Bells of Avalon (3 page)

“You don't mean Katie Webb, do you?” Coolidge asked. Max said nothing. He didn’t have to. Coolidge picked up his pen and wrote a few short but heavily slanted sentences on the yellow paper.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Coolidge, I’ll have to excuse myself. I have a meat vendor to attend to.”

“I thought you said you were the PR man?” Coolidge smiled.

Max sighed. Albert was going to kill him.

Chapter Three

New York City, New York

1966

Katie dreamed.

You think she’s pretty?
She didn’t speak the words, not really.  It was like the memory of what her voice had used to be. It was an important question, and she wanted the answer. She asked it again, calmer now…
do you think she’s pretty
? She spoke the words now, no longer just hearing the echo of what they had been. 

Her legs were sore. She felt the ache of her toes pressed into tap shoes.  She felt the frothy texture of her leggings; they were thick, radioactive white. She knew that without looking at them. But yet, on that cue her vision came.
Wa
s
that all it was this time?
  She turned her head slowly, so as to not break the spell. He sat beside her, his legs thrown over the side of a canvas chair, a comic book in his hands.

“Finished already?”
Was that what he had asked?

It had to have been. The rest of the scene had already been written—or rather, it had already happened.

“I’m done, the shot isn’t. They’re going to bring Vasillisa to finish it.” 

Now her words came effortlessly.

“How’d ya know that?” he asked.

“She’s a better dancer. She’s older and prettier.” 

Older and prettier
.
That had been the crux of it all, hadn’t it?
She was older and prettier. That’s why it had happened. That’s why she’d been left alone, a waddling chick without mother hen.

“Even if she is prettier, it will just be her legs and then your face again.”

“You think she’s pretty?”

There it was again, or had she skipped it the first time?
 

“Sure, she’s pretty enough I suppose. But Mrs. Sloane is coming soon so you’d better get as happy as Larry,
Mary
.”

“Oh would you be quiet. I hate it when you say that—my name isn’t Mary.”

“I know it isn’t. Your name is—” The ghostly sound of his voice echoed in her mind like strange laughter.

“Hush,” she hissed.

“Jeez, Katie.”

“My crossword book? Where is it?”

She turned her head to look around.

“I don’t know.”

“You took it again, didn’t you?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Danny—give it back.”

Fear pulled at her dream self when she heard Danny’s voice getting smaller and smaller.

“I told you, Katie, I don’t have it.”

It was the last she heard, followed by his laughter.  She watched his eyes, those eyes she’d always thought a little bit strange, brim with devilry. Then he was gone.

It all seemed in order.  Every line said. Every mark hit.

Her dream self walked along the studio’s second floor. She’d only wanted to go to the fancy upstairs bathroom. It had frosted windows, a vanity, and a beautiful full-length mirror. That was how it happened. How he’d gotten her alone. It had been all hers once…Mary Pickford—or had it been Vilma Banky?  She couldn’t remember now. How could she remember knowing that he was behind her?

Of course she hadn’t known that then.  She hadn’t heard his steps. His feet were nimble, even in her dreams. Nimble dancing feet. She’d been only a girl and unable to keep up with the steps of a man over twice her age.  A man old enough to remember both Vilma Banky and Mary Pickford—and where they’d excused themselves privately.

His hands went to either side of her waist, twirling her around in a different kind of dance. The sound of his voice was in ear before she felt the shuttering pangs of pressure.   He whispered things, so many things her girl’s mind couldn’t understand as his hands touched the tender skin under her clothing.  She turned her head and felt the cold tile against her cheek, blue and beautiful—its reflection showcasing the world outside. She saw the long fingers of a branch, the pass of birds like darts through foamy clouds and—finally—a set of swings she’d never been allowed to play on until the moment she was suddenly there.  She flew through the air, feeling the punch and pull of gravity in her belly.  She flew higher and higher against the blue-tiled sky until the sun burned her skin. The blistering pain ripped through her, ripped inside of her. The last picture was his face. It came in patches…blue eyes and a strong jaw, and she was horrified to find it handsome.

