RAILA

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RAILA

A Short Story

Curt Collier

There’s one in every family. You know the one. She has gone everywhere worth going to and knows everyone worth knowing. She has stories in reserve that top everyone else’s. She has the uncanny knack of making everyone feel uncomfortable and more than a little insecure. She has perfected the art of the barbed compliment; she never gives without taking more back than what was offered.

“Oh my dear, you have such an attractive face! You would be pretty if you could just lose a little weight.”

“Darling, I just adore what you’ve done with this room. It’s amazing what one can do with rummage from thrift shops and garage sales. It’s true that one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”

“What a quaint little gift! But I suppose it is the thought that counts.”

In the Hughes family, she was Roberta Hughes.

Roberta had married Marcus Hughes, the eldest of four Hughes siblings, while she was a freshman in college and Marcus was working as a mechanic at a used car dealership after dropping out of high school in tenth grade. Marcus could never be accused of being a mental giant; Roberta would tell girlfriends – and anyone else who would listen – that Marcus might not be smart, but he was smart enough to marry her. Roberta’s father had been an attorney for most of her life, not a great trial attorney, nor even a moderately successful criminal attorney. No, Benton Merryweather, Attorney at Law, was a bankruptcy attorney. And, contrary to the well-spun confectioner’s deceit she fed to any and all, the real reason she left college after only one semester to marry Marcus was that Benton Merryweather, Attorney at Law, was broke and could no longer afford the tuition. Being a bankruptcy attorney in the Roaring Eighties was like being a suspender salesman in a nudist colony: no one needed what he was offering.

But in Marcus Hughes, Roberta saw untapped potential that would allow her to live in the lifestyle to which she aspired. Marcus had only two marketable assets: an honest demeanor, and the ability to sell almost anything to almost anyone. Unlike her father, Roberta’s husband could sell condoms in a convent.

After their honeymoon – a long Labor Day weekend on Galveston Island where there first child, Katie, was conceived – Roberta convinced her husband to ask his boss for a chance at selling used cars in addition to repairing them. “Honest Bud” Neidermeyer, ever alert for an opportunity to make a buck off someone else’s effort, agreed provided Marcus would continue to work his regular forty hour week in the garage and that he work strictly on commission as a part-time salesman Saturdays and Sundays. By Christmas Marcus was making five times more money on commission two days a week than what he made on salary five days a week. As a “Christmas bonus,” Honest Bud gave Marcus a slot on the full time roster as a salesman and hired another high school dropout with a moderate mechanical aptitude to take Marcus’ place in the garage.

As the years melted into each other, Marcus moved ever higher on the used car totem pole, bringing home more money than his three siblings combined. With every promotion, with every advance to a new tax bracket, Marcus grew further apart from his family and Roberta grew ever more obnoxious. They took their first cruise – along the Pacific Coast up to Alaska for six days and seven nights – for their fifth wedding anniversary. When Roberta returned home she was filled with stories of Hollywood and Seattle and was a self-professed expert in all things Alaskan. (“My dear,” she once said to Marcus’ little sister Amber who had innocently asked if Eskimos really lived in igloos, “One does not refer to the Native Alaskans as ‘Eskimos.’ The preferred term is ‘Aleut.’” Which she pronounced like “Alley Oop” the comic strip caveman.)

Two more daughters followed Katie after the cruise. Marcus’ family prayed each night that the girls would not grow into replicas of their mother; and, for the most part, their prayers were answered. Once the child was old enough to be moderately independent – which in Roberta-speak meant she could be shuffled off to Marcus’ mother’s house for some “Grandmother time” – Roberta paid only the minimal amount of attention to each child that was necessary to prevent embarrassment and to keep any gossiping tongues at bay. Marcus, however, spent more and more time with his daughters and, by virtue of the finite number of hours in a day, less and less time with Roberta. Which suited Roberta fine as she had grown into something of a social butterfly as she aged, volunteering – not actually doing the work, Heaven forbid, for she was an organizer and a planner, not a doer – for diverse religious and civic organizations. She was a pillar of the community to the other ladies; and even if they did despise her, they had no qualms about taking her money for their charities. Suffering her presence was deemed a small price to pay for the money she bestowed. And on Roberta’s part, the thanks and gratitude, the photos in the newspapers, the plaques on the walls, were her rightful due for her benevolence. So she had no problem with spending less time with her children and husband; after all, it is rather difficult to project an image of superiority and magnanimity with the person who sees you shaving your armpits or is witness to your mid-night flatulence.

