Reapers, Inc. - Brigit's Cross (11 page)

When she finally lowered her hand, she found
herself standing in the middle of the empty theater. Dim light from
the morning sun forced its way through small dust covered panes of
glass high up the wall. Brigit let her eyes adjust to the shadows
created by the faintness of light. She could make out the shapes of
the tables that had been pushed to one side of the room and the
chairs stacked neatly though they would never be used again. Brigit
turned slowly, her eyes adjusting even more as she scanned the
shadows. She made out the long shape that had been the bar. Bottles
still lined the shelves behind it. The layer of dust shrouding them
preserved the remaining contents from the faint light.

A movement on the stage caught Brigit’s
attention. Her grip on the curved handle of her black umbrella
involuntarily tightened. It was a spirit, but her instincts told
her it was not her current assignment. Bearing that thought in
mind, Brigit determined it was time to get on with it.

The sound of her boots echoed as she crossed
the wooden floor to the narrow doorway to the left of the stage.
The sign posted over the door indicated it was the way to the
restrooms, but, she suspected it was also the passage to the
dressing room where the nightly entertainment would have prepared
for their turn on the small stage. As she walked down the dark,
narrow hall, she continued to hear the movement behind her. The
spirit that had been moving on the stage was following her,
watching her. She knew it was not the subject of her assignment.
Yet, she was prepared to fight should she need to.

The restrooms were situated to the left of
the hall. Even though the signs posted on the door designated
‘men’s’ and ‘women’s’, Brigit knew they would have been used
regardless of the patron’s true gender. She had often visited gay
establishments and found herself sharing the facilities with a drag
queen. When desperate, she had even found herself in the men’s
room. There was rarely surprise expressed in either situation. The
call of nature was a force to be heeded and they were all ‘family’
anyway…

Brigit stopped walking as the first note
floated through the darkness to her ears. It had originated from
the door at the end of the hall, just across from the dust covered
payphone hanging from the wall. She listened for more, acutely
aware that the spirit behind her had ceased it’s approach as well.
The voice was soft and warm sounding as it slowly sang each note of
the warm-up scale. At the top note, however, the voice cracked.
Brigit found herself smiling. Apparently, some things really did
carry over into the afterlife.

Slowly, she opened the door and stepped in.
The bulbs surrounding the mirror situated over the make-up table
burned brightly. He was seated at the far end of the table, his
back straight and his hand steady as he generously applied thick
mascara to the already thick false eyelashes. His hair had been
plastered to his head with the pressure of a nylon stocking cut and
knotted in preparation for the wig he would wear during his routine
on stage. Brigit guessed the piece was the platinum beehive
carefully mounted on the Styrofoam wig stand beside him.

“Matthew Swenson,” she said out loud,
interrupting a new round of the warm-up scale. Bright blue eyes
snapped to attention via the reflection of the mirror.

“It’s ‘
Matilda
’, honey,” he snapped as
she shoved the mascara brush forcefully into the tube and quickly
screwed it shut.

“My apologies,” Brigit replied. She was
unaffected by his attitude. She had seen worse in her time.

“Who are you? A fan? I won’t sign autographs
until after the show,” he snapped again.

“I’m not here for an autograph,” Brigit
replied quietly. “I’m here to help you pass over.”

A look of annoyance came to the man’s face as
he began searching the clutter on the table before him.

“I’ve been waiting ten years for this night
and someone has stolen my lipstick,” Matthew growled. Brigit
watched as his long, delicate fingers picked up and tossed aside
one tube after another. “Some jealous bitch has stolen my lucky red
lipstick.”

“Ten years is a long time,” Brigit
remarked.

“Tell me about it. I’ve busted my ass to get
here, honey. I’ve played every hole-in-the-wall and dive drag bar
in this city. This place is every queen’s dream. If I do well, I
get a permanent spot without having to do any
favors
, if you
know what I mean,” he looked at her via the mirror again and
narrowed his eyes as if to punctuate the innuendo behind the word
‘favors’.

