She’s staring hard now at nothing; her fingers fiddle with a phantom cigarette while her eyes dice up the empty space before her. Nobody makes me do anything, she says. I don’t get what’s wrong. There’s not any harm in it. Just because somebody says. It’s just different, dig? Like you and Claudio.
You don’t know shit about me and him.
She blinks. Then her eyes sweep the stairway — mechanical and eerie, like the eyes of an old porcelain doll — and they settle on his face. She fixes him with a watery sneer. You’re a child, she says. I don’t care where you’ve been, or what you’ve done. To me you’re just a kid.
She holds his gaze for a couple of breaths, then looks away again. Almost like she’s bored. There’s plenty of space now between her and the wall, enough to push through. It’s stupid for him to stay here any longer.
So, Stanley says. What’s with upstairs? The furniture. The marks on the floor.
Her sneer gets sharper, crueler. What do you think it is? she says.
He shuffles his feet. Magic shit, he mumbles. An altar.
I bet, Cynthia says, that you would just love to see what goes on up there. Wouldn’t you? To be a little fly on the wall. I’ll bet you’d sit there on the bench, and fold your hands in your lap, and you’d never make one single peep.
For a second — just a second — Stanley’s face feels hot.
I don’t believe a word of it, she says. Just so you know. All the mumbo-jumbo’s lost on me, dad. It’s all pretty silly, I think. Juvenile. All that time and effort, trying to catch ghosts. There aren’t any ghosts. It’s weak-minded and sad, thinking like that. You read that book Atlas Shrugged? That’s where I’m coming from, man.
Stanley leans against the wall, crosses his arms to hide the shake. Well, he says. I guess that pretty much makes you a goddamn whore, then. If you don’t believe it.
Her mouth falls open with a tiny gasp. Not shocked: surprised. Like he’s just handed her a flower that he’d kept hidden behind his back.
Then she throws her head back and laughs. It’s not a fake laugh, either. It sounds a little relieved, a little insane. Stanley’s mother laughed that way when his grandfather died, for hours and hours. It was about the last sound Stanley ever heard her make.
It’s a while before Cynthia can breathe well enough to speak. Poor Adrian! she wheezes. He thinks he conjured me. Did Claudio tell you that? No joke. It’s pathetic, dig? Wanting to see! Wanting to know! I don’t get it. I mean, it’s not like I enjoy what we do. It can be kind of a drag, honestly. But I get home-cooked chow, I get a nice place to sleep, I get some extra pocket change. I make choices, just like anybody. This is a whole lot better than where I came from, believe me.
Yeah? Stanley says. Where did you come from?
The question snuffs what’s left of her smile; a flicker of the blankness returns. Then she grins: a broad bottomless grin. She looks like a kid who’s figured out how to burn ants with a magnifying glass. Hell, she says. I came from hell.
That brings on a fresh round of sniggering. Soon she’s doubled over, wracked by hiccups, wiping her watery eyes. A whore! she says. That’s perfect, Clyde. And not just any old whore, either! Oh, no! Man, that’s really good. That’s a regular scream.
Yeah, Stanley says. Hilarious.
He draws the pistol from his belt and tips up the safety-lever and points the slim round barrel at her face. Cynthia looks at it, confused. Her wide mouth closes; her full pink lips curdle into a frown. She doesn’t seem scared. The two of them stare at each other. She hiccups again: a soft fleshy cluck in the dim quiet.
Get up here, Stanley says.
He marches her into the study, then across it, to the black door. Where are we going? she says. What are you gonna do?
We’re not going anywhere, toots. I’m dusting out. First I gotta lock you up.
Where is everybody? Did you kill them?
She asks the question in the same mildly curious tone that she might ask Have you heard the new Johnnie Ray album? or Is that a new Van Heusen shirt you’re wearing? It wrongfoots Stanley for a second. My buddy got hurt, he says. Synnøve and Adrian took him to see a doctor. I got cops looking for me. A lot of cops. I don’t want to be around when people get home.
As Cynthia draws the black curtain aside, she stops and turns to face him with a toss of her hair. Her eyes are wide, thrilled. The boardwalk? she says. That was you?
What? Did you see something?
I saw cops. Some ambulances. They said it was a gang brawl, that three guys got hurt real bad. Was one Claudio?
No. The kid’s fine. Just a little knocked-around is all. Did they say — did you hear if anybody died?
She pivots on her heels, still hiccupping quietly. The curtain’s draped like a toga over her shoulder, her left breast. She shakes her head no.
Stanley looks at her. Then he looks at the floor. Then he sighs. Okay, he says. Step back. I’m gonna shut the door.
They want me to have a kid, Cynthia says. Did Claudio tell you?
Stanley stops. His left hand rests on the smooth black wood near the doorknob. The heavy door sways easily with his touch. Is that a fact, he says.
If I do it, she says, they’ll get me my own pad. They’ll pay the rent, for six whole years. They’ll pay my tuition to UCLA if I want to go. I just have to have the kid, and give it to them. Do you think I should do it?
Stanley feels dizzy again, feverish. His vision is tunneling. What the hell do they want a kid for? he says.
Beats me, man. You’re asking the wrong chick. I don’t know what anybody would want a kid for. But I guess it’s all part of their—
She waggles her fingers in the air, jerks her head toward the candlelit room over her shoulder. You know, she says. She hiccups again.
Cold sweat drips down Stanley’s temple, along his stubbly jaw. What are they gonna do with it? he says.
Cynthia shrugs. She fans the black curtain before her like a lacy petticoat, or a Dracula cape. Her huge-pupiled eyes lock on his. Do you think I should do it? she says.
Stanley looks at her. Then he looks at his hand, pale against the door’s black edge, its veins too clear under the skin. It seems detached, lifeless. Nothing to do with him. Surfaces seem flat and static, equidistant. Like this room is just a painting of a room. He’s getting sick again, passing out.
So, he says — his voice hollow in his ears, too loud — who’s the proud poppa gonna be? Your dear old Daddy Warbucks, right?
Now she has the curtains pulled tight against both sides of her face, bunched in her hidden hands. She’s a talking mask, afloat in a void. I guess that depends on who you ask, she says. And what you believe.
Stanley blinks hard, shaking his head, trying to regain his bearings. Cynthia’s disembodied face seems to rise, to advance toward him, a cold moon in starless dark. The sight of it already feels like a bad dream, one that he’ll have many more times.
Well, Stanley says, good luck to you, Cynthia.
He swings the door shut on her cute button nose and slides the big bolt home. Then he sinks to the floor — gulping air, trying to get blood back to his brain — and presses his forehead to the smooth wood.
From the other side comes the girl’s muffled voice. Hey, she shouts. My name isn’t really Cynthia, you know.