The Deception Dance (2 page)

Then, suddenly, the ground starts bouncing beneath us. As if floating
on the sea, the graves separate, then buckle closer together. As fast
as they began to move, the graves and ground fall still.

Andrew watches us for one more instant, then turns and sprints for
the tree line.

Dad swallows, then he shouts in a high-pitched voice, “You
wanna bet, you creepy kid? You leave my daughter alone. You hear me?
Don’t you ever try to see her again!”

I doubt Andrew hears him, because he is already gone.

Day One

I jolt upright, pulling my seat belt taut and then slink back down. I
press my fingers into my eyelids and yawn. As I pull my hands away,
my surroundings emerge in a blurry, pixilated mess: an airplane
cabin, a flight attendant in blue and white moving up the aisle, a
girl sleeping beside me.

Jeez… I haven’t dreamt about that day in the graveyard
in years. I yawn, shake the sleep from my head, and rub a cramp in my
neck.

I usually love flying, ‘usually’ being the operative
word. And, thanks to the ticket upgrades I got for a high school
graduation present from my uncle, the plush seats, dim cabin, even
the airplane food (lobster bisque and garlic bread), have made for
the most lavish plane ride of my life. Also, the little eye pillows
fill the cabin with the scent of lavender: a lot better than the
coach aroma of recycled air, bad breath and body odor.

The entire reason this plane ride sucks, snores in the seat beside
me: Chauncey.

Chauncey looks as if she could be the model in an ad for airplane
seats, if such a thing existed; she’s posed with perfect golden
ringlets framing her sun-kissed face and cascading down a lacy shirt
she probably handpicked straight off the runway. That isn’t
even her seat. If I nudged her in just the right way, she’d
topple right into the aisle; I doubt she’d even wake up. She is
sleeping off the two pills and three glasses of champagne she gulped
down this morning.

The seat Chauncey lounges across belonged to my sister, Linnie. When
we boarded in business class this morning, Chauncey glanced at the
forty-something year-old businesswoman, who sat in the seat next to
hers, and she slipped into Linnie’s seat, a couple rows back.

I gave Linnie a desperate look that Chauncey might have caught,
because she showed me her teeth in what could be considered a smile,
maybe, and whispered, “I don’t like sitting next to
strangers."

I thought about telling her I didn’t care, telling her I had
been looking forward to sitting next to my sister on this plane ride
since we made the reservation a year ago. But Linnie said, “No
problem, I like talking to people I don’t know,” and took
Chauncey’s seat.

Before the plane left the ground, Chauncey took her pills, drank her
champagne and had been snoring ever since.

With a sigh, I stuff my fingers under my thighs. I promised myself I
would make an effort to like my sister’s college roommate,
Chauncey; even if she did just, spur-of-the-moment, buy a ticket and
intrude on the trip that Linnie and I have been planning for a year.

Linnie’s laugh rings out from where she sits, a few rows up. I
bet she’s telling that random businesswoman all about her first
year of college, all the stories I want to hear about. Deciding to
ignore the excited tones of Linnie’s muffled voice, I dig into
my carry-on and pull out three books: a horror novel, another horror
novel and (drum-roll please) . . . another horror novel. Three
guesses on what kind of books I like!

Staring down at the book covers, I see the images of my dream
resurface: the birds dropping as if they were giant inky raindrops,
the screamed word that made them attack the man who threatened to
kill me, the mangled corpse I never looked at, but imagined many
times, and the boy, Andrew; I never saw him again. I look back at my
books; my school counselor would have made a connection, here.

I open one of the novels, but read only a few pages before slipping a
bookmark into the book and stuffing it back into my bag.

As I shove the other books back, the corner of something jabs into my
finger and, with a muttered "ouch," I pull out the culprit:
a letter found on my nightstand. To save my dad from embarrassment, I
forced myself to pack, rather than read the letter while I was still
with him. Now is a perfect time.

I turn the envelope over. My name, written across the front, is
shaky, the handwriting odd. My dad must have been really emotional,
writing it.

