Mirror, Mirror

Josie Mirabal sacrificed two and a half vacation days to meet her online lover. For the past month and a half, a man calling himself Mike Halverson had sent daily messages via her personal blog, Friends of Reflective Surfaces, sharing his opinion about all things shiny and, eventually, his interest in her. Josie’s collection of mirrored crystal figurines (she’d posted several photos of her favorite clowns and dancers) had initially attracted Mike’s attention. Although she did have other readers, he remained her most faithful fan. Their relationship escalated the night he sent a photo of himself dressed as the Knight of the Mirrors from the musical Man of La Mancha.  Although she couldn’t discern any facial features beneath the sparkling headdress, the rest of him appeared toned and muscular. Josie detected no furry chest, no stomach flab, no scars. Anxious to meet but aware of the potential for disappointment, she decided to host her First Annual Reflection Convention at a mutually acceptable site. After conducting a Zoomerang survey, she circled the attendees’ hometowns on a map and picked the most central location. Which turned out to be Cadiz, Ohio, a town with one claim to fame: Clark Gable once lived there. Josie posted information on accommodations, and the meet-and-greet was on.

 Of course, her mother told her she was crazy to drive off to meet some man who would probably turn out to be a pervert. Her best friend, Marci Moreno, suggested Josie might end up featured on one of those true crime shows on national TV. She shrugged off their warnings, reasoning that there would be others there to protect her. Besides, this might be her one shot at love with a capital L. Just in case she figured wrong, she stuffed her father’s .38 in the lining of her overnight bag. She’d only need one shot with that, too. 

A few minutes before noon, Stewart Panzeca, invited her into the accounting office of Panza Glass and Mirror. He motioned her to sit, settled himself at his desk, and sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup. The aroma of burnt arabica filled the room. When he raised his head to speak, she noticed the reflection of her wide eyes in his tinted prescription lenses.

“Have we,” Stewart said, “um, told you lately, um, how much we like you?”

“Since when are you the royal we, Stewart?” She licked her lips, hoping he’d offer her something to drink.

Stewart rocked his chair onto the back legs and lurched forward with a thunk. “I mean, appreciate. Rely on. Me. And Mark.”

That shook her a little. Stewart’s cousin, co-owner and general grump, never told anyone he liked them. Josie glanced over her shoulder, expecting Mark, all six feet four of hairy caveman with a disposition to match, to materialize behind her. But his office was dark. The hallway, stacked with mirrors, insulated glass doors and replacement windows waiting to be boxed for shipping, rippled with wavering images of Mark’s closed door. Josie observed a long line of Dali-like frames retreating into shadow.

“Mark not back yet?” She smoothed the wrinkles on her blouse.

 “Not yet. Extended vacation. Some business.” Stewart swallowed wrong, coughed for thirty seconds.

“You all right, Stewart?”

He thumped his chest with his fist, waved off her concern, and rattled on. “You’re the best salesperson we have, Josie, plus Mark says the site you created has tons of traffic.”

“You looked at my website?” Josie suffered a third-degree burn of embarrassment. Stewart wasn’t an Internet kind of guy. Besides, she hadn’t linked the store’s site to her own. Had he discovered her blog?

“Well, no.” He hunched closer to his unpolished, non-reflective, dull and dependable particle board desk. “Mark says it’s a really good marketing tool.”

“I’m glad,” she said. Shifting her weight in the bucket seat, the rock-hard plastic too unforgiving for a comfortable fit, Josie hoped super-fan Mike Halverson liked a woman with a firm behind.

Stewart cleared his throat. The gold chain in the mat of his exposed chest hair cast a bright smirk of accusation in Josie’s direction. Her own bare neck itched.

“We just closed your order for that new hotel out at Austin Landing. So, I, that is, we, Mark and I, think you deserve a reward. We’re promoting you. To assistant manager. Starting today.”

Startled, Josie stopped shifting. In the sudden imbalance of expectations, her chair tipped sideways. Gripping the chrome armrests to avoid a fall, Josie envisioned new duties, increased responsibility. A nugget of fear lodged in her throat. “I’m entitled to some time off, Stewart,” she croaked.