Marcus and Roberta had been married for nineteen years – their daughter Katie was eighteen, Marie was thirteen, and their youngest, Rose, was ten – when the grand dame of local society and culture, Harriet Coldwell Pryce-Plymouth, passed away at the refined age of one-hundred-and-one. The Pryce-Plymouth mansion on Mulberry Road sat atop the only natural hill in the county, overlooking the town like a guardian angel, or a hovering gargoyle, depending on one’s perspective. Roberta had heard tales of the lavish cotillions that had been held there in the thirties and forties when Madame Harriet was a young patrician and in her prime. The rest of the country may have been in the midst of a depression and prohibition, but the money and the wine flowed freely from the mansion. Roberta had always wanted – perhaps “lusted” would be a more appropriate verb – to be invited to one of the balls at the end of Mulberry Road, but time took its toll on Madame Harriet and by the time the sixties were done, so was she. The closet thing to a cotillion that had been held in Pryce-Plymouth manor in Roberta’s lifetime was the game of musical chairs played by Madame Harriet’s nurses three times a day. And now the matron had finally died and an era of glamour and decadence had come to an end; and, worse than that, Roberta had forever missed her chance to be a part of it.

And so it was on an unseasonably chilly Wednesday afternoon in April, Roberta was sitting at her breakfast nook nursing her third Cosmopolitan and reveling in self-pity, her housekeeper Amalia – a painfully skinny, middle-aged illegal Costa Rican immigrant, because no one who was anyone hired Mexicans for domestic help, that was so nineties, because everyone who mattered knew Mexicans were fit only for yard work and heavy lifting – fluttering from room to room dusting, that Roberta’s cell phone chimed the opening notes of Beethoven’s “Fur Elise” signaling that someone from an unknown number was calling.

Amalia scurried to the kitchen bar, picked up the cell phone and offered it to Roberta with a softly spoken, “Ma’am.”

Roberta opened the phone and answered, “Roberta Hughes,” because a simple “Hello” was too common for her and bordered on the vulgar.

“Is this the Ms. Hughes who is president of the Daughters of the South?” The caller’s voice was deep, smooth and altogether enormously masculine.

“This is she. To whom am I speaking?”

“My name is Aubrey Pryce-Plymouth. Harriet Coldwell Pryce-Plymouth was my great-grandmother. She named me the executor of her will, and I have been charged with the disposition of her residual estate. You know, the personal items, household furniture and various other sundries that were not otherwise bequeathed in the will. And,” he continued, “I can think of no more suitable disposition than to allow the Daughters of the South to liquidate these items in a charitable manner and use the proceeds as they deem appropriate. Is this something your group might be interested in?”

Christmas Eve had passed weeks earlier, and it was not visions of sugarplums that were dancing in Roberta’s head, but rather visions of silver tea services, vintage evening gowns, paintings, antiques… the possibilities were endless! It might not be too late for Roberta to be a part – or better yet possess a part – of the grand old days of Southern aristocracy, after all!

Doing her best to keep the excitement out of her voice, Roberta said, “Why of course, Mr. Pryce-Plymouth. The Daughters would be honored to assist in any way. You know,” she said as an afterthought, “We always felt as if Madame Harriet was an honorary member of the Daughters. Why, just last year I introduced a resolution to legitimize that sentiment by making Madame Harriet an auxiliary Daughter. Of course it passed unanimously, the Daughters trust my judgment implicitly. Not that Madame Harriet was able to attend any meetings, mind you,” she added to keep the lie from being questioned, “What with her health issues and all.”

“I see,” Mr. Pryce-Plymouth said with just a hint of disapproval that Roberta did not overlook, “Well, I shall leave the key to the manor with Marion Rigby, my realtor – you are familiar with Ms. Rigby, I assume? – and you may pick it up at your leisure. Whatever is in the house or on the grounds is yours. You have until the last day of May to effectuate the disposition. On June the first, the demolition team will begin the razing of the manor and all outbuildings. If you have any questions or concerns, please direct them to Ms. Rigby as she has my proxy in all things. But please keep in mind that the June first date of destruction is inviolate. Good afternoon, Ms. Hughes.” And he hung up without waiting for a response.