His bristling hairs on her cheek replaced the coolness of the tile. But that hadn’t really been her.  The largest part of her remained on a swing as it lazily lost speed against the setting sun.  She was aware in some small way that his hands were redressing her. She turned her face to the side and again felt the tile on her skin. The Dancer sat on a closed toilet, his flat cap resting in the hand that wore the rose-gold ring. He was crying.

We have to work on your dancing, don’t we Katie?

Her sleeping face stirred at the memory of the words.  They repeated again and again in a disgusting exhortation until Danny’s voice returned.   

Sorry mister, I’ve my orders to fetch her
. There was power in that voice, how he would speak at twenty-five somehow conjured at fifteen.  His face slipped away and she saw herself as a child once more—younger than ever— lying on a pallet of patchwork quilts. The air was stagnant, filled by the sleeping noises of strangers—then the rattle of the tea cart as it rolled by.
Tea’s up ducks—drink it while it’s nice and hot
.

Her father lay beside her, sleeping with his back to the ground. In the dark, she could barely make out his strained, sad profile—the wilted flesh around his eyes and the fatty rough skin of his chin. The ground shook beneath as a collision rang out from far way. A baby began to cry, but those around remained motionless in sleep.  The cries flowed into a crescendo of sound that, it seemed, only she could hear. 
She was on top of him.  He was smothering.
She pulled him out from the pile of patchwork quilts.  Flushed and crying, his tiny lips curled up over his gums.   A trickle of blood dripped down over his nose, and she tore the fabric from her child’s nightdress to staunch the blood.  When she did, she saw that the blood was her own, flowing from a gash sliced up her arm.

She woke.

She sat up in bed as her small breasts heaved back and forth under her nightgown.  She cried until there was nothing left then laid her face against her pillow, wet strands of hair matted against her skin.  At first, she didn’t mind the dreams. She breathed in the sweet smell of him, cupped his soft skin. The aching feeling in her arms went away as she held him against her chest. It was the only time she heard his laugh, saw his slick, candy-colored lips part to show his baby gums.  His fair hair was soft and cool against her cheek. But the dreams had turned to terrors. They’d become twisted games of hide-and-go-seek.  She followed her son’s cry down long hallways and forests, down alleyways and tunnels. He was found—then taken from her again and again.

She took two capsules from a bottle on the nightstand and swallowed them with stale tap water. She lay back and studied the ceiling while she felt the pills stick at first, then lazily dissolve in her throat. The residue of the dream remained until the drugs took their heavy hold.

Her eyelids wavered then closed, a feathery chain of lashes their lock against the world. As she slept, the world outside grew brighter and brighter. The sun hedged out the night with a blue glow, followed by streaming rays of pink and orange. A morning ray burst through the curtain’s gap and fell at a slant over her face.

When the phone rang, she groaned and shifted. Her hand fumbled to the receiver.

“Hello?”

There was no response.  Glancing at the clock, she swung her bare legs over the side of the bed.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

She heard a tiny but irrefutable sound at the end of the line. The clicking sound before words came, unique in its maleness, “Katie?”

"Who is this?” she asked after a pause and another glance to the clock.

“Oh god, Katie. It’s you, isn’t it?”

Her fingers curled around the telephone cord as she heard a glimpse of familiarity in the voice.

"Who is this?" she asked again.

“It’s—it’s me.”

The name felt rusty on her lips, “Danny?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

"Daniel what’s wrong?”

“Katie, I can't believe it's you. I didn’t think I’d reach you.”

“Danny, where are you?”

"Oh God, Katie—I woke you, didn’t I?" The voice became crystal clear—and that was worse somehow.

“Danny, just tell me where you are.”

“Oh jeez, Katie, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

The line clicked.

Katie looked through the curtain’s gap. The beam of light that had covered her face now pooled over her warming chest. She listened to the sound of the dial tone in her ear then lowered the phone to her lap.  When the light on her chest crawled across her collar bone and over her shoulder, she placed the receiver back on its cradle.