A bright mottle of red flushed up from Stewart’s collar, spreading like a tail across his cheeks. Josie popped herself out of the chair, smoothed down her blouse, and rested one ringless hand on the desk.

 “I’ll be glad to accept the promotion,” she said, “after I get back from Toboso.” Josie had no idea where Toboso was, or even if it existed, but she didn’t want Stewart following her to Cadiz, which did exist, and where, she fantasized, true love waited.

“Call me when you get there,” Stewart said, his mouth a little quivery. He stood up too fast. The cup dropped from his grip and rolled toward the edge of the desk. Crushing it with one meaty hand, he lobbed it at the waste basket. The cup hit the rim and bounced twice, spattering both their legs with a spray of dark brown drops. 

On her way out of the building, Josie stopped in the restroom to check her makeup. The woman staring back at her resembled a contestant on a game show, all tense smile and nervous hope. Wiping her hands on a paper towel, she scowled at her reflection. The mirror, she decided, and the Panzeca brothers could go to hell.

Only a handful of cars traveled Highway 35 east from Dayton to Interstate 71, but the by-pass around Columbus was a fright of late morning commuters and semi drivers heading God-knows-where. Josie merged onto Route 70 going toward West By-God Virginia and settled in for the two-hour drive to reach the bed and breakfast named after Cadiz’s most famous citizen. Just past a historic marker mentioning Cambridge, Ohio, as the birthplace of John Glenn, her cell phone hummed The Impossible Dream. Mike.

“Where are you?” Mike’s words boomed from the cell, his voice deep and mysterious. Sexy.

“East of Cambridge and west of the moon.” Josie blurted out. Then she groaned. If she’d been standing, she’d have kicked herself. West of the moon? Idiot.

“What?” Mike’s confusion rattled at her.

Choking on her own spit, she coughed once and spoke to the phone. “How are you?”

“Anxious to meet you,” Mike said. He cleared his throat. Static claimed the moment.

“I’ll check with the Lincoln Inn first, see who’s arrived. I’ll head over to the B and B after that.” Josie bit her lip to keep any more stupidities from erupting. “Um, when will you get there?”

“I’m afraid,” Mike said, “I can’t tonight.”

Long pause. She passed a sign warning Dangerous Curve.

“I’m really sorry.” Mike sounded like he’d crawled into a tunnel. Something gurgled in the background, like water running down a drain. “But you’ll have your other fans to keep you busy. You’re not too disappointed, are you?”

 “I was,” she sniffed, “looking forward to spending time with you.”

“I’ll be there tomorrow, and we’ll have Friday together,” Mike offered, his words slower now, more deliberate. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

The phone beeped once and cut off. Out of range, Josie thumbed the silicone cover and wiggled in her seat, waiting for Mike to call again. Disappointed. Chagrined. She pouted for ten minutes. Jerk. Then, lulled by the hum of the tires, she wondered if he looked as good as he sounded. This rendezvous might lead to a five-star romance. Flowers, candlelight dinners, a ring on that empty finger. Maybe she could quit spending every weekend at Marci’s decorating cupcakes with her goddaughters. Stop moving in the shadow of someone else’s life. The ache to step away from the dull predictability of her present life, to be Alice falling through the looking glass into the heart of wild adventure, pounded away at her. She checked herself in the rearview mirror. Her lipstick, Avon’s Wet, Wild and Wonderful, was half-chewed off. Wisps of frizzy bangs drifted in the breeze from the air conditioning vents.

“I look,” Josie mumbled at her reflection, “like a chia pet.” Lowering her eyes, she stole quick glances at the nav app on her phone. The next big turn in her life waited only ten miles down the road.

The Clark Gable Bed and Breakfast slumbered under the press of July humidity, its parking lot empty. An unexpected fall of late afternoon rain pocked the asphalt. The museum house, tidy and unassuming, pursed its lips behind a sign half as large as the front exterior. Josie checked her phone. No follow-up from Mike. She called the Lincoln. No one had checked in yet. Odd. At least ten of her fellow reflectors had agreed to attend. She looked at Missed Calls again. Stewart’s number popped up on the screen. A personal problem or something work-related? Shaking off the drip of conscience and concern, she tugged her purse from the passenger seat and hurried up the walk. The two pines in front of the main house plopped raindrops on her head in a staccato of welcome and warning.

Inside, a tidy gift shop shared space with posters of Gable’s most famous movies, headshots of the actor in various roles, and other, more recent photos of museum celebrations and fundraisers. Obviously, Gable wasn’t in any of those. By the time Cadiz decided to honor its most famous resident, history had moved on, and Clark no longer inhabited the mortal plane.

A small, busty woman with gray hair and a smile like a curlicue looked up from the counter.

“Mrs. Halverson?” The woman offered her hand, then leaned closer. “I’m Nan Gardiner. Your husband called to say you’d be arriving soon. I think it’s so romantic.”

Mrs. Halverson? Annoyance revved up behind her eyes, zoomed to anger, shifted down. Did Mike think she intended to room with him? Sweet but presumptuous. Shades of Stewart.

“You must have misunderstood,” Josie said. “I’m Josie Mirabal, and I’ll be staying in my own room.”

“Well,” Nan Gardiner pulled at the chain around her neck, “I’m sure I did not misunderstand, but no matter. We have extra rooms now that the others have canceled.”

“Canceled?” Josie experienced a flutter of doubt.

“Why, Miss Whitehead and Mr. and Mrs. Jones. Said they understood plans change.”

“I’m afraid,” Josie said, frowning, “I don’t understand.”

 Nan fiddled with papers by the register, then rushed through her next words. “Well, that’s what they said. At least Mr. Halverson’s still coming. He indicated he’d be arriving later than expected, and that you’d take care of the charges, and I was to settle you in and show you around. Now, here are your breakfast coupons for Vicki’s Place.” She handed Josie a restaurant voucher and took her credit card to ring. Josie studied a collection of ballpoint pens labeled Gone With the Wind. 

Nan glanced up. “It’s awfully muggy today, isn’t it? No wonder you’re sweating.”

Josie changed the subject. “What about dinner tonight?”

“Options in Cadiz are a bit limited, I’m afraid, but the hospital here in town serves a wonderful buffet. Most of us enjoy going there at least once a week. I think you’ll find some other possibilities on this list.” Nan slid the credit card slip across the counter along with a brochure listing the names of three pizza parlors, two carryouts and a casual beer and burger joint on Route 149. Josie noted that all the finer dining establishments were located at least fifteen miles away. Suppressing an impulse to get back in her car and drive home, she tucked the papers in her purse and signed the receipt. The anger ember flared again. Then she recalled Mike’s final words. “I promise.” So sincere, so husky with affection and longing. She guessed she could stick it out until he arrived.

Nan led her through the museum house toward the back ramp, built to accommodate handicapped visitors who ventured into southeastern Ohio eager to brush up against celebrity. Those who arrived, enamored of the romantic era symbolized by the actor’s good looks and charming smile, had to be disappointed in the brevity of his life in this spot. Josie wondered about this small town long removed from its own fast times when coal was king and all the important roads didn’t run miles away from here. Cadiz, infected with a desire to recapture the illusion of greatness, receded in history’s rear-view mirror.  With a last glance at the postcard rack, Josie followed Nan out the door.

Beyond the museum, a narrow driveway segued into grass as it circled a nineteen-fifties rambler built into the hillside.

“This is the actual bed and breakfast.” Nan gestured with the key. “And it’s all yours the rest of the week. Yours and Mr. Halverson’s. No other guests are expected until Monday.”

“Oh,” Josie said. Theirs? Alone? She held the screen door open for Nan, whose abrupt stop on the landing caused Josie to plow right into her.

“Have to check the sump pump,” Nan said, waving Josie up the two steps to the kitchen. She lifted down a large flashlight from a ledge along the stairs leading to the cellar. “Our new handyman only worked till noon, and the pump doesn’t always turn off like it should.”

Josie listened to Nan navigate the narrow stairwell while the smell of musty cellar trickled up from below. She catalogued the kitsch of window ornaments, the brown Formica and chrome table, lace curtains and scrupulously clean floor. The house frowned at her cutoffs and peasant blouse. Josie shivered. Then Nan popped back up, replaced the flashlight ,and led her down the hall.

“Just needed a good shake. I hope it won’t keep you up.” The woman brushed invisible lint off her skirt as she swished down the hall. “You have the Gable and Lombard suite. She was Mr. Gable’s favorite wife, you know. And this is the very bedroom furniture Mr. Gable and his last wife, Kay Spreakles, used. We obtained it from the estate before it went to auction. Oh, and if Mr. Halverson is interested, Mr. Gable’s 1954 Cadillac DeVille is stored in the garage right below your room. It’s a beauty. Powder blue with a black top. Quite unusual, really.”

A small tremor of anticipation caused Josie to stumble. She imagined the sump pump chugging in the blind basement, the underground water sloshing through cast-iron pipes, carrying moisture to the strange, pleated, dark seams of coal country.

Nan escorted her into the bedroom. On the dresser, a small post office mailer rested against a spray of red, white, and pink tulips in a pebbled green vase. Nan clapped her hands to her chest, delighted to show off the furnishings to her new guest. Josie, however, was looking at the trifecta of mirrors embracing the dresser, the triple panes of glass reflecting her bare arms and ample thighs from multiple angles. She sucked in her stomach and tried to breathe.

“Such a romantic, Mr. Halverson,” Nan said, slipping the key into Josie’s hand and nodding toward the flowers. “I hope you’ll enjoy your stay.”

Josie picked up the package, turning her back on the reflection of a thirty-five-year-old single white female hoping to get lucky with a man she met over the Internet. The mailer resisted her efforts to tear it open. She shuffled through the side pocket of her purse, fingers seeking the manicure scissors hiding there. The tiny blades strained to separate the filament tape from the paper. When she cut through the final band, the package slipped from her hand, bounced across the rug, and skidded up against the baseboard. A book peeked out, the title half-hidden by the wrapping. The cover displayed a black and white reproduction of Goya’s “The Sleep of Reason.” Squatting, Josie pulled it free and studied the title. No Man Of Her Own: Erotic Fantasy Poems for the Sleepy Female by some wag named Al Donsa. Shivering, Josie crammed the book back into the envelope and buried it at the bottom of her purse.

The air conditioner cycled on, a blast of cold across her forehead. She turned off the thermostat and opened the windows, one beside the bed, the other near the dresser. Cross-ventilation. The drone of a lawnmower and the crunch of tires reminded her that, despite her attempts to shake up her own dull situation, life in Cadiz carried on as usual.   

Unzipping her overnight bag, Josie rooted among the color-coordinated outfits, searching for her toiletry case. Her hand brushed against the black satin nightgown, the one she had discovered on the clearance rack one wintry Saturday in Vanity’s Fair Boutique. Josie had stashed it away, hoping for a special occasion to test its appeal. Now it rested, anticipating itself, next to a pair of plus-size capris and a flowered top from Coldwater Creek. Her knuckles bumped against the handle of the gun. With a shrug, Josie shoved it under one of the pillows on the bed. Prevention, she remembered her mom saying, was worth a pound of cure.

Wandering down the hall, she peeked in the bedrooms Nan had described as the It Happened One Night and the Command Decision suites. Just past the kitchen, she found a niche decorated with paper cutouts of Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler. Several ceramic dinner plates bore the image of Tara Plantation.

Josie entered a small dining room. More postcards, displayed in faux walnut frames, caught her eye. Gable with various dignitaries and wives. The five-by-seven black-and-white in front of the plantation facade should have pictured the actor with Vivian Leigh. She held the picture closer. Photoshopped over Leigh’s face, Josie recognized her own features, a miniature version of her blog photo. Next to her, in place of Gable, stood the masked Mike Halverson. One of his arms curled around her waist. The other held a riding crop.

Slamming the photo down on the buffet, Josie held her breath. She twisted around. Was Mike here after all? And what happened to the others, June and Carrie and Miles Jones? Why had they decided not to come? She looked from one curtained window to the next, listening for voices, footsteps, street sounds. Nothing. The tick tock of the wall clock in the kitchen plodded on, a metronome of normalcy. The how of the photograph warred with the why. Maybe she had imagined herself in the picture. She checked again. Her own face gazed back at her through the shimmering glass.

Stashing the photograph in one of the buffet drawers, she wandered into a living room area, complete with a video-game-only computer and a card table bearing a movie puzzle. In the far corner stood a life-size cardboard figure of the star himself in his role as the dashing Rhett Butler. Dimples flashing, smile blazing, he held a cigar pointed straight at the edge of her desire. His eyes inquired if she’d like to have a go at love.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Josie said, poking at Gable’s striped vest. The mirror over the fireplace leered at her.

Feeling claustrophobic from the crush of memorabilia, the creepy picture, and the pull of curiosity -- did Mike have dimples like Gable? A cleft in his chin? Hands that slipped like butter over breasts and thighs? Or was he the pervert her mom and Marci surmised? - Josie decided it was not too early for dinner. When she stepped across the landing that led down to the basement, the sump pump kicked on, shifting water from one subterranean fault line to another.

 In DiAngelo’s, a towny mix of substantial salad bar and three-dollar draft beers doing business in a recycled Victorian, she ordered a cheese pizza and an iced tea. Settling into a booth in the back, she watched the dark come on. Her phone rested, silent and anchor-like, in her back pocket. She pulled it out to check for messages, called the Lincoln again. More cancellations. The clerk on duty said he hoped she was feeling better. The roaming icon blinked steadily, and the battery showed only two bars. She’d have to charge it soon.

Feeling light-headed, Josie headed back to the B and B. No moon. The canopy of trees muted the traffic sounds as she turned onto Charleston Street. Light from the surrounding houses spread thin bands of illumination across the sidewalk. Josie imagined walking with a man beside her. Stewart? Mike? Perhaps they’d hold hands, their hips bumping as they strolled. She thought of Stewart’s last request from their morning meeting: Call me when you get there. Of course, he’d corrected that slip, but the flit of his eyes revealed the truth. The big dope was in love with her. Why couldn’t she love him back?

“Because I want more out of life than small-town Stewart Panzeca.” Josie clapped her hand over her mouth. Her desire for a life beyond Stewart and Panza Glass and Mirror and a bungalow in some boring suburban tract pressed at her. Dismissing as nerves the light fall of footsteps behind her, she hurried on.

The museum slumbered, its memorabilia tucked away for the night. Her car appeared abandoned, lonely. Moving past the back stairway, she glimpsed the ghost of Gable’s mother, pre-diabetic, her feet already on the path to the end of her life, panting as she lugged water and groceries to the second floor. Pregnant with Clark, who slumbered unaware, in his amniotic bliss, of the journey his own life would take. Startled out of her fantasy by the beep of an incoming call, Josie slumped against the handrail and pushed Talk.

“Josie?” Her name rumbled out, Stewart’s anxiety almost as great as her own. “Did you forget to call?”

Her internal war resumed. Flattered. Annoyed. Annoyance won. “I’m on vacation, Stewart.”

“Sorry.” He paused long enough to make Josie feel guilty. “Are you having a good time?”

What, Josie wondered, could she say to that? My fans all bailed? Mike stood me up? I’ve embarrassed myself, again?

“You’re too nice for me, Stewart.” She straightened her shoulders and looked around, just in case someone really was stalking her. “I appreciate the call. I do. It’s just that I need a little space right now, and having my boss call on my day off is not appropriate.”

“You might want to rethink our relationship,” Stewart said, “before it’s too late.” He hung up.

Thumbing the cell light off and on, Josie asked herself for the thousandth time what was so wrong with Stewart Panzeca. Every answer she came up with fluttered away like the moths around the porch light of The Clark Gable Bed and Breakfast.

As soon as she turned the key in the lock, Josie realized she had forgotten to turn on the night lights. She felt her way through the deep pockets of shadow pooled in front of the other rooms. The doors had all been open when she left. She tried one of the knobs. Locked. Maybe some other guests had checked in after all. Then she heard a loud sucking, a burp of hunger and command. The sump pump.

 Tiptoeing back to the kitchen, she leaned her head against the stairwell opening, the feathery presence of past guests mocking her anxiety. Stepping down to the landing, she flipped the light switch. Nothing happened. She tried a second time, a third. The lights did not come on. Reaching for the flashlight Nan had carried earlier, Josie aimed the beam downward and edged her way from step to step. At the bottom, she stumbled onto an earthen floor. Dampness oozed up her legs. Stooping to avoid the low ceiling, Josie swept the light in a circle. It rippled over pallets stacked with boxes. Souvenir plates. Museum posters. The black grin of a scythe hanging above a workbench. A hacksaw. A hammer. A broken mirror leaned against the wall, revealing her from the hips down in the cracked and canted glass. Josie as a disembodied pair of thighs and calves. She discovered a door to her left, followed the flashlight’s beam and twisted the knob open. Beyond, the polished surface of an automobile glared at her. Gable’s Cadillac, a secret ride in an underground garage.

Backpedaling, the stutter of her own breathing swallowed by the sloshing of the pump, Josie shuffled toward the corner. In the uncovered well, water trickled from three corrugated pipes, the black tenor of its trickling a counterpoint to the pump’s bass. Ignoring the images skittering around inside her head - spiders, water bugs, snakes, rats - Josie grabbed the pipe and shook it twice. It shivered like a live thing, hiccupped, and settled back into a low hum. Around her, in the dark, rose the rumor of its complaint.

Upstairs, she returned the flashlight to its perch and slipped back down the hall. Pausing before the closed door of her suite, she listened for the echo of passion, the rumble of the movie star lovers somewhere along the slipstream of history, but all she heard was the whoosh of her own heartbeat. The muffled symphony of crickets filtered in through the opened windows.  Wrenching her key loose, Josie stepped into the room, turned on the dresser lamp, and yelped. Under the covers, a man lay stretched out, the bulge of his body wrinkling the bedspread. 

Josie squeezed her elbows tight against her ribs. She wished she had the flashlight to use as a club. Her knees trembling from the adrenaline rush, she remembered the gun. It lay, just her luck, directly beneath the sleeping man’s head. She inched backward into the hall. The man didn’t move. Edging back into the room, she stared harder at the still figure. A familiar grin, dimples winking in a cheeky face. Slumping into the bedside armchair, she covered her mouth to keep her relief from spilling over into hysteria. The cardboard cutout of Clark Gable grinned up at her. Someone had carried him from the living room, tucking him in the exact spot she had fantasized Mike Halverson might occupy.

The chime of an incoming text made her twitch. Marci.

R U in bed? ;)

Pressing Marci’s automatic call button, Josie pulled her shirt loose from her chest. Marci picked up on the second ring.

“Tell me everything,” she barked.

“He’s a no-show,” Josie said. She glanced at Clark Gable. “But he sent his avatar.”

“Josie,” Marci shifted to her mother-of-toddlers’ voice, “you’re not making sense.”

“Mike Halverson’s not here. None of the others showed up either. But Clark Gable is lying in my bed.”

“What?”

Josie imagined Marci cupping the phone in her palm, shaking her perky curls and snuggling deeper in her Barcalounger. Her best friend, the one who never did anything wild, clearing the way to tsk-tsk over the latest chapter in Josie’s uncoupled life.

“Apparently everyone thinks I’m sick. They all canceled their reservations. Mike’s not coming until tomorrow. “She took a deep breath. “And someone put Clark Gable in my bed.”

“Well, you wanted adventure,” Marci soothed. “I guess you got it.”

Brushing at the tears that clouded her view of the grinning cardboard Lothario, Josie glanced in the mirror. “I’m not sure who I am anymore.”

“Well, Josefina María Elena Mirabal, you are the newly promoted assistant manager of Panza Mirror and Glass,” Marci said. “You don’t need any man to make you whole.”

“You did.” Josie gnawed on her thumb.

“Yeah, well, that’s because I don’t have your brains.” Marci said. “Or your guts.”

“Some brains,” Josie snorted. “I’m alone in a bedroom in a town whose name nobody pronounces correctly, talking to my best friend in the world by cell phone and wondering, like, if Mike Halverson ever really existed. Ridiculous.”

“Then leave,” Marci urged, “Come home. Now.”

The thought of navigating the unfamiliar hilly back roads of southeastern Ohio on a moonless night made her cringe. Besides, maybe Mike really was working late. Maybe one of the other fans would show up tomorrow. Maybe the figure in her bed was just a weird joke by the museum staff. The image of Nan Gardiner toting cardboard Clark down the hall made her laugh so hard she had to hold her stomach to keep from peeing her pants.

“No,” she said at last, “I can’t come back. Not tonight.”

Marci coughed twice before she spoke. “Don’t make me come after you.” Her fake threat unnerved Josie more than her concern. What if Marci or her mother had to come to Cadiz to identify her body? She listened to the crickets while the white lace curtains swayed in the warm evening breeze. 

“Stewart called.” Marci said. “He’s worried. About you. Are you sure?”

 Josie knew what she was asking. Marci lobbied for Stewart on a regular basis, arguing that stability and caring counted more than passion. White knights, Marci said, were knights-errant for a reason. They tended to drift in and out of your life, undependable, fey. Marci didn’t understand about the empty spaces in Josie’s days, how much she longed to experience the grand adventure, the windmill experience. Life had to hold more than a collection of shiny crystal statues and email postings from cyber friends.

Touching one finger to Clark’s chin, Josie sighed. The lamp threw its weight against the night. The mirrored dresser wavered. If she looked at it head-on, she wasn’t certain whose face would appear.

Heat from the shower steamed up the glass, leaving a damp residue over all the bathroom fixtures. Toweling off, Josie slipped the new nightgown over her head and wiggled the material down her hips. What a waste! Swiping at the moisture on the glass, she brushed her teeth, fluffed her hair and stepped into the bedroom. Clark had returned to his customary spot in the parlor.

 The cricket symphony drew Josie to the window. She switched off the lamp and leaned her face against the screen. The glow from the parking lot didn’t quite reach the bed and breakfast. Along the tree line that separated the museum house from the street, a darker shadow caught her eye. There! A figure stood, not quite motionless, shuffling a little as the wind blew.  She backed away from the window just as the person stepped forward, raised one hand and waved.

Josie flattened herself against the wall. Could she be seen? Where was her gun? She stepped to the bed, sweeping her hand under the pillow where Gable’s head had rested less than an hour ago. No gun. She tossed back the covers, spread both hands across the mattress. The gun was gone. Back at the window, she strained to locate the shadow. She saw the glint of a reflection as he passed through a sliver of light. The man, certainly it was a man, wore a mirrored mask. Mike Halverson? The mask sparked again. Josie leaned back against the closet door and tried to control her breathing. When she looked a third time, the man in the mask had disappeared.

Phone. Where had she put the damn phone? A vision of herself lying stunned and violated lashed at her. Hiking the silk gown above her knees, she crawled over to the chair where her purse spilled its contents across the seat cushion. She had just poked in Marci’s number when the battery died. Grabbing her bag, she dragged it into the bathroom. Shoving a hand inside, she scrabbled for the charging cord. It, too, was gone. Had she even packed it? Abandoning the search, she struggled to pull the nightgown over her head. Below her, in the basement, something roared. The pump. She tugged on the sweaty peasant blouse, the dirty shorts and crammed her toiletries back in the bag. Soft sobs huffed out of her dry mouth. She crawled back into the room, dragging her bag with her. Eyes at floor level, legs sprawled, she inched toward the bed. Then she saw the gun tucked in a corner beneath the dresser. Josie glanced up at the window. The man in the mask stared in.

“Josie?” His voice, low, hoarse, with an accent at once familiar and unknown. “You look awful good tonight.”

Josie stopped moving. Maybe he couldn’t see her. She stretched her hand toward the gun, feeling exposed, