Time enough then to endure the noises that would tear open the night, the clamorous bell of the mismatched wheeled, pony-drawn firetruck, the screaming whistles in the bright red mouths of the Kops clinging to the Kop Kar as it raced into the neighborhood, hands to their domed blue hats, the bass drums booming as Bobo’s friends and neighbors marched out of their houses, spouses and kids, poodles and ponies and piglets highstepping in perfect columns behind.
For now, it was enough to sweep moonlight from Bobo’s cobbled walkway, to darken the wayward clown’s doorway, to take in the scent of a fall evening and gaze up wistfully at the aching gaping moon.
ADROITLY WRAPPED
by Mark McLaughlin
Mark McLaughlin was born December 12, 1961 in Iowa and presently resides in Davenport. I think this is the first story your editor has reprinted from a writer with the same birthday. Could be a plot.
Of himself, McLaughlin writes: “I’m a graphic designer and copywriter here in the Midwest. My fiction has appeared in The Silver Web, Tekeli-li!, Not One of Us, Dark Infinity, Mystic Fiction, Gaslight, Argonaut, and other publications. Plus, I have a long poem in the Air Fish anthology. I am the editor of The Urbanite (a journal of surreal city fiction and poetry) and The Brood of Sycorax (a magazine-format collection of monster fiction). I’m Graeco-Gaelic (half Greek, half Irish) and I drink waaaaay too much coffee/expresso/cappuccino. I enjoy low-budget horror movies, chocolate, and tossing rubber toys for my huge tabby cat to fetch.” Wonder if that’s an orange tabby.
“So what’s in the sack?” Anthony said, eyeing the bundle that pale, leatherclad Punkin dragged along the path. A full moon brought a greenish-silver glow to the pebbles in the path and the chains on Punkin’s jacket.
“‘What’s in the Sack?’ Sounds like a game show.” Punkin’s nervous gait sped into a loping gallop, so that Anthony had to run to keep up with him. Odd slitherings and slappings issued from the burlap sack as it bounced in the dust. “I’ll give you three guesses,” the pale youth said.
“Is it…” Anthony flipped his long black bangs out of his face. “Is it a baby pterodactyl, flapping its membranous wings in the throes of death?”
“No… but you know, they taste just like chicken.” Punkin swung the sack over his shoulder. Startled, a flock of crystal birds flew out of the trees lining the path.
“Is it… An oversized jungle slug? A miniature sea-squid?” Anthony listened closely to the wet whisperings inside the sack. “The lymph glands of a dead Cyclops? Munchkin roadkill from the Yellow Brick Highway?”
“Wrong and wrong and wrong and wrong again, Contestant Number One.” Punkin flashed the gap-toothed Halloween smile that had earned him his nickname. “No new car, no trip to Tierra del Fuego. So sorry.”
Anthony glimpsed yellow eyes glowing in a shadowed treetop. Three…? Leaves rustled and the eyes disappeared. He stopped to peer into the shadows, searching for the dubious owner of the eyes. Then he noticed that Punkin, still running, was far ahead of him. He could hear the pale youth whistling a shrill, pointless tune. Anthony raced to catch up.
He was out of breath by the time they reached the long, low house of Athena Moth. He ran his fingers through his bangs and static crackled… no doubt his hair was standing on end. He spit onto his fingers and slicked his bangs into place.
Punkin rang the doorbell and a snippet of Verdi’s “Un Bel Di” echoed through the house. Athena answered the door wearing white face, a black wig, and a geisha costume.
“Oh, why, hello.” She always seemed surprised to see them, even when the visit was scheduled. “Come in, come in… but please, forgive the mess.”
With every visit, Anthony pondered the same riddle. Athena was a she… But was she a woman? Athena had a low voice and a large-boned build. She always wore heavy makeup—even on her hands. And, of course, there were the costumes… Still, there were other factors that clouded the issue. The delicacy of the mouth, the hands, the ears. The lack of both an Adam’s apple and a crotch bulge. The exciting way that she gazed at him through half-closed purple eyes (men are taught to stare down their world).
This time, Anthony decided to address the issue directly. “So, Athena. What’s under the kimono?”
“My body. What else—a diesel engine?” She led them to an overstuffed couch in a parlor lined with shelves. These shelves were filled with books, jar of herbs and animal hair, lipsticks and stone statuettes.
“He’s full of questions tonight,” Punkin said, plopping down onto the couch. “He also wanted to know what was in the sack.”
Anthony sat by the pale youth’s side. His hip sank down between the soft cushions. He hated this couch, this wicked, butt-eating couch.
“We have a surprise for you, Anthony,” Athena said, taking the sack from Punkin. “Did you think that we’d forget that tomorrow was your birthday?”
Anthony glanced at his cheap digital wristwatch—9:30 PM—then pressed the button that brought the date to the screen. 10-12. “God, you’re right. I’d forgotten myself.” He sighed. “Twenty-one and still living with my parents. Still flipping burgers at Fry-Pappy’s. Still…” He didn’t care to go on.
Athena nodded. “I understand.” She opened a door in a shadowed corner of the parlor. With one hand, she lifted a department store mannequin out of the closet and leaned it against a table in the center of the room. Was the mannequin quite light or was Athena quite strong?
“You’re lonely,” she said. “Lonely in that special way.” She then opened Punkin’s sack and pulled out a length of pink ribbon. Soft. Thick. Moist. And really, far too pink.
She proceeded to pull yards of ribbon from the sack. “Looks a bit like human skin, doesn’t it? Well, that’s just what it is. But don’t worry, Anthony, it doesn’t belong to anyone. Isn’t that right, Punkin?”
Punkin grinned and nodded. “Athena gave me the recipe. Anybody can make it.”
Anthony watched as Athena began to wrap the ribbon tightly around the left foot and ankle of the mannequin. “But—is it real skin? As real as mine or Punkin’s?”
“Of course it is,” Athena said. “I can make anything out of anything. You should know that by now. Look at me… I used to be a tiny Malaysian fellow. Before that I was an old woman in a nursing home. Skin? Skin can be made from silk ribbon, soaked for three weeks in a special solution.” The geisha wrapped faster and faster to the top of the thigh. “One must take great care in the winding. I allowed Punkin to prepare the skin—he wanted to help so badly—but the wrapping is my area of expertise. See how I’m folding the tissue between the legs? You’ll not have cause for complaint later, birthday boy.”
“What smells like vanilla?” Anthony said.
“The solution for the ribbon.” The geisha touched the pink strip with the equally pink tip of her tongue. Her purple eyes flashed. “It contains vanilla. And cinnamon.” The pink strip flew round and round the abdomen. “And oregano and ground quartz crystals and fish-eggs and white wine and—”
“White wine?” Punkin exclaimed. His eyes went wide. “You told me ‘wine.’ You didn’t say that it had to be white.”
“Oh.” Athena slowed in her wrapping. “Oh. Oh.” She paused, then continued to wrap at full speed. “Oh, well. Even the most precise recipes should allow for a degree of improvisation.”