The Delphi Room Read online

  THE DELPHI ROOM

  MELIA MCCLURE

  ChiZine Publications

  COPYRIGHT

  The Delphi Room © 2013 by Melia McClure

  Cover artwork © 2013 by Erik Mohr

  Cover design © 2013 by Samantha Beiko

  Interior design © 2013 by Danny Evarts

  All rights reserved.

  Published by ChiZine Publications

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  EPub Edition SEPTEMBER 2013 ISBN: 978-1-77148-186-1

  All rights reserved under all applicable International Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen.

  No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  CHIZINE PUBLICATIONS

  Toronto, Canada

  www.chizinepub.com

  [email protected]

  Edited by Samantha Beiko

  Proofread by Klaudia Bednarczyk

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $20.1 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada.

  Published with the generous assistance of the Ontario Arts Council.

  Dedication

  For my parents, Patrick and Jacqueline,

  and my sisters, Kara and Chelsi,

  with infinite love and gratitude

  and

  For Scott,

  in his memory

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also Available from ChiZine Publications

  1

  My mother was on her way over the day I hung myself. Only I didn’t know it, because she never calls in advance. I never intended for her to find me, but at the time I wasn’t thinking about who would. The bathroom tiles needed re-grouting; mildew stains spread like grubby wings. I had bought some grout—it still sat under the bathroom sink behind a collection of bright pink razors and an explosion of make-up. Pieces of the ceiling had crumbled away, exposing the pipes—should’ve had that fixed, too. Doyenne of domesticity, I am not.

  My mother had let herself in as usual. (How did she get a key? Is her doppelganger a locksmith?) I think she brought some chicken soup and some leftover chow mein. (A combination guaranteed to cure any cold—I had spoken to her a couple of days before and complained of a sore throat.) She talked as she came through the door, calling out to me and commenting, true to form, on the weather/traffic/state of my abode, eyes sharp to the ruin or repair. (Mostly—this time—ruin.) She left her shoes—marvellous shoes, Italian leather always, (like buttah!), purchased on Commercial Drive—at the foot of the hat stand. I never actually kept any hats on it, but I have always been rather taken with the jauntiness of hat stands. (You could imagine one coming to life and having a winning personality, singing and dancing and with the voice of Liza Minnelli.) In the kitchen she set down her C&C cold cure, as she calls it, commenting all the while, I’m sure, on the stacks of dishes in the sink, Pyrex plates with satiny layers of congealed foodstuffs in various earthy colourations. I hadn’t done the dishes in two weeks. I hadn’t eaten in three days. There was nothing left to eat on, and anyway I hadn’t gone grocery shopping. If I did it again, I would make the effort and do a little Martha Stewart-ing. Prepare the tomb, like an Egyptian slave. Then nobody could say the girl was nuts and she didn’t have clean underwear.

  My mother must have panicked right away when she didn’t hear my voice. She has always been the dramatic type, and though she is full-bodied and loud-voiced, I have always thought of her as an enamelled butterfly whose lacquer is just about to crack. I must have been dangling several minutes by then, limp as a dishrag, sallow skin overtaken by an icy blue like twilight. The fan was whirring in the bathroom; I had turned it on earlier because my CD player was broken and I couldn’t stand the sound of the silence. I didn’t want to hear music anyway, didn’t want to hear the honeyed smoke of anyone’s voice timbre-ing up and down some sweet scherzo. I wanted blankness. I wanted white noise. The bathroom fan was the closest I could get to it—the steady, unfaltering, noisy noiseless noise.

  Peregrinations all night long: bare feet on the floorboards and the tick of the clock, punctuation for my pacing. Hair a rope of grease, goose bumps bubble-wrapping my arms. Night-shod, The Drive was eerily quiet: no traffic-ruckus hemp-and-muslin bustle drifted down toward my door. Streetlight melted through my curtains. I was not crying.

