…and as evidenced above and repeated again (for repetition is one of the leitmotifs of this story) they forgot. Forgot their old life, forgot all the joys and pains of what we might call their first life, as their trajectories toward another futurity worked themselves out.
And, yes, as you might have guessed by following the trail of metaphorical breadcrumbs I’ve left, they separated.
In 1985.
Well, it wasn’t really much of an adjustment, as they were rarely in the same place at the same time. In February of 1999, however, Norman was having lunch (yes, with Laura, for they were never formally separated or divorced, just “detached”) at Barbetta’s on West 46th Street when he inhaled a bite of aged Wagyu filet steak. The waiter, an elegant-looking young man from Ecuador, performed a perfect Heimlich maneuver, which worked, but for the fact that Norman suffered a massive heart attack just as the half-chewed piece of steak shot out like a projectile, smashing one of the electric candles in the overhead crystal chandelier.
Laura, heartbroken, gave a moving valediction at his exquisitely tasteful funeral, supervised his burial in the Mount Hebron Cemetery in Flushing (the very same cemetery in which Emanuel Weiss, an ex-member of Murder Incorporated, and Selig Grossinger, founder of Grossinger’s Resort, resided), and commissioned a monument commensurate with his status.
As Laura’s mother had always said, “Well, dead is dead.”
Mother’s aphorism, however, wasn’t strictly true.
Norman was certainly dead, and Laura grieved for his loss; grieved as we all do for all the “could have beens,” and then, as most of us do, she slid back into life, slid back into the moment-by-moment, numbing comfort of repetition and regularity until, yes, you guessed it: Wednesday, November 10th, 2020, at 9:30 in the morning.
Laura had elected to skip her Wednesday Morning Club: she just wasn’t in the mood for mahjong, chamomile tea, and the usual array of finger sandwiches, scones, marmalade, lemon curd, herbed butter, and pickled salmon. And she wasn’t in the mood to spend the usual time painting her face and coordinating an appropriate wardrobe assemblage. So she slept in, then took a wake-up Adderall and made her autogenic way to the bathroom for a pee.
Her bathroom in the Pierre was large and ornate enough to give her mother’s mirror an appropriate rather than garish pride of place. She leaned her pelvis against the lip of the sink and looked at her reflection. Then, as she had done once before, a lifetime before, she made an odd gurgling sound and suddenly stepped backwards, as if she had just seen a ghost—or, rather, two ghosts—for reflected in the ornately framed mirror was herself… and Norman. Both old. Together.
Norman’s face was partially lathered with shaving soap. He winked at her, or perhaps he just blinked. She could see a powdery white spot of aluminum sulfate on his chin where, theoretically, moments ago she had applied a styptic pencil.
“Norman?” she asked.
“Okay, I’ll do it this afternoon,” Norman said, looking blankly into the mirror. He was referring to Laura’s previous request to mow the lawn—that being the Laura on the Lighthouse Point side of the mirror.
And Laura, second-chance Laura, if you like, extended her hand toward the mirror. She expected the surface to be blood warm and viscous, expected it to be as slippery as mercury… expected to feel the mirror’s palpable adamantine suction. She pressed against the glass, which felt cool, actually cold. Resistant as time itself.
She pressed harder, pushed against the mirror, which was nothing more than a large, impermeable object affixed firmly to the bathroom wall; she pushed against it with both hands until her arms ached from the pressure and her palms felt hot, as if pulsing in time to some unknown rhythm. Finally, she gave up, stepped back, and stared intently, desperately into the mirror.
But there was nothing there, nothing to see and regret, just an empty reflection of the other side of the room…
Heartbreak Hotel
By Dirk Flinthart
The applause dies away. Elvis watches as Marilyn stumbles in her high heels on the steps leading backstage, the tight, sequinned dress restricting her movements. Frank catches her before she can fall, holding her a little too long, a little too close. Elvis checks the impulse to intervene. Marilyn knows her way around men.
She pushes away from Frank and composes herself. “Do you think they liked it?” she asks in that breathy, little-girl voice. “I… I couldn’t see past the footlights.”
“Sure, doll,” says Frank. “Look at you! What’s not to like?” Smiling, but those blue eyes are slow and cold, and he wets his upper lip with the tip of his tongue. Marilyn moves closer to Elvis, holding his arm the way a small child might hold a plush toy, for comfort.
“It was a good set, Marilyn,” Elvis says. “It’s always good. They love you.”
“It’s just… I couldn’t see anyone. Was there… is there a good audience tonight?”
“You can’t see squat without those glasses of yours,” Frank says. “Good audience? Listen! They’re lapping up Bob’s stuff.”
A ripple of laughter makes its way backstage, and then another, and another as Bob delivers his trademark one-liners, playing the crowd like an instrument.
“It’s always a good audience,” Elvis says.
“Always the same audience,” Marilyn says. “I worry maybe they’ll get bored.”
“With you?” He smiles. “That just couldn’t ever happen.” He listens for a moment, and hears a familiar punchline. The audience dissolves into hilarity. “Bob’s nearly done.” He glances at Frank. “You ready?”
Frank makes finger-guns and shoots Elvis with imaginary bullets. “I’m always ready,” he says. “Just show me the mike.” He saunters away, tugging his fedora down over one eye.
“I wish I had his confidence,” Marilyn says.
“He’s a cocky sonofabitch,” Elvis says, “but he’s sure enough got a voice.” She’s about to reply, but something comes in. He almost clears it, but he realizes it’s closer than it should be. He’s been careless. “Hold that thought, honey,” he says. “I’ll be back.”
The moment they catch sight of him, panic strikes. Bullets rip snarling holes through the air, punching through his body and out the other side without slowing. He lets them shoot, studying them the while. At least a dozen. They have the look of desert scavengers in old-school military camouflage decked out with goggles and improvised headwraps to keep the heat and the dust at bay. Their weapons are mismatched. Their discipline is poor and their fire control worse. He watches and waits.