The Shadow Man Read online

  “Start at the top, honey,” she said. I strung the bulbs in little crannies on the branches, twisting and tugging to make them secure. And then it suddenly hit me. She was handing me her art, the skill of twists and tugs, the work that mothers did to make the world secure. I stopped the stringing, looking down. She threw me a smile. “You think you’ll miss your parents this Christmas?”

  “A little,” I said slowly, reaching for more lights. “But this is my second year.”

  “We can be with people in other ways,” said Muriel’s mother. “Not just face-to-face.”

  I nodded. The plug on the end of the lights caught on a rung of the ladder. Muriel’s mother freed it. “You’ll have a lovely Christmas on your own,” she said.

  Cornelia had stayed in the den. We heard the stirring of sounds from the TV, and once she came out to use the bathroom. She had sat quietly through dinner, sliding her fork at the food on her plate, eating little and saying less. We let her alone, occasionally glancing her way, glad that though she wouldn’t converse, at least she seemed willing to listen.

  “It looks stunning,” said Muriel’s mother, standing back from the tree. “Just stunning, Leslie.” She beamed at me.

  I blushed. “Thanks,” I said. “All I really did was climb the ladder.”

  “Not at all,” said Muriel’s mother. “You were the artist. It was beautiful bare, but you’ve really made it sing. I wish everything could be that way.” She bent to gather the wisps of fallen tinsel. “Would your friend like some coffee and a chocolate?”

  Muriel looked up from her wrapping.

  “I’ll ask her,” I offered.

  We brought ourselves and the tray of coffee to the coziness of the den. Cornelia had put an afghan over her knees and was peering at the stitches on her needle. Her glasses were low on her nose.

  She accepted a cup of decaf and took two chocolates from the box in Muriel’s mother’s hand.

  “You’re quite a knitter, dear,” said Muriel’s mother. “How do you like the United States?”

  Cornelia flattened the strip of knitting against her knee. She stared at it critically, scratching at a bump with the point of her needle. The three of us waited for her response. Her black pupils met Muriel’s mother’s kindly blue eyes. “It is very syoo-perficial,” she said coolly. “Very syoo-perficial.”

  Rain hung in the air like the fine wetness from a spray bottle. I shut the front door and pulled off my wet shoes. Cornelia, her feet on a chair, was making a phone call in German. She caught my eye and waved her arm at the street outside. Then she swivelled her hand in little circles.

  The window, went her pantomime, was open in my car. I pulled my gritty shoes on and headed back into the rain. Kevin was locking the trunk of his car, balancing groceries and detergent on his upraised knee. I shut my car window and crossed over to him. “Need any help?”

  “Got it,” came a mumble from behind the bags. He poked his face out at me. “How’s it going?”

  “Fine.”

  “Hey, whatever happened with that guy?”

  “Oh,” I said. “You’ll never believe it. The girlfriend’s living with me.”

  “What girlfriend? Oh, his girlfriend. Huh. That’s sort of weird. So what happened? She left him?”

  “Yup. And now she’s here.”

  “Huh,” he said again. “That’s kind of unusual. But if it works for both of you, then it’s great.”

  “I hope so,” I said.

  “Well, listen, I’ll see you later. Have a good weekend, huh?” He climbed up the steps to his house, the orange box of Tide glowing like a beacon as he set it on the porch.

  Geoff called when I got back in the house. He meant to keep a finger in the pie. His calls were less frequent now, but not ineffective. I handed Cornelia the receiver.

  “For me?” She rolled her eyes and left for her room. I heard the spiral cord of the phone catch on the door as she pulled it with her. I picked up a magazine. She was on the line for a long time. I couldn’t concentrate. Then she came into the living room. “You will never believe this,” she said.

  “What?”

  “He is asking me to go with him to the Owens Valley this weekend.”

  “Why?”

  “He is lonely. He wants to start a relationship again.”

  “Oh, my God,” I said. “I hope you know what you’re going to say.”

  She shrugged and headed back to the phone. I got up to reheat the kettle. I could see her willowy legs through the open doorway. She sat on the floor, the receiver on her shoulder, her back against the wall.

  I held my cooling tea and stared again at the magazine. The model on the cover, pink lips moist and gleaming, became the face of Geoff, pores showing hair follicles, the smooth grin stamped beneath the finely chiseled nose. I could stand it no longer. I strode into her room. “Is he still asking you?”

  She nodded.

  “Tell him no way! He’s playing a game!”

  She was listening to him and looking at me. Her face was strained. He had her. He was pushing on the buttons, one by one. He was right in his element, pressing for his winnings, closing for a deal.

  “Cornelia, hang up!” I commanded. “Don’t let him do this to you!”

  She shook her head fiercely, her face welling with tears.

  “Can’t you just hang up?”

  She motioned wildly for me to go away. I stood in the doorway, limp. How long would this last? He would drive us both mad.

  Cornelia was stuck. Cchk, cchk, cchk. A needle harping in a groove. She was crying now, little sobbing whimpers. She let the receiver clatter in its cradle and leaned her head weakly on the wall.

  “Give me the phone!” I yanked at the cord and dialed his evil number.

  “Hello,” crooned the vanilla voice.

  “Geoff,” I barked. “Listen to me. Don’t call this number again. It’s my phone and I want to make sure you never call it again. If you want to talk to Cornelia, call her at work, or call her at a pay phone. But don’t call me or her at this number ever again.”

  He had already hung up on me.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Fame

  Geoff had ceased to call. Cornelia refrained from mentioning his name or letting me see when she suffered. If she did at all. I didn’t really know, and I couldn’t afford to care. Like weather patterns in the midst of rapid change, we were moving into friendship of a different kind. Geoff no longer soldered our bond. And so we did not speak of him, seeking other links instead, marking longitude, latitude, mountain ranges and swamps—approaching the newness watchfully.

  I found she had a phobia of bugs. The house, drafty from windows too creaky to close and cracks gaping underneath the doors, had become a gathering place for a sorority of spiders. They hid out in their corners, dangled from the ceilings, and curled when disturbed into tight little balls along the floor. Because I didn’t mind them, I left them alone. They made Cornelia, however, shudder loudly and jump. It was a European reaction, breath hissed inward through her teeth with a quivering Haaachh!, and I would hear it suddenly from odd places—the broom closet, the bathroom and the laundry. And then, one afternoon, she saw a mouse.

  I was cutting articles from magazines, a ritual I had followed since the eighth grade. I stashed the clippings in files; my fattest so far was a Pendaflex folder called “Lifestyles of the Eighties.” Cornelia was doing her Christmas cards. With fancy paper, my scissors, glitter and a bottle of white glue, she spent all her free time on her original designs. She was mailing the cards to friends in Germany. We worked in harmony on the living room floor. Muriel had told me she might drop by for tea.

  I went to my room for a box of staples. On coming back, I found Cornelia perched on the highest part of the couch. Her cheeks were tight and sucked in. She spoke with effort. “There is a mouse.”

  “Where?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  I stood up and went to the kitchen. I looked up and down the floor. There was nothi
ng, not even a dropping. He was gone.

  “Are you sure?” I said to Cornelia.

  She nodded, the shadows still in her cheeks. I sat down with my scissors. “Take it easy for a minute,” I said.

  Cornelia was still on the back of the couch, her face in her hands and her toes jammed between the cushions, when Muriel arrived. Muriel shut the door behind her.

  “Cornelia saw a mouse,” I explained.

  Cornelia dropped her hands to just below her eyes. Her black pupils traveled to Muriel.

  “Where was the mouse?” said Muriel.

  “It ran through the kitchen.” I gestured toward the terracotta pavers.

  “Do you have a mouse?” asked Muriel. “I mean, have you seen it before?”

  I shook my head.

  Cornelia spoke again with effort, setting her hands on her blue-jeaned knees. “I was hearing some biting at night. In the wall.”