“How rude!” Roberta said. “I suppose he did not inherit Madame Harriet’s grace. But that’s neither here nor there,” her left hand rose to her chest and gave the impression that she was attempting to calm a fluttering heart. “I can just imagine the treasures that are vouchsafed in that mansion.” She had seen the word vouchsafe in a romance novel she had read a few months before and had been waiting for an opportunity to use the word in a sentence. It was a shame that no one except Amalia had been there to hear it. She was quite certain the little peasant had absolutely no appreciation for an expansive vocabulary.

Over the next few hours, Roberta made arrangements with Ms. Rigby – in Roberta’s eyes, a jumped up slattern, a single mother who had two children by two different men of two different races and oh, how Roberta despised having to deal with her – to pick up the manor key, and with a local moving company for a large truck and day laborers to meet her at the mansion later that evening. She wanted to get started right away, before anyone else had a chance to go through the contents of the estate. She would call the others Daughters and inform them of their good fortune after she had exercised her self-given right of first refusal.

Roberta told Amalia she would be gone for a while and the girls should have dinner without her. Amalia nodded and thought to herself that the girls ate dinner most nights without Roberta or Marcus anyway and this was just a normal evening as far as they were concerned. The girls would only ask when Roberta was coming home, not where she was or what she was doing; all that mattered to them was how much of the evening they could relax and have fun before Mummie Dear messed things up with her return.

The manor yard was the first of many shocks and disappointments Roberta was to endure. From a distance, the manor yard appeared beautiful, dark green grass, emerald shrubs with white flowers, a grand magnolia tree covered in blossoms; but upon closer inspection the yard was completely unkempt. Weeds grew unchecked; the grass was tall and untrimmed. The shrubbery had not been cut back in several years and grew in several directions, like water, along the paths of least resistance. The wrought iron fence was flaky with rust and wanted sanding and a coat of black enamel. The porch was rickety and the six Tuscan columns facing the road were cracked, their bases and capitals broken in several places. She put the key into the deadbolt securing the front door and had to nudge the door with her shoulder before it would open.

The first thing to hit Roberta as she stepped over the threshold was the smell. Lilacs, lavender and lilies dominated; the sweetness nauseating, the heaviness cloying. Just under the floral surface lurked the odor of naphthalene and camphor, indicating a widespread use of mothballs throughout the house. But at the base of all the other smells, refusing to be ignored, was the rancid smell of sickness and death. It was everywhere. Had it not been for the insatiable craving to have a piece – or several pieces, preferably – of her childhood dreams, all her own, Roberta would have turned around and left. But greed trumps queasiness for Roberta every time.

Before she had a chance to commence her treasure hunt, Roberta heard the moving truck lumbering down the broken pavement of the driveway. Three young men – all of them were white, thank goodness – climbed down from the cab of the truck and stood at the edge of the porch awaiting her instructions. She could tell by the way the boys coughed and tried to breathe through their mouths – which did not help because the pungent odors of mothballs and death register on the tongue as vile as they will in the nose – that the smell was wafting out into the yard. She directed them to begin loading the big pieces of furniture onto the truck while she wandered about the house shopping.

She went through the first floor rather quickly, finding nothing that caught her attention. The artwork had been removed and all that remained to tell the paintings and portraits had ever been there were dark squares and rectangles on the walls. Other than the kitchen, it looked like the first floor of the mansion had been deserted for years. Sheets covered the furniture and dust covered everything else. She moved on to the second floor and found it in much the same state of decay and neglect. There were some beautiful dresses and gowns in two of the wardrobes, but age had yellowed the whites and bleached the colors, sadly leaving them irredeemable. Roberta was about to give up all hope of finding anything worthwhile when she spied a small wooden box in the back of the last wardrobe, covered by what she took for a lacy silken shawl that had once been a vibrant sapphire blue but now was pale as a robin’s egg. Patches of the original color were hidden in the folds of the scarf that had not been exposed to the air, and it was in one of those folds that Roberta found the box.

It was a black lacquered box about ten inches long and half again as wide, no more than three inches deep. Inlaid across the lid in silver, in a finely graven lettering was a single word:

RAILA

There was no lock on the simple silver latch that secured the box, only a small silver ball that could be slid sideways to allow the hasp to be lifted and the box opened. When Roberta lifted the lid, a fine smell arose from a small cachet tucked into the corner of the box: shavings of cedar wood, oil-soaked buds of cloves and corns of allspice bundled in cheesecloth and tied with a red ribbon. The next item she saw was a yellowed piece of parchment, folded in half to cover the surface of the inner box. She removed the paper, unfolded it and read the elegant handwriting:

While wandering the streets of the Vieux Carre I found in a quaint shoppe this box and mirror. When first I laid eyes on them, I thought of you and the all too brief time we spent together.

I pray it gives you all that you have given me, and manifold more.

Fata Morgana!

24 October 1929

The mirror to which the writer referred was laying face down in the bottom of the box. The interior of the box had been lined in plush red velvet that did not look the least bit work or aged and as she lifted the mirror from the box, she could see it had lain so long within that it left an indelible impression on the cushion. The mirror was made from rich yellow gold that shone in the evening sun that streamed through the uncovered window. But throughout the gold were veins of a silvery metal as well. The metal could not possibly be silver as it was as untarnished as the gold.

Platinum, perhaps, or rhodium, she thought, both are extraordinarily valuable.

The two metals swirled together in an intricate but not quite random pattern. As she looked at the back of the mirror she could see a beautiful woman’s face. Holding the mirror at another angle showed a darling girl in her early teens. Tilting the mirror in a different direction caused the two faces to melt into the face of an old, ugly hag. Roberta was fascinated by the workmanship and detail that had gone into the making of this treasure. She knew that everything else in the mansion combined could not make a fraction of the value of this exquisite prize.

The noise of the workmen below loading the furniture onto the truck faded away and then stopped. Knowing that at any moment one of the boys would be looking for her to give them further instructions, she hurriedly placed the mirror, note and sachet back into the box, closed it and wrapped it up in the shawl again. She held it under her arm with just a portion of the shawl dangling below her purse and went back downstairs. As she had suspected, the truck was loaded with most of the furniture on the first floor and two of the boys were sitting on the tailgate of the van while the other met her on the porch as she walked out.

“We loaded it as full as we thought best to protect the wood from scratches. There’s probably eight or ten more loads remaining and we’ll get ‘em transferred tonight and tomorrow, if that’s okay with you,” the boy said.

Roberta had already given them directions to the garage where the Daughters would cull through the goods, set prices and otherwise make preparations for the massive sale. “Yes, that will be quite acceptable. Please make sure you lock the doors on both the manor and the garage whenever you are not physically present,” she said. She had caught the boy’s eyes darting to the blue shawl, so she pre-empted any wondering by taking the tail end of the shawl and waving it about, careful not to give the impression anything was wrapped in it. “I found this beautiful little scarf in one of the wardrobes upstairs and I thought it would look lovely on one of my daughters’ dolls.” She let the tail of the shawl fall, “It’s practically worthless but I’ll make sure an appropriate price is assigned to it by one of the Daughters. Shan’t have anyone thinking the President nicked something for herself without paying, now shall we?”

The boy started to reply but by then Roberta was on her way down the stairs. She put her purse, and the concealed box, in the backseat of her car, then got into the driver’s seat and drove away. All the way home, all she could think of was the mirror. She could still feel the cool metal against her palm and fingers. The strange effects the melded metals created hovered before her eyes and more than once she ran obliviously through four-way stops because she had not seen the stop signs. Once she pulled over to the side of the street and got out just to make sure the mirror was still there, safe, in the box. Rather than replacing it in the backseat, she set it next to her in the front passenger seat. Her hand rested atop the box, tracing the intricate script with her fingertips, while she drove.

She parked her car in the garage and before the door had closed behind her, she had the ebony box open and was fondling the mirror. She had no idea how long she sat there holding the mirror, but after a time someone knocking on the car window caught her attention. Amalia was banging on the driver’s side window and yelling in Spanish, a cotton dishtowel held over her nose and mouth. Roberta turned off the engine and opened the car door.

“What on earth are you yelling about, Amalia? Is something wrong with the girls? With Marcus? What’s wrong?”

Amalia continued the stream of Spanish and Roberta had no idea what she was saying. Amalia waved her hand about Roberta’s face, touching her cheeks and forehead as if she thought Roberta had a fever. She took Roberta’s arm and pulled her out of the smoky garage – Roberta had no idea how the garage had filled with smoke in the few minutes she had been in there since parking the car – and into the kitchen, firmly shutting the door that led from there into the garage. She tried to get Roberta to sit at the kitchen table but Roberta shook off Amalia’s arm with a menacing scowl and said, “Enough, Amalia! That is quite enough! If you are going to keep acting like this, you should just go to bed!”

Tears fell from her eyes as Amalia rushed from the kitchen. Roberta heard the door to Amalia’s room slam and could still hear the muffled sounds of Amalia’s protestations.

“What the devil has gotten into that woman?” Roberta said to herself. She still had the ebony box clutched tightly to her chest. She looked about the kitchen wondering why the girls were not eating dinner and none of the cookware was on the stove. She saw that the clock on the microwave oven said it was fifteen minutes to eleven. “That cannot be right. I left the mansion not a minute later than seven!” She went to the microwave and pressed the “Clear” button thinking that the display was showing ten minutes and forty-five seconds of cooking time, but the display did not change; it was truly ten forty-five at night.

“Well, I guess time got away from me and I left the mansion later than I thought,” she told herself as she went up the back stairs to the second floor. Marcus and she had maintained separate bedrooms for almost ten years and she went down the hall past Marcus’ room – the room was dark, the door open and the bed empty, but that was not unusual as he seldom came home before midnight during the week – and to her own, closing the door once she was inside. Roberta sat on the bed, cradling the box in her lap, once more tracing the silver letters with her finger. She opened the box – it never entered her mind to wonder why she could not remember closing the box – and removed the mirror. The marbled metal glowed faintly once again. She fancied that she could see other faces in the surface now, not just the maiden, mother and crone. The closing phrase from the letter tickled in the back of her mind.

“Fata Morgana. What a beautiful phrase,” she whispered.

She pulled the mirror to her chest and cuddled it as she might have one of her daughters while still an infant. She rocked back and forth slowly, humming a nonsense melody that had neither form nor pattern.

“Fata Morgana,” she sang over and over as she rocked.

Roberta was called from her musing once again by Amalia. The housekeeper had been knocking on the bedroom door with no response, and finally she opened the door just a crack and called, “Ma’am?”

“Close the door, Amalia, it’s the middle of the night! Whatever it is can wait until the morning,” Roberta said angrily.

Amalia stuck her head just inside the door and said, “No, ma’am, ees no night. Ees morning. Joo wan’ breakfast, ma’am?”

“Don’t be absurd, Amalia. I’ve only just sat down and it cannot be much after eleven.”

“No, ma’am. Ees morning. Las chicas bonita, they eat. They go to school. Joo wan’ breakfast, ma’am?” Amalia repeated.

Roberta looked around the room and was surprised to see sunlight lighting up the sheer panels covering her window. She felt a little tired, but not at all hungry. She told herself she must have dozed off sitting on the bed and fallen backwards, only rising up when Amalia knocked. She needed a shower and a change of clothes. There was much to be done today with the Pryce-Plymouth estate and she simply did not have time for breakfast.

“No, Amalia, Go on. I’ll get a cup of coffee from Starbuck’s on the way to the Daughters’ office,” she said.

Amalia disappeared and before she had closed the door, Roberta was up and about, stripping off her blouse and skirt, then her bra and panties, tossing them into a white wicker clothes hamper before turning on the shower. She brushed her teeth while she waited for the water in the shower to warm up and, once steam was rising from the top of the curtain, she pulled it back and stepped under the hot water.

Finished with her shower, Roberta toweled herself off and picked up her blow drier, thumbing it on to the highest setting. She carefully kept her hair in a short, yet elegant, style and it seldom took her more than five minutes from wet to the finished product. She used the towel to wipe away the steam buildup from the bathroom mirror, but it only smeared. She could see her own reflection only an indistinct blur. Her hair might not need much attention, but it did require her to be able to see herself as she dried and brushed it into place. After another swipe with the towel produced no coherent reflection, she remembered the hand mirror. Laying the blow drier on the sink she padded into the bedroom and retrieved the mirror from the box. This was the first time, although she had possessed the mirror for almost half a day, that she had turned the mirror over and looked into its face. Her hair was damp and mussed, but her face was flushed with a youthful glow she had not seen in herself for years. She quickly blow dried her hair, styled it just so, and put the mirror on her dressing table as she dressed herself.

Instead of the table mirror, Roberta used the hand mirror as she applied her makeup. She was quite pleased with the overall look she achieved and decided to take a final look at herself in the hand mirror. She held it up to her face at the appropriate arm’s length and smiled at her reflection. Without warning, the image in the mirror blurred, swirling along the edges from a miniature maelstrom in the middle of the mirror. Roberta was fascinated by the colors and the pattern and stared at them with rapt attention. When the swirling slowed and eventually stopped, the image she saw was not her own. She could see her bedroom as if she were looking down on it from above, perhaps through a mirror-sized hole in the ceiling. The room was neatly arranged and the bed made, albeit the bedspread that covered her bed one she used over the winter months, not the spring pattern that now adorned her bed. As she watched, the door opened and Amalia came into the room, carefully closing the door. Amalia went straight to Roberta’s dressing table, opened one of the side drawers and removed Roberta’s ivory and cedar jewelry box. She sat it on the desktop, opened it up and pawed carelessly through the pieces of jewelry, finally removing a broach: a metallic butterfly, wings spread, with rubies and diamonds – quite genuine – describing a pattern across the wings. It had been a gift from Marcus on their tenth anniversary, but Roberta had always considered it tres gauche and only wore it when she attended the ever-decreasing gatherings with her in-laws. In the mirror, Amalia tucked the brooch into the pocket of her skirt, under her apron, and returned the jewelry box to its place. Before Amalia left the room, the vision faded, and all that could be seen in the mirror’s surface was Roberta’s face.

At first Roberta was shocked that Amalia would steal from her; then she became angry. Fueled by betrayal, in a scant few moments Roberta’s anger had matured into rage. Burning with a fury that is reserved for the righteous wronged, Roberta stormed out of the room, down the stairs and into the kitchen where she could hear Amalia doing the breakfast dishes. She flew across the kitchen floor and just as Amalia turned around toward her, Roberta backhanded her. Amalia stumbled back against the sink, her torn lip bleeding profusely and dripping onto her pale gray-and-white apron. Her cheeks, normally a nutty brown, went as white as virgin pine. A panicked stream of Spanish spilled out between her mangled lips but before she could find her pigeon English, Roberta had grabbed onto Amalia’s thinning gray hair and was dragging her toward the closest door. She slid the patio door open – slamming it so hard it came off the rails – and thrust Amalia through the opening, depositing her on the cement slab outside. A brittle snap!, followed by a shrill scream from Amalia, indicated that at least one of the bones in Amalia’s arm had broken. Amalia sat on the hard surface, words of shock and prayer broken only by gasps of breath and bouts of crying, cradling her wounded arm against her bosom.

“Fata Morgana! Shut up! Get out of here you thieving slut! You ungrateful spic! Fata Morgana! If I ever see you again I’ll give you something to cry about, you wetback bitch! Fata Morgana!” Roberta yelled at her. Roberta pulled on the patio door trying to close it but it would no longer move along the smooth grooves. Her anger not yet sated, Roberta pulled a vase of flowers off the breakfast nook table and flung them at Amalia yelling, “Fata Morgana! Get out! Get out! GET OUT!” Each exclamation punctuated by something else she had been able to lay hands on and fling after the retreating Amalia who had finally gained her feet and was shambling away on bruised and battered legs.

“Fata Morgana! Good riddance to bad rubbish! The thieving greaser and that god-awful pendant! And if she thinks she’s going to get a final paycheck from me, she has another thing coming. She kept the dress – which I provided – and it’s worth more than that dried up prune made in a week anyway. Fata Morgana! She should count her blessings that I haven’t turned her into immigration. Fata Morgana!” Roberta alternated between a barely audible mumble and a full-blown hissy fit as she climbed the stairs back to her room.

She saw the ebony box sitting where she had left it on her dressing table. She walked over and opened it, taking the mirror in hand and gazing at her reflection. How the mirror had returned to the box, how the box had been closed and latched, were thoughts she never entertained. She smiled at herself in the mirror as she preened. She looked absolutely fabulous! She was quite adorable in the afterglow of her tantrum. She needed to get her things together and meet with the steering committee of the Daughters about the estate sale, but she could hardly leave with her back door standing wide open, could she? So, rather than leaving, she sat down at her dressing table and looked into the mirror.

The surface of the mirror clouded as before, the colorful vortex spinning and weaving another vision for her. Once again, when the image solidified, Roberta was given a view of her bedroom; and as before it was an image from a time passed. She recognized the décor from when she and Marcus had first decided on separate bedrooms. An eight-year-old Katie was sitting in the middle of Roberta’s bed with a pile of Roberta’s shoes, trying them on. She would slip them on, climb off the bed and attempt to walk around in them before kicking them off, climbing back onto the bed and repeating the process with another pair of shoes. Roberta watched as Marcus entered the room and, smiling at the sight of his oldest daughter playing grown-up, sat on the bed and said, “Whatcha doing, Katie-Boo?” (That Roberta could hear the scene as well as see it, that perhaps something unnatural was occurring, was lost to her.)

“I’m playing Mommy!” Katie said. She teetered around the room in a pair of red heels pointing at imaginary people, “You’re dumb. My cat is smarter than you. Your baby is ugly. Your house is messy. Is that a new perfume or did you eat Mexican for lunch?” She giggled after the last one and kicked off the shoes. “Do I sound like Mommy, Daddy?”

“Just like her, Katie,” Marcus said as he scooped her up off the floor and set her on his knee. “Do you like playing Mommy?”

Katie nodded, “Uh huh. It’s fun. I’m ‘posta be nice all the time Grandma says, but when I play Mommy I can be as mean as I want!”

“You know that Mommy’s in the hospital, right?”

Katie nodded.

“Well, when Mommy comes home in a few days she’ll have a new little sister for you. Does that sound exciting?”

Katie pursed her lips in thought and considered the idea for a few moments before giving a reluctant nod, “I guess so.”

“So you like playing Mommy, huh? Well, how would you like to have Daddy play, too?”

Roberta watched, fascinated. Her heart was beating quickly, like in those tense seconds in a horror movie when everything looks safe and happy but you know – you just know – that the killer or monster or maniac is standing behind the curtains watching it all and you can do nothing to warn the oblivious soon-to-be victims. She watched as, through a serious of deftly asked questions and careful manipulation, Marcus soon had little Katie wearing an almost transparent red peignoir he had given Roberta on the previous Valentine’s Day. It was ridiculously long on her petite body but Marcus had no intentions of letting her wear it for too long.

Roberta cried as she watched the terrible things that the mirror showed her. She whispered, “Fata Morgana. Oh, God please. Fata Morgana. Fata Morgana.” It was a prayer, a mantra, magic words to ward off the imminent insanity. But no matter how many times she uttered the phrase, the mirror had another vision to show her. She watched as Marcus seduced – abused, molested – each of his daughters in turn. She watched as Katie no longer whimpered when Marcus touched her, but now sought him out whenever Roberta was not home, eager for his touch. She watched as the mirror showed Katie or Marie –sometimes even Katie and Marie – sneaking down the hall at night, past Roberta’s closed door, to crawl into Marcus’ bed with him. The final vision Roberta saw was Katie and Marie sitting on Katie’s bed hugging each other after Katie revealed she was pregnant with “Daddy’s baby.”

Shock morphed into disgust, which in turn gave way to hurt and betrayal, blossoming finally into rage. Not the rage she had felt when she found out her trusted housekeeper had stolen from her. Oh, no! That rage was to what she now felt as a paper match was to a blazing sun! Rage and hate. Hate and rage. Swirling around each other, merging and mingling, complimenting each other, strengthening each other, feeding off each other, like the gold and silver metals from which the mirror was formed.