Brigit nodded in understanding. Matthew
Swenson had died in the mid-eighties. Knowing the reckless habits
of the disco era and the drug laced mentality of the clubs during
that time, she could well imagine what someone in Matthew’s
position would have gone through to reach the pinnacle of their
ambitions. Matthew sighed heavily and turned his head to glance at
the clock mounted on the wall above the garment rack holding
various costumes. To Brigit, the costumes were moth eaten and dust
covered. To Matthew, they were freshly cleaned and glittering in
the naked light of the bulbs surrounding the mirror. The clock was
frozen at ten to eight.

“I have to finish getting ready. Mickey is
supposed to come get me in five minutes,” Matthew-Matilda sighed.
His blue eyes returned to the clutter on the make-up table before
him. The tube of red lipstick was still missing and his irritation
flared again.

“Mickey won’t be coming, Matilda,” Brigit
said quietly. She had not moved from her position directly behind
him.

“Why not? I’m taking the stage at eight
sharp,” her assignment pointed out furiously.

“Matilda, you’re no longer amongst the
living. It’s time for you to pass over,” Brigit patiently
explained.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get
out,” he snapped, flicking his hand at her as if to shoo her out
like a fly.

“I will not leave. I have my assignment.”

“Your assignment can kiss my ass,”
Matthew-Matilda hissed at her. Their gazes locked in the mirror.
Brigit smiled faintly. The angry, thin line Matthew-Matilda’s lips
had become grew even thinner. They were headed toward a stalemate.
Brigit had to find a way to avoid such a thing on her first
assignment.

“Perhaps you should tell me about your first
night here,” Brigit suggested.

“I’ve busted my ass to get here,” he
reiterated. “Tonight is my night.”

“So, tell me about it,” Brigit urged.

She glanced over her shoulder and spied a
dusty stool against the wall behind her. Slowly, she seated herself
and returned her attention to his reflection. He had picked up the
tube of mascara again and was unscrewing the lid in preparation to
apply more of the black goop to his false eyelashes. Brigit waited
patiently as the suggestion continued to sink in on his mind. She
knew well the penchant drag queens possessed to talk about
themselves. At best, it would be a sad story told with some flare.
She already knew how it would end and come to the present moment.
She felt the need, however, for Matthew “Matilda” Swenson to
recognize the ending for what it was and acknowledge that it was
time to move on. Brigit watched him intently, measuring the
quickness of the suggestion’s settling in on his mind. Finally, he
sighed deeply.

“Well, since you’ve asked nicely,” he began.
Brigit smiled and crossed her legs at the knee. She would listen to
the story patiently. She was sure all realization would sink in
eventually on him. Only then, would they be able to continue on
with the business that had brought her to him in the first
place.

“I was born in what we call ‘a
one-horse-town’. That means there was only one horse to ride and if
you didn’t ride it, you were the outcast. My father was the local
Baptist preacher, a holy-roller to beat the band. Trust me; those
boys on T.V. have nothing on my father. He could preach a rock into
believing it was headed to hell for not coming to church and
tithing ten percent of the mud it had collected.”

“Was he handsome?” Brigit asked.
Matthew-Matilda shrugged in immediate reply as he mulled over the
question.

“I guess, if you’re into
The Grim
Reaper
,” he finally voiced. Brigit only smiled. She decided she
would reveal the point of his unintentional joke later. “My mother
was a stay at home mom. She was a mouse compared to my father. I
used to imagine that she once had a will of her own, but as I grew
up, I began to suspect that she had always been a sheep. She never
went against anything my father said or did.”

“What happened?” Brigit asked, even though
she already knew the answer from reading his portfolio.

“I had a habit, you know? I would spend hours
playing dress up and singing torch songs in front of the mirror
while my dad was at work. My mom would let me bring in the laundry
when it had finished drying on the line in the back yard. So, it
was easy to put on one of her dresses and while away the time in
front of the mirror pretending to be
Miss Smith
or the royal
Miss
Holiday
…” a faint smile came to
Matthew-Matilda’s lips as the memory eased through his mind.