  “Hmm.” Muriel stared at her. Muriel was already big, but dressed in jeans and hi-tops, she managed to look bigger. She was one of those people who could be feminine and soft when she wore the right clothes and brushed her hair out, but when she pulled it back and had on no make-up, she was straight and solid, taut and clear, like a queen-size mattress without the frills of pillows, blankets and sheets.

  Cornelia stared briefly back at Muriel and then slowly stretched her legs.

  “You could set a mousetrap,” suggested Muriel, plopping herself on the living-room chair. Her hands dangled from the armrests, the veins filling thickly below the skin.

  I gathered my magazines and stapler from the floor.

  “In Germany, we are killing mouses kindly,” said Cornelia with renewed conviction. She was beginning to relax.

  “How?” demanded Muriel.

  “We are taking a …” Cornelia paused and outlined a shape with her hands. “This thing you are putting water in.”

  “Bucket?” I offered.

  “Ya, bucket. We are taking a bucket. In half of this bucket we are putting water, and then we are putting paper on top—a big piece of hard paper—and we cut in this paper an … eecks? I don’t know how you say this.” She crossed the air with her finger.

  “X,” I said.

  “Ya, X. We are making an X in this paper with a scissor. Then, you put cheese hanging from a rope?—over this bucket with the paper, and the mouse is coming for the cheese and is falling in the eecks.”

  “And then?” said Muriel.

  “Well, he makes a noise while he is falling and swimming, and then you can take him outside.”

  “Great,” said Muriel. “And the world beats a path to your door.”

  “What if you don’t hear him?” I asked.

  Cornelia shrugged. “Then he is swimming for a few hours and dying.”

  “Great!” said Muriel again.

  Cornelia got off the couch and crossed the living room. “Do you want a tea?” she asked us. Her edge toward Muriel was apparently gone.

  “I don’t mind,” said Muriel. I nodded.

  “Is she scared of mice?” Muriel asked me as Cornelia ran water in the kitchen.

  “I guess so. She jumped and climbed onto the couch.”

  “Oh.” Muriel picked up a magazine and leaned back into the chair. She turned the pages. “Ha!” she exclaimed. “Here’s our horoscope.”

  “Those never work for me,” I said.

  “They’re always about the same things,” said Muriel. “Money, travel and love. Why do they think people want only those things?”

  “Because they’re very exciting.”

  “Hmm,” said Muriel, reading. “Mine says this is a month to ask questions. What about, I wonder.”

  “Money, travel or love,” I suggested.

  “Well, it isn’t far off the mark,” said Muriel, reading further. “I was thinking—and I know you’re going to think this is weird—but I was thinking of going to a palm reader.”

  “What for?” I asked.

  “Well,” said Muriel circumspectly, “there are things I want to know.”

  “What things?” I sat back on my hands. Cornelia had come back to the living room and stepped over my legs to get to the couch.

  “Well,” said Muriel, “It has to do with my art. I want to be a famous painter. Or designer. I don’t care which.”

  “Well, don’t you have to just keep at it?” I asked. “Stay with it, sell yourself, build your clients?”

  Muriel shook her head. “I get too many obstacles. Like that stupid cottage. I need to know what to focus on and when to do it. I think the palm reader will be able to tell me.” Muriel looked down at her hands and rubbed a spot of india ink with her thumb. “I’m tired of wasting time. All this time I’m wasting is making me sick. I could have something wonderful right now, but guess what, I don’t.”

  “You’re doing very well, though,” I pointed out. “With your business. Aren’t you?”

  Muriel shrugged. Cornelia was watching her intently. “Not bad.” She shrugged again. “But I can do more. I know I can.”

  “This will never work,” said Cornelia suddenly.

  We both stared at her.

  “What won’t work?” demanded Muriel.

  “That you are asking how to be great. It doesn’t work like this.”

  “Why not?” Muriel’s voice had an edge to it.

  “You cannot go there and say, ‘I want to be great. When will I be great?’”

  “I’m not going to say that,” argued Muriel. “I’m going to say, ‘What do I need to know so I can get there faster.’”