  In the kitchen I wet a sponge so I could stamp my bills—I don’t like the taste of the glue. There were several: phone, cable, credit cards. I was usually late with my bills, but not this time. I wiped the crumbs from the kitchen table and stacked and re-stacked the envelopes, settling with cable on top.

  Several bottles of pills sat on the counter. I had not taken any in three months. (Or was it four?) I’m not sure why I’d hung on to them, except that looking at the bottles kind of felt like sleeping with a security blanket. But all comfort had disappeared, and become unnecessary. So I gathered up the bottles and threw them in the garbage.

  The sun started to appear, blue-ing the big black dome of sky. I went into the bathroom, turned on the bathtub faucet and plugged the drain. Upstairs a toilet flushed and I stared at the pipes in the ceiling, imagining the goods in transit. On the edge of the tub sat a bottle of pale yellow oil. I poured the whole thing in. Beside that sat a bag of fizzy bath bursts, sherbet-hued and floral-scented, and I added those as well. Then from the cupboard beneath the sink, I pulled a large basket of round soft bath beads, bright and perfect like plastic jewels with secret, liquid hearts. I stood at the edge of the tub and dropped them into the water one by one, and watched the liquid without release the liquid within. Tea lights were scattered around the bathtub and across the counter, and I picked up my butane lighter and sparked them with slow ceremonial flourish. Once upon a time bathing was a ritual, a spiritual act—I had never liked showers. It was always much more satisfying to see the ring of grime after a bath, and feel lighter, having left something behind. After my candles were lit I turned off the faucet. The trapped water nudged at the edge of the tub, as though trying to see over. I undressed slowly: off came chartreuse-trimmed fitted black pants, beaded pink top, big white country-girl underwear (my own private protest against the assault of the G-string) and a once cream-coloured bra that I had accidentally dyed pistachio-pudding-green in the wash. I lowered myself in slowly, careful not to let any of the water slosh on my tea lights. I lay on the bottom, head underwater, and looked up. The perfumed water assaulted my eyes, but the sting was somehow dist
ant, a pain from the past. The remains of the bath beads floated overhead: melted stars, fruit-toned lily pads. I blew bubbles to swirl them, then watched them go still and sat up, disturbing the surface of the water very slowly—first the top of my head, then my eyes, nose, and mouth. I leaned back and drew the bath bead bodies closer, capping each finger with a dissolving half-orb. Stretching my fingers out in front of me, I inspected my handiwork: grotesque nail polish. Tea light wax grew clear, gave the appearance of flame leaping from water. Candles’ hot gold hearts licked and swam, an audience—breathless, charged up, responsive. I put my hands beneath the surface, watched my lacquer melt free of my fingertips, leaned back and closed my eyes. There was a pulsing just behind the lids, a steady, resigned, ludicrous heartbeat. I lay like that for quite a while, a soak of sweat beading my face, breathing in the combustion of competing scents rising from the water.

  INT. VELVET’S BATHROOM—EARLY MORNING

  A young woman named Velvet lies in her bathtub, twisting and untwisting her pubic hair. The Shadowman sits on a stool beside her. He is middle-aged, handsome, and dressed in black cashmere.

  SHADOWMAN

  Will you go forth today? Shall I put on some Billie Holiday? Does the “Lady Sing the Blues”?

  VELVET

  Why do you like jazz so much?

  SHADOWMAN

  Music of the soul, my friend. God plays the trumpet. And today, Velvet, God’s playin’ it for you.

  Velvet starts to cry. She rips out a clump of her pubic hair. There is blood.

  SHADOWMAN

  Tsk, tsk. Now look what you’ve done. Save it for your crossing.

  Velvet looks at him in horror.

  SHADOWMAN

  Just kidding. Clean, like I told you.

  I heaved myself out of the tub; the water had chilled and I shivered, though the hairs on my upper lip were encased in tiny sweat-sarcophagi. I watched the tub swallow its contents down the drain, studied the dark slime-gritty ring, saw the bits of gel-smeary bath bead shells dotting the bottom like sticky confetti. Head hung over the sink, I slurped cold water, splashed my face. The mirror gave myself back to me, cruel in its faithfulness. My nose breathed the heavy, flowery air. I patted my face and body on a dirty pink towel and retrieved my make-up bag from the cupboard. I wanted to wear my new red lipstick. Out came foundations (semi-matte, matte, pancake), powders (pressed, loose, iridescent), blush (gel, crème, powder), glosses (sparkly and non), tints, eyebrow brushes, eyelash combs, mascaras (brown, black, purple), shadows (creaseproof and waterproof) and liners (liquid and pencil): palette arsenal, compact theatrics. White lotion glopped into the palm of my hand, smeared over my face, sank down pores. I found the red I was after, still in its box. Eyes in the glass looked out at me: remote, slow blinkers. A blitz of powder, cornsilky grains speckled with sparkles. Audrey Hepburn channels Bambi: doe-eye black liquid liner taking flight at the corners. Petal-pink cheeks, hibiscus tint with a soft, soft finish. My special lipstick I uncapped and turned up as far as it would go—a true ’40s coming-in-on-a-wing-and-a-prayer red, glam, glam. I put it on thick, venturing a little beyond my natural borders.

  INT. VELVET’S BATHROOM—MORNING

  Velvet applies her make-up with great care, although her hands are shaking. The Shadowman stands behind her, inspecting her reflection.

  SHADOWMAN

  That’s it, darling—blend, blend, blend! I adore bold colours, they remind me of the Moulin Rouge.

  Velvet is crying again.

  SHADOWMAN

  For fuck’s sake, they won’t let you into Heaven with raccoon eyes!

  Perfume next. Vanilla base, spicy top note, cut with sandalwood. I drenched myself with it, watched strands of scent lengthen down my chest, disappear under my breasts.

  Barber’s scissors lay on the edge of the sink.

  INT. VELVET’S BATHROOM—MORNING

  The Shadowman runs his fingers through Velvet’s hair.

  SHADOWMAN

  A trim, darling, just a trim.

  He wraps his hands around her throat. Their eyes meet in the mirror. He smiles. Her gaze glitters with fear.

  I dragged my fingers through my hair trying to unclump it, spools of wet threads wound tight. My hair was long, ends sprinkling water on my lower back. I started at the front. Winding the end of one wooly whorl around my index finger, I picked up the scissors and began to trim the spray of splits that shot off. At first, meticulous; then hacking, wielding my scissors with abandon, the way I did once upon a time, when I scalped Barbie before stirring a tub of Dep with her head. Locks fell dead and heavy, inert half-curls. I sliced away at the back of my neck, coming around my left cheek with a flourish, then hedgeclippered some bangs, a thick forehead curtain. Stuck-her-finger-in-a-socket Louise Brooks. Smoothed down the bobbed frizz with pineapple-scented serum, looked long at my exposed shoulders, collarbone emptying to a hollow at the base of my throat.

  Hairs stuck to the bottoms of my feet and then shed onto the hardwood floor as I walked to the bedroom. Clothes on my bed, on the floor, on my chair. Morning light passing a note through the blinds gave the room a movie theatre feel, lush-jet of brilliance in the darkness.

  INT. VELVET’S BEDROOM—MORNING

  The Shadowman stands beside the closet, leaning languidly against the wall. He is dressed in full drag queen regalia, complete with red wig, four-inch patent leather stilettos and fishnet stockings. He starts to sing a song from Kiss of the Spider Woman—“Dressing Them Up.” After a few bars, he pauses, pulls out a nail file and begins to file his long red fake nails. He stares at Velvet, his mouth contorted by a vicious smirk.

  SHADOWMAN

  It’s about time you got the fuck out of here, you little whore. ’Course, I’d really rather burn you alive, but I—

  VELVET

  (screams)

  Shut up Shut up Shut up! I can’t think I can’t think let me think!