Chapter Four

Pacific Palisades, California

1949

She didn’t stay for just the night because there was no one else. Katie lived in Daniel Gallagher’s home for two months, nine days…and fourteen hours.  She knew exactly because she’d taken to counting.  The whim to count had struck her three days after she’d moved in. She counted trees, fox sparrows, and shiny cars along his pretty street. The night she arrived, she stood in the open living area, her small suitcase beside her feet where Daniel had dropped it seconds before. She heard his hulking footsteps up the stairs, followed by the slam of his bedroom door. She jumped at the sound.

It was dark outside, but the house somehow retained the memory of the day’s sun, if only through the artificial glow of the lampshades. She removed her hat and held it over her stomach, feeling woefully overdressed in the cozy setting. Her shoes tapped gently along the hardwood floor as she ventured further inside. She jumped again, hearing Mrs. Gallagher’s voice. The tallness of Daniel’s mother filled the archway linking the parlor to the dining room.  She couldn’t bring herself to speak, but Mrs. Gallagher seemed to know, only nodding when Katie didn’t answer. She came beside her and took the suitcase her son had dropped. She spoke again, but in the thick accent she had yet to understand. Katie followed her up the stairs and to a room down the hallway. The bed was freshly made with powder blue sheets and a yellow chenille bedspread with pink flowers set around the edges.

She felt her hair being touched with the gentlest of fingers. She turned, but Mrs. Gallagher was gone, leaving only her cotton-vanilla scent behind. Katie removed her shoes, looking to a window alcove seat in the corner. She moved to the window seat, pressing her palm against the thick windowpane. Even the cold glass couldn’t jolt the eggshell numbness from her skin. She looked down at the houselights faintly warming the rock pathway. The branches overhead bowed gently with the breeze, and she kept her eyes on them while she got into her pajamas and slipped under the chenille cover. Sleep came quick, but so too did the nightmares. She woke at the worst part, looked around the strange room and began to weep. She pulled her knees into her chest and covered her mouth with the blanket to soften her cries. The blanket was soaked through when she smelled Mrs. Gallagher, felt her warm arms encircle her. Her body went limp as Mrs. Gallagher wordlessly stroked her hair until she fell asleep again.

When she woke she was alone and the room held a solid yellow light. She looked to the branches of the tree outside, motionless in the morning sun—not as eerie as they’d been the night before. She was rested, but still numb—like a specter haunting a strange house rather than a flesh-and-blood girl. She heard voices from the first floor and, not knowing what else to do in a house that wasn’t hers, walked towards the staircase. She stopped on the third step when she heard Daniel’s voice, deeper than usual and marred by the tongue of another language. There was a pause to his ranting before his English broke through again.

“They have laws about this sort of thing, don’t they for crying out loud?” 

“Tys!” Mrs. Gallagher hissed, “she’ll hear you.”

“So what? God, I have to see her all the time. Now she’ll be living here for who knows how long.”

“Shame, Daniel. You should be kind. You know what it is to have a father gone.”

“Jeg beklager, Mama.”

“I don’t want to hear you speak that way around her.”

“I won’t,’ he said, “jag måste gå.”

“Daniel!” she called behind, but he was gone—his exit underscored by the squalling bawl of the door’s hinges. Her ears went hot. She followed downstairs only after the thickness of her humiliation subsided. She stood in the light of the kitchen for several minutes before Mrs. Gallagher noticed her. She’d seen Daniel’s mother from time to time, but had never really looked at her.  Her hair, which Katie had only ever seen pinned up, was now down and at her waist. The longest hair she’d ever seen. It was brown and wavy against her dramatic wide eyes. Even more, Katie was surprised to find her very beautiful.

“Is that Katie Webb?”

“Yes, Mrs. Gallagher,” she said, not knowing what to call her, not wanting to call her anything at all at that moment.

“Well it seems we are to dine alone this morning.  My son, no longer eats. Do you eat, Katie Webb?”

