her arm stretched across the entrance. “There’s beer in here and you wouldn’t wanna fall off the wagon.” The door slammed shut as I was telling her what a cunt she was being. I banged, but no one answered. There was no latch or doorknob. Exit only.
I wouldn’t have guessed that the metal door was part of the same building as the sign that read eat cigarettes 24 hours in neon. From the back, all it looked like was a brick wall oddly plunked down at the end of Sub Rosa. Actually, it was Sub Rosa that was misplaced. What ought to be behind that building was a parking lot or a loading zone, not a street as beautiful as Sub Rosa. Straight down the street, past the shops and track patches, was another wall—the Dark. It claimed Sub Rosa well before the vanishing point. I noticed that if I stared at it too long it would play tricks, closing in on me. Sub Rosa seemed so big whenever I was facing away from the Dark. But looking at it straight on made me feel suffocated, stir-crazy.