  The Shadowman whips off his stiletto heel and starts to pummel Velvet in the face. Her lip splits and lacerations, like angry fault lines, crack open, oozing blood.

  I stood at my closet, fingering sleeves, skirts, buttons. Face to a 1920 lace shawl, spider web on my cheek. Velvet pants (in honour of my name) with ankles swelling to soft bells. A white halter dress sweetened with tiny cherries, worn with Sabrina heels and a sense of great expectation. Next to that, the one I wanted, circa 1938 cut on the bias, lip-red, gem-sparkly. I took it out of the closet and laid it on my bed. From a bureau drawer I removed a black satiny bra. Wired myself in and then slipped the dress off the hanger and stepped inside, pulling it up slowly, chiffon column rising from the red puddle at my ankles. At the foot of the bed: orange and yellow chicken slippers, black satin heels. I chose the evening shoes, buckled up. Moved to the vanity mirror, added small pearl drop earrings. I was a silvery photograph, the watery light in the room gathering handfuls of dress, grey-red sepia cast, my eyes dulled and dusty as the bottom of a trunk. High up in the elm in the front yard, the lonely, straggling note of a bird clung to the morning breeze.

  On a hook in my closet hung my favourite belt: silvery, lizard-skin, ’70s. I picked it up, rubbing the roughness of the miniscule geometric pattern on the skin. I walked to the bathroom, slowly and with even, deliberate—regal—steps, trailing the hem of my dress, long belt and perfume behind me. The humidity had dissipated, but the cloying sweetness of my bath remained. On the inside of the tub the dirty ring had darkened and dried to a peeling horizon. My pink towel lay on the floor and I picked it up, scrunching the fibres in my fist.

  I hung it over the mirror.

  I pressed my lips together.

  I tasted my lipstick.

  I smelled my perfume.

  I smoothed my hips.

  I straightened my spine.

  I climbed onto the toilet.

  I tied the belt to the pipes.

  I belted my neck.

 
I breathed in and out.

  And then—

  My mother set the food down on the kitchen counter, shook her head at the mess and called my name with particular emphasis on the first syllable.

  Vel-vet. Are you in the bathroom?

  I imagine I swayed, a tiny gesture, difficult to see.

  Honey? Are you still asleep? You’re supposed to be at—

  She entered the bathroom and her voice tangled and then slip-knotted in her throat, fraying to a scream. Up, up, up went the pitch and bang, bang, bang went the door, Mr. Cassidy from upstairs interjecting his plump fist into my mother’s wails. She was trying to un-belt my neck, he was opening the door, calling out, moving into the hall.

  I was whizzing headfirst down a slide, in the dark.

  Mr. Cassidy got me free while my mother sucked air and salt from the tears that were running over her lips. He yelled at her to find the phone, pressed his mouth to my Joan Crawford red. The phone wasn’t in plain sight; I remember that. I had stuffed it under two Chinese embroidered pillows to muffle the sound.

  In the place where I had gone it was still dark, though I was on my feet, walking, with Mr. Cassidy’s breath rushing at my heels like the charge of air in a SkyTrain station when the train is threading itself into the eye of the terminal.

  My mother found the phone jack and tracked the cord to the phone, picked up the receiver and blanked. She couldn’t remember her name or my address. Mr. Cassidy shouted information over the whir of the fan. Clippings of my hair from the floor were sticking to my skin and my dress. My skin was less blue, more rice powder.

  In a while, the plaintive chide of a siren sliced the morning on my street. I had always wanted to ride in an ambulance. They get more attention than limousines or hearses, and anyway, if you’re riding in a hearse you hardly get to appreciate it. As it turned out, though, I was still bumping around in the dark place, unaware of the red-dressed body I had left behind, so I never got to experience the noble hovering of the paramedics above me as they tried to get my dust-bag lungs to pump. Dreams never happen quite the way you hope.