I carefully open the envelope, unfold the letter and stare; it’s
not from my dad. Several handwritten sentences scrawl across the page
in cursive:

“Dear Raven Smith,

I apologize in advance for the way I will deliver this letter. My
intention is to enter your home and leave this note in your room. I
know this is an invasion of your and your family's privacy, but it is
necessary that no one (but you) knows of the letter's existence for
two reasons: first, my lord ordered me not to give you this warning,
and second, if his enemies learn that I warned you, I will be killed.
But, I cannot let you, who are innocent and virginal, go unwarned
into the arms of those who would drag you into Hell.

There is an evil agent of Hell looking for you and if you leave the
protections that are around you now, he will find you. Please cancel
your trip, do not go to Europe. He will find you. I cannot say who,
why or any more than that.

Please, burn this letter and tell no one it existed.

Your neighbor,

Mrs. Trandle"

I exhale a long breath, I didn't know I was holding, and then read
the letter again. When I read the “he will find you”
again, a shiver makes me almost drop the letter.

I decide the "my lord" part is obviously God or Jesus. Mrs.
Trandle is the most devout Christian I've ever met; heck, I wouldn't
be surprised if she's the most devout Christian, after the Pope. But,
who are the "enemies" of her lord? Is it this "he"?
And for some reason this "he" is both looking to drag me to
Hell and considering killing a mentally unstable
ninety-four-year-old? And how does she know I’m a virgin?
Seriously
?

Paranoia doesn’t even begin to provide an explanation.

I suddenly feel embarrassed for trying to decipher the letter. True,
some people might think a letter this dark and foreboding is reason
enough to hop back on a plane straight home, but they wouldn't, if
they knew the note’s writer, my ninety-four-year-old neighbor,
Mrs. Trandle.

Our elderly neighbor has been handing out crucifixes on Halloween
since I was old enough to trick or treat. I hear she still gives
statues of Christ’s mangled body to toddlers in Cinderella
costumes.

But, breaking into our house, giving me
this
letter, and
creating this elaborate a delusion, proves that she really needs
serious professional help.

I fold the letter, replace it in its envelope and pinch its corners.

Poor Mrs. Trandle. For me, going insane would be worse than dying. At
least death is clear and final; but insanity, not knowing what is
real, sure that evil people are plotting to murder me? No thanks.

Curling up my legs, I stare out the small oval window, where the
ground blinks back at me with thousands of twinkling little lights.

Chauncey again snores beside me, but this time I don't bother to fix
my glare on her. If I were a mature person, learning about something
as tragic as Mrs. Trandle's insanity would put my petty issues into
perspective. Still looking out of the little window, I sigh and
whisper, “I’m not going to dislike you, Chauncey; I’m
going to give you a chance, if it kills me.”

I keep watching the lights spreading out, like an inverted sky, as we
near and reach Rome. As the plane touches down, I grab my bag and
slip the letter in. I decide against telling my dad about it,
subtlety isn't exactly his strong suit; he might say something that
could make her even more paranoid. But next time my dad calls, I
somehow will tell him how far gone she is. Flashes of terrible scenes
play in my mind: Mrs. Trandle, attacking people, eyes wild.

A smiling flight attendant interrupts my thoughts by walking down the
aisle, touching Chauncey's arm and whispering her awake. We wait,
half-standing, for the airplane door to open and the passengers to
clear out of the aisle. A brunette head bobs a few rows up; it's
Linnie, probably quivering to fling herself at us. My sister always
looks as if she's on the verge of flight; she reminds me of a little
lovebird with clipped wings that can only hop around.

Linnie leans out of the aisle, peering around the passengers who line
up between us. If her smile emitted light, it would illuminate the
whole plane. She calls down the aisle, "you will never believe
how much I have to pee."

A couple of the business class passengers between us turn to look at
me.

My own smile muscles, not exercised since I sat down this morning,
pull the corners of my mouth up. I call back, "you look really
happy about it."

"Of course I'm happy; I had six cups of coffee." She flaps
her hands. "Come on or I'll pee my pants.”

Whether it's because I'm tired or entranced with being able to talk
or, moreover, listen to my sister, the airport passes in a colorful,
hectic blur of color, foreign words and narrowly missed elbows.
Outside the baggage claim, a man waits, standing in front of a sleek
black car, holding a sign with Chauncey's last name, Halverson, on
it. Chauncey struts to him as if she expected this, so I hide my
surprise.