  Cornelia shook her head, her ponytail tossing. “It doesn’t work like this,” she repeated.

  “Well,” countered Muriel, the edge ringing stronger, “what works?”

  Cornelia rose for the kettle. “A friend of mine in Germany is doing these stars. It is working best when you are open. Not when you have this one idea.” She headed for the kitchen, this time over Muriel’s feet. We heard her clanking mugs.

  Muriel gave me a funny look. “Is she always like this?” she whispered, making a face.

  “She’s very smart,” I said in a low voice.

  Cornelia brought two mugs of light, milky tea and went back for the third. She had made the tea her way. For weeks I had tried to train myself to beat her to the kitchen to add the milk myself, but I always remembered too late. Muriel sniffed at the steam rising from her mug. “What am I drinking? Hot milk?”

  Cornelia stopped, the third mug sloshing. “You were wanting tea, right?”

  I glared at Muriel.

  “Thanks,” said Muriel to Cornelia. She sniffed the steam again and took a tiny slurp.

  Cornelia sat on the couch.

  “Who are you going to see?” I asked.

  Muriel took another sip. “An Indian man.”

  “Indian?” I repeated.

  “A man from India. Not a Navajo or a medicine man. This is a little, wizened man from India who grabbed my arm in the street a few months ago and jammed his business card in my hand. We were right in the middle of South Broadway with the traffic whizzing on all sides, and he stopped me right in the crosswalk and stuck this card at me. So I kept it. I figured I might use it sometime.”

  “Did you make an appointment?”

  Muriel nodded. Cornelia’s eyes flicked from Muriel to me. “Yup,” said Muriel. “Tomorrow.”

  “How much?”

  “Forty.”

  “That’s not too bad,” I said. “What does he do?”

  “He’s a palm reader. Astro palm reader, the card said. I guess he looks at my horoscope, too.”

  The palm reader’s house was only a mile from mine, on the other side of the freeway. Muriel’s appointment was for ten. She had said she would come by afterwards. She seemed nervous as she left us after the tea. It was a little scary, I supposed, to let someone tell you your future. I thought about it the next morning as I emptied the dryer. My old roommate Gina’s mother had claimed to be some kind of augur, as well. She wou
ld call Gina and me at all hours to warn us that something terrible was going to happen. Don’t go out today, honey, she would say to whichever one of us picked up the phone. There’s going to be a dangerous storm. The only time there was a storm was the day we moved to our new apartment, and we had no choice but to go out. Gina’s mother watched the hurricane reports on her TV set in Connecticut and called us frantically, leaving messages on the answering machine. Gina and I were in the midst of trying to keep the wind from blowing our boxes and mattresses into the sea. We finally got around to moving the answering machine and waited for the hurricane to pass before Gina called home with her new number.

  Cornelia called to me from the kitchen. “I hope her forty dollar will not be waste!” She pronounced it dollah and left the “d” off wasted. I was starting to get a big kick out of the way she said things. There was a logic to the mistakes she made—a logic that sprouted whole new meanings for the sentences that came out. These days, the more I was around Cornelia, the more I liked her.

  It was barely eleven when Muriel stomped up our steps, her shoes crashing on the concrete. She sounded like a brontosaurus. Cornelia was making pear bread, hesitantly following one of my favorite recipes. I knelt on the living room floor, folding laundry.

  Muriel threw open the door. “Fucking bastard!” she yelled.

  Cornelia poked her head around the kitchen wall. We stared. “What’s the matter?” I gasped.

  Muriel flung herself onto the couch. “Fucking little bastard! Get me a drink!”

  Cornelia brought her a glass of water. Muriel took a huge gulp. “Fucking bastard. He said I was on a ten-year cycle of bad luck.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said.

  Muriel shook her head. “You should have heard the things he said. First, he wanted the forty dollars up front. So I gave it to him. Then he said write down your full name and address. So I did that. And birthplace. I did that too. Then he looked in a book and said I had this ten-year thing of bad luck and it wouldn’t end till 1998.”