She did eat, at the studio canteen or from room service carts at the right times. But here there was china laid out on the table and Mrs. Gallagher seemed to want to make a show of eating.  She pulled up a setting, the one she supposed was meant for Daniel, and put food on the two remaining plates.  Mrs. Gallagher sat and motioned Katie to do the same.

Hunger pricked at her when she saw the medley of meat and fruits. She ate quickly and silently. When her plate was empty, she looked up to see that Mrs. Gallagher hadn’t eaten with her but had only watched. She felt a flash of embarrassment, but there was a look of satisfaction in the woman’s eyes.

“It’s nice to have someone to cook for. Lately, there’s no one. As I said, my son no longer eats.”

Katie smiled and Mrs. Gallagher looked at her more closely with those wide, dramatic eyes. “I was told once I would have a whole house to cook for—four or five daughters. It was not to be, though. My husband and mother are gone. It is only me and Daniel now.”

“Why?” Katie asked, then recoiled at the thick sound of her question. Mrs. Gallagher only held her smile and leaned her head to one side.

“Why what, doodah?”

Katie looked at her hands in shame.

“I mean, well, why did you think you’d have daughters?”

“Oh that, well, I suppose it was my fortune,” she answered simply. “When I was a girl, around the age you are now, a woman came into my town.” Mrs. Gallagher looked down at her food and picked up a deep-red strawberry. She put the fruit in her mouth and chewed slowly. “I went away one night, against my mother’s wishes, to ask for my fortune. I was told I would have four daughters, three horses, and a home by the ocean. But it did not happen of course.”

“But… you
do
live by the ocean.” Katie corrected in a soft voice.  Mrs. Gallagher’s thick eyebrows lifted, her dramatic eyes delighted.

“Yes, I do—don’t I?” she agreed with a laugh. But as she glanced out the kitchen window, her smile softened into something close to sadness. “There is always the ocean.”

She plucked another strawberry from her plate. 

“You are the only young lady to stay in this home. Did you know that, Katie Webb?” she asked, shaking off whatever had momentarily dulled her happiness. 

Katie smiled faintly and shook her head.

“Don’t ever have your fortune told to you, Katie Webb. It is a waste for the magic of the world.” Her eyes lingered over Katie’s face. She rose, breaking the inventory, and began pulling up plates from the table.

“Come, you can help me with the dishes.”

  Katie followed, stiff and inept—an empty plate in hand. Mrs. Gallagher took the plate from her hands and her eyes narrowed. 

“You have done this before, Katie Webb?”

Katie looked at her feet, still in blue socks. She shook her head to the contrary, her soft hair falling like a curtain to hide the tears in her eyes. The tears she’d been holding back since she heard them talking from the staircase. They poured silently from her eyes and over her cheeks. Her wet chin was turned up by a single finger and Mrs. Gallagher’s eyes met hers.

“No tears for not knowing.” 

Katie sucked in a tight breath and nodded.  

“Take this, child,” she placed a rough cloth in her hand, “watch me and only dry.”

Katie did, watching each dish fall into the soapy lake of dishwater. She forgot about her tears.  She forgot about most of everything watching Mrs. Gallagher’s elegant hands wash dish upon dish. Soon she was doing the work on her own, not knowing exactly how she’d taken over. Katie looked around the kitchen, surprised to find she was alone…until she heard Daniel’s mother humming dimly from the next room.

Katie sighed at the sound and dried her hands. She looked over to the plates resting in the silver wire rack. They were the first bit of honest cleaning she’d ever done. She wondered how it had been so easy when she was so slow to learn everything else. She stared at the stark bone china as it dried in the sun, hearing Mrs. Gallagher’s faint humming again from the parlor. The downy hair rose on her arms as she heard Mrs. Gallagher’s voice become clearer. Now, she could hear the words of the strange song. She listened keenly, but the words were as foreign as Daniel’s had been that morning. Katie turned, expecting Mrs. Gallagher in the doorway. But when she looked, there was no one.  The floorboards squeaked above her head, and she realized with a thud in her chest…that Mrs. Gallagher hadn’t been downstairs at all.