Authors: Melia McClure
The Delphi Room (6 page)
I miss Davie so much.
Brinkley—who have you left behind? I didn’t have many friends, except for Davie. I had a mother. I miss them so much sometimes I can’t breathe and I wonder what would happen if I stopped breathing in this place. I did a bad thing. Do you think they hate me? I was only doing the inevitable—I had been hunted for so long.
How can we stay here, Brinkley, with the weight of missing those we will never see pressing us between invisible stones?
Sincerely, Velvet
P.S. I understand the desperation of wanting to organize the closet. I feel the same way—although I was never an exceptionally organized person in general, just a lady who was very particular about how her couture collection was arranged. All right—now that I’ve reached the P.S. part of the letter, I’ll come right out and ask, since you must want me to, or you wouldn’t have brought it up—you wash your
dresses
in scalding water? Or did you mean your mother’s dresses? It seemed like you were talking about your own clothes. Were you a drag queen? Or like the film director Ed Wood? His wife said that he derived maternal comfort from angora in particular. I get that. Or did you own some sort of doll collection?
P.P.S. My sheets here have rainbows and clouds on them, just like when I was a little girl. I still like them, too.
I cuddled myself between my rainbow and cloud sheets. True: I did still like them, but in a different place, a place with working clocks and people. (Why did I long for people? I was never great at communicating with them in life, and the man that haunted my lonely hours was not exactly a fuzzy friend and chucklefest travelling companion. And, naturally, I suppose, he was still coming around to make my life—or non-life—a living Hell.) But here, the bright pink pinkness of them, the insistent cheer, together with the smiling glassy-eyed faces of plush toys, was sinister, a menagerie of longing. I stared hard at the ceiling so I wouldn’t have to look at the Chinese screen and think of my mother, and started to count the little plaster bumps, my old habit.
One, two, three, four, five—
no, wait—
one, two, three, four, five, six
—no—
one, two
—The old splintery club of pain thwacked behind my eyes, bludgeoning my focus. My fingers clutched at my bellybutton, trying to push the panic down toward spastic toes.
One, two, three
—all the dots melt together, red food colouring overtaking a glass of clear water. The counted and the uncounted mix together; there is no way to know which ones I must get to. Hands a flesh-clamp over the eyes, to keep back the tide of bumps.
S
wish, swish, went my lashes against cloth—eyes comparing the dark beneath my lids to the dark of the eyeshade. I had found it, the eyeshade, in a tiny drawer hidden on the right side of my writing desk. Hot pink satin, fringed in feathers and brought to life by cartoon eyes, it fit snugly and blocked the ceiling bumps from view. So there was some grace in this place.
I was curled on my side, the only position in which I could ever lie comfortably on a bed, despite many attempts at reforming myself into a back-sleeper to prevent early-onset crow’s feet. I listened to the silence. Not the quiet, or the polyglot strains of white noise from the relaxation tapes I once tried, but the true, utter, ten-thousand-leagues-below silence of my pink room. I lay in the dry heart of the sea.
I imagined the footfalls of my mother approaching the door, the clink of ice in her glass. I imagined myself standing outside my childhood bedroom door in clown pajamas (Given Paddington Bear and his band of merry stuffed animals, I’m surprised I wasn’t provided with a set, complete with a matching security blanket.) waiting for her to come back from a date, green shag carpeting sprouting through my toes.
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—
VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—BACKYARD—AFTERNOON
Velvet is a young girl. She sits cross-legged in the grass. The sun ripples everything with fever. Velvet holds a pencil and a notebook. On it she writes Roman numerals. Velvet’s mother comes stumbling out of the house, drunk, wearing a full, crimson Spanish skirt and armfuls of heavy, jangling gold bangles.
MOTHER
(slurring)
Whatcha doin’?
VELVET
I’m counting sounds. Bird sounds.
MOTHER
How many?
VELVET
Fifteen.
MOTHER
Noisy fuckers.
VELVET
They like to sing.
MOTHER
(singing at the top of her lungs)
“It’s my party, and I’ll cry if I want to
Cry if I want to . . .”
VELVET
Ssshhh! You’ll scare them off!
MOTHER
Fine. Party pooper.
All is quiet for a moment. Velvet stares into space, pen poised to record another birdcall. Her mother picks at a loose thread on the hem of her skirt. Then: pounce! Like a cat on yarn, Velvet’s mother is on her, pulling at her hair and smothering her with kisses.
VELVET
(shoving her)
Get off me!
Her mother yanks a handful of grass and throws it at her daughter, pouting.
MOTHER
You’re just like your father.
Velvet holds out her arms.
VELVET
I’m sorry, Mom, I’m sorry. Cuddle me.
MOTHER
No. I don’t want to anymore.
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—
VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—KITCHEN—EVENING
Velvet’s mother stands at the stove, stir-frying meat and vegetables. An open bottle of gin sits on the counter, and every once in a while she takes a swig and then pours some into her wok. She wears a tight, sky-blue dress cut from a T-shirt type material, a get-up that announces her lack of undergarments to the world, and ultra-high heels.
On the kitchen floor sits Velvet, a bottle of crimson nail polish in hand, and she waves the brush through the air as though painting it: Sally Hansen-cum-Picasso. Her feet are ornamented with nail polish flowers, each with distinctive impeccable petals: chemical-scented, hothouse blooms. She begins to bestow an ankle with like adornment.
MOTHER
What the hell are you doing to yourself?
VELVET
Nail polish tattoos.
MOTHER
(laughs)
What’s possessed you?
VELVET
That home and garden show. They showed those flower decals that you put in the shower so you don’t slip and kill yourself.
MOTHER
Oh. Well, you’ve got the flowers on the wrong side of your feet if you’re worried about slipping and killing yourself.
VELVET
What time’s he coming?
MOTHER
Twenty minutes. Put some socks on.
VELVET
I can’t. Polish’s still wet. And what’s the point of decorating your feet if you’re going to wear socks?
MOTHER
Oh for fuck’s sake.
(pause)
How do I look? Look at my new shoes. I blew the bank. Italian leather. Like buttah!
VELVET
You want my honest opinion?
MOTHER
No. Yes. Not really.
VELVET
(sizing her up)
You look good. You always look good. The picture of sweetness and light.
MOTHER
Oh you’re an angel! Why don’t you make yourself a tinfoil halo? Sweetness and light! Ha ha! Lie to me some more.
(pause)
So, you really think I look all right?
VELVET
You look like Mae West. Well, your face does, anyway. Maybe you should dye your hair blonde.
MOTHER
I’ve thought about it. Hmmm . . . shit, I should’ve made a drugstore run for Clairol. Ha! Mae West, you say. Well, I do all my best work in bed.
She takes a long drink from the gin bottle.
MOTHER
Shit, I’m nervous. I’m a nervous wreck. I’m a wrecked bundle of nerves. Okay. You remember what I told you?
VELVET
When the doorbell rings, take the fruit rollups and stay upstairs.
MOTHER
Good girl.
(pause)
Do I look fat?
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—
VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—BEDROOM—NIGHT
Velvet sits on the floor of her bedroom, with three red fruit rollups draped across her lap. She points and flexes her nail polish-flowered feet.
VELVET
Rather fetching, don’t you think, Delilah?
Her mother’s raucous laughter, together with a deep male voice, drifts up the stairs to Velvet’s ears.
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—
VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—KITCHEN—CONTINUOUS
A short white candle cries waxy tears down an empty wine bottle on the kitchen table. The sky-blue blueness of Velvet’s mother’s T-shirt dress looks icy in the candlelight as it melts over an epicure’s wobbling flesh. The woman herself is seated at the table, smoke from her cigarette curling upward like a prayer. The man with olive skin also smokes, the pungent stream from his cigar rising alongside her offering in a competition for benediction. Both drink whisky.
The Mae West look-alike (sans platinum locks), scrapes her fingers on the bottom of her empty chocolate mousse bowl, without looking at it, as though she’s trying to read some sort of culinary Braille. Every once in a while she sticks them in her mouth and sucks, relishing the scant vestiges of dessert.
Olive Man is telling a story and Mae/Mother laughs all through it, choking on her drink and spitting some back in her glass.
OLIVE MAN
You all right, honey?
Mae West nods, still choking. Olive Man pours the last of the whisky into his tumbler and downs it in a swallow. She stumbles out of her chair and onto his lap, straddling him. She grabs one of his hair-covered hands and places it on her breast.
MAE/MOTHER
(coughing)
Wanna go upstairs? My daughter’s asleep.
OLIVE MAN
You have a daughter?
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—BEDROOM—CONTINUOUS
Velvet rips her red fruit rollups into little strips and begins braiding them. The sounds of Mae/Mother’s choking laughter and Olive Man’s baritonic slurs surge in a cacophonous tide up the stairs. The fruit leather tapestry needs no attention—the stylist is adept—and so Velvet focuses her gaze on the black outside her window, on the moon hung like a congealed and sculpted tear.
VELVET
(sings softly)
“Two drifters, off to see the world
There’s such a lot of world to see . . .”
MAE/MOTHER
(O.S.)
I get these fucking headaches. Night after night.
There is a loud thump.
MAE/MOTHER
(O.S) (laughing)
Get off! Wait ’til we get upstairs. Ssshhh! You’ll wake up my daughter!
Velvet stuffs all her fruit rollup braids in her mouth, but doesn’t chew them. She crawls to her door, which is ajar, and peers into the hallway.
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—UPSTAIRS HALLWAY—CONTINUOUS
Mae/Mother crawls up the last couple of stairs with Olive Man on top of her, pulling off her dress.
MAE/MOTHER
(loudly)
Holy fuck! I think I’m . . . a little tipsy!
She is naked, and Olive Man’s shirt hangs open. He is pulling off his belt.
MAE/MOTHER
Ssshhh! Be quiet!
Olive Man dives on top of her, wraps his belt around her neck.
MAE/MOTHER
Ow! Watch it! Oh yeah . . .
(laughs)
“A hard man is good to find!” I’m quoting! That’s a quote!
Velvet watches, half hidden by her door. Fruit rollup braids sprout from her mouth.
Mae/Mother pulls off the belt.
MAE/MOTHER
Wait! Inside, inside! No!
(laughs)
Bed, I said bed! Ssshhh! Quiet!
A cuckoo clock on the wall explodes in a frenzy of squawking, sounding the discordant hour.
MAE/MOTHER
Shit! I hate that fucking clock!
Olive Man devours her mouth. His pants have come down around his knees. The watchbird on the wall continues to crow.
MAE/MOTHER
(between kisses)
Shut . . . the . . . fuck . . . up . . . you . . . stupid . . . bird! Oh!
Olive Man’s underwear goes south. His buttocks are white and gleaming as the moon—the goddess Diana is appalled. He enters Mae/Mother; their two bodies loll and thrash on the carpet. A cry escapes from her throat, while guttural groans exit from his. Velvet, in her doorway, plugs her ears and closes her eyes, chews her fruit rollup braids. In a moment she opens her eyes, unplugs her ears and wraps her arms around herself. Olive Man again wraps his belt around Mae/Mother’s throat. A broken crying rhythmic chant replaces the din of the clock. As banshees from bellies, screeches pour forth. The shrieking woman clings to the belt, yanking it loose, while the shrieking man holds fast to fistfuls of his lady’s hair. Velvet covers her mouth with her hands. A final howl, a dual petition to the moon, bays through the ceiling. Gasping and glistening, Mae/Mother and Olive Man lie supine on the floor.
MAE/MOTHER
Oh . . .
(laughs)
Baby . . .
OLIVE MAN
Huh?
MAE/MOTHER
I said bed . . .
Velvet closes her door.
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—
VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—VELVET’S BEDROOM—LATER
Out the window and into the night—Velvet kneels on her bed with her face pressed to the glass. The moon is violent in its brightness. A wind has its way with the trees. Velvet blows on the window and writes Roman numerals in the fog, her finger squeaking against the glass. She pauses in her artistry, and the quietness is full and unbroken, a Zen circle. A punch to an unseeing eye—brawling yells from the room next door, a motley chorus of pitches and tones, assault the silent circle. Velvet freezes, then melts into motion toward her door. She opens it, slow and tentative.
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—
VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—HALLWAY—CONTINUOUS
Mae/Mother’s bedroom door is partly ajar, but not open enough to reveal the room’s contents. Velvet sits crouched in her doorway.
MAE/MOTHER
(O.S.)
You fucking prick! Fuck!
There is a crash.
MAE/MOTHER
Off!
She begins to scream.
MAE/MOTHER
Get away from me!
OLIVE MAN
You fucking bitch! You fucking cu—Ow!!!
There is another crash. More screams. Velvet is crying.
VELVET
(screaming)
Mom! Mom! Mom!
Olive Man stampedes from the bedroom in his underwear, an unpenned bull. His clothes a rolled-up ball under one arm. He dervishes down the stairs, stumbling and falling into the railing. Mae/Mother staggers from her bedroom, bleeding from her nose and mouth. She stands at the top of the stairs.
MAE/MOTHER
AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Olive Man yanks open the front door and charges at the night. Mae/Mother crumples like a bloody tissue, her forehead pressed to the stair railing, and wails. Then she is silent. The only noise is that of a car starting up and roaring away. Velvet, still crying, crawls to her mother. She places her hands on Mae/Mother’s back, as though to absorb a rogue current that flows through the nakedness, twitching and shuddering all the flesh. The twitching woman dabs at the red tide on her face with skittish fingers, then stares at the splotches of crimson gush on their tips. She looks at her daughter with the pained incomprehension of a wounded animal: the innocence of disbelief. Velvet hugs her mother, burying her face in the bleeding woman’s breasts. Fresh cries, softer and more delicate, exhale into the shadows. The young girl with the nail polish flowers on her feet and the Cézanne-bodied woman with the vampy, movie star face fall in tandem to the floor, lie spooning like lovers in the sun on the carpet in the dark hallway.