On the way to the hotel, Chauncey announces, “So girls, I have
good news, my father took care of everything; we’re not staying
in the Sheraton anymore, we’re staying in a double deluxe room
at Hotel Paradiso, in the city center."

Linnie squeals.

Forcing the smile I can tell Chauncey expects, I ask, “we’re
still staying in the youth hostels next week right?”

Chauncey’s designer shades slide to her nose as she stares at
me; she’s wearing sunglasses even though we are in a car and
it’s dark outside. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No,” I say, “I was excited to stay in the
hostels.”

She giggles and pats me on the head. "Now, I know you’re
joking.”

"Don't look unhappy, Birdie, this will be more fun," Linnie
says. And I know it’s a losing battle when Linnie gushes about
how grateful she is, what an awesome trip this is turning out to be,
and a bunch of other exclamations I can’t agree with.

I watch busy restaurants and stores pass. At least I’m with my
sister and we’re in Rome; I’m determined to be happy.
“What’s the time?” I realize I interrupted Linnie
and Chauncey’s conversation when they silence.

Linnie turns on her phone. "A quarter past eleven.”

“And people are still eating dinner and walking around.”
I grin as I turn the dial on my watch to reset the time. “I
like this city already.”

“Me too!” Linnie says.

“I know, look at all the shops!” Chauncey says.

I’m too tired to appreciate the splendor of our hotel lobby. I
practically sleepwalk up to our room. While unpacking my stuff, I
pull out the letter and I'm about to toss it in the wastebasket when
I stop myself. I shove the letter back into my bag and wait for
Linnie and Chauncey to dress up and leave.

When I'm alone, I pull Mrs. Trandle's letter out. When my fingers
touch it, there is this feeling in my stomach: the exact same
sensation I have when the killer jumps out in a horror movie-- an
adrenaline rush that makes me feel as if my internal organs are stuck
in a trash compactor. I cross to the wastebasket, wanting to fling
the letter away, to be rid of it, but I stop.

It's stupid, I know, but it feels deeply and fundamentally wrong to
not follow her letter disposal instructions, since she was at that
level of paranoia. I hesitate, then pivot and walk over to the
fireplace instead.

Setting Mrs. Trandle's letter down on the brick, I retrieve one of
the matches provided above the hearth, set fire to the edge of the
paper and watch it burn to ash.

Satisfied that I not only fulfilled Mrs. Trandle’s wishes, but
also got rid of the creepy letter, I cross the room and am asleep
before I hit the pillow. I wake as Linnie crawls into bed with me,
smelling tangy, like hard alcohol, and I fall back asleep.

Both the girls are snoring when I wake for the morning. My watch
reads nine-thirty; I’m already on the Italian schedule.

“Linnie,” I whisper.

She doesn’t wake.

I shake her shoulders. "Linnie, come explore with me.”

“No,” she whines, “Linnie’s dead, come back
later or leave a message…”

I wait, kneeling on the bed, thinking maybe she'll wake up, but when
she snores, I roll out of bed.

White and cream arches loop around several coffee drinkers and
loungers in the soft-lit hotel lobby. I glance down at my torn jean
skirt and worn white tanktop. Great, I stand out like a bum at the
ballet; I didn't exactly pack for hobnobbing with the wealthy.

When I ask for directions, a small woman at the front desk unfolds a
map of the city and points out the major landmarks. Her accent is
thick and her pronunciation so unusual and fluid, that I force a
smile across my face and grab the maps she holds out.

“Thanks,” I say, hoping I can read the little labels
under the red blobs that signify landmarks. My shoes make a little
tap, tapping sound as I cross the marble floor.

A man in a suit and top hat opens the door for me, slipping me an
honest smile, not a perfunctory one. I return the grin, as I step out
of the controlled temperature of the hotel and into the warm morning.

Fountains catch echoes of the morning sunlight, as they spray flecks
of water from the middle of most intersections. I look both ways and
decide left is probably a good way to turn.