“Anyway, my father came home early one
laundry day. I was fifteen. I had been ‘performing’ for years at
this point. Naturally, he came home on the day I had stolen some
make-up from some girl’s backpack on the school bus. My mother
didn’t wear make-up because my father always preached about the
whoring Jezebels that painted their faces to tempt a man. It was a
temptation every god-fearing man was to resist and every woman
should avoid using if their souls were to be heaven bound.

“I had just finished putting on my lipstick,
a most lovely shade of burgundy, when my father walked into my
room. You should have seen the look on his face! Oh, the horror!
Here was his only son dressed in his wife’s plain Sunday dress and
a mask of bright make-up slathered on his face!”

By now, Matthew-Matilda was laughing
hysterically. His delicate hands were gesturing wildly to animate
the tale. Brigit only smiled in response to his self-amusement.
Suddenly, the laughter ceased and an expression of ambiguity
replaced the smile that had been present only a second before.

“He beat me from one end of the house to the
other. I had two broken ribs and a busted nose by the end of it.
When I passed out from the pain, he went to town on my mother. I
didn’t hear any of it, but I’m sure he condemned her to the
furthest regions of hell for not raising me to be a manly-man. When
I finally woke up, he was gone and my mother was as much of a mess
as I was. She refused to call the police or go to the hospital, or
even to take me to the hospital. I could barely see her, my eyes
were so swollen…

“When she finally did speak to me, it only
was to tell me to leave and never come back. She gave me a hundred
dollars and told me to get out. So, with two broken ribs, two black
eyes and a busted nose, I made my way to the bus station. I got a
ticket all the way to New York City. The things I had to do to
survive… well, I’m not going to relive those memories out loud,
honey. Believe me; it wasn’t pretty most of the time.

“I finally got my chance to sing when I was
nineteen. My pimp of a boyfriend shoved me on stage one night
because he didn’t believe that I could sing. Bastard – I showed
him. After that night, after I had a taste of the spot light and
doing what made me happiest – I was determined to be a name
everyone would remember. After some of the things I had done just
to survive, sucking a few cocks for a chance to sing a few numbers
on stage was the least of my worries. I was born to sing, all-be-it
dressed in a gown and wearing enough make-up to put any Jezebel to
shame. I was born to sing. I do it all….
Bessie, Billie, Sandra,
Judy, Lena
…even a little bit of
Miss Eartha
if I’ve
smoked enough cigarettes before the show. They love me,”
Matthew-Matilda mused as he stared at his reflection. “Tonight is
the night. Tonight, I am
Miss Matilda Swenson, Chanteuse
Extraordinaire.
You watch. It’ll be a permanent deal by the
time I’ve finished the first show. Betsey LaRue makes five hundred
a week in this place. I’ll have
her
beat by the end of the
night. Where is Mickey?” Matthew-Matilda glanced at the clock
nervously.

“Mickey isn’t coming, Matilda,” Brigit
reminded softly.

A deep silence grew between them as
Matthew-Matilda let her words echo through his mind.

“What happened tonight?” Brigit asked.

‘Tonight’ had happened twenty years ago, but,
it was obvious that her assignment was stuck in the moment that
time. He was on a loop that replayed itself over and over in the
minutes before he had died. She had widened that loop slightly by
letting him talk about his memories. If he continued telling her
the story, she hoped he would realize his fate and break himself
loose of the loop. Finally, he would be free and they could move
forward.

“I don’t know.”

The answer was just above a whisper. Brigit
stared hard at the partially dressed drag queen. She knew that he
knew what had happened. He knew that she knew the truth. The
defeated and sad look in his blue eyes told her as much.

“My ex, Joey, stopped in to see me,”
Matthew-Matilda finally admitted. “He came to wish me luck. He knew
how important tonight was to me and that I was a little nervous. He
gave me a shot from the kit he always carries. He said it would
settle my nerves... that I’d be as calm as the sea on a beautiful
day…Joey always knows what to say to calm me down. He’s such a
poet.”

“But, he gave you too much, didn’t he?”
Brigit said softly. Sadly, Matthew-Matilda nodded.

“I’m not singing tonight, am I?”

“No, dear, you’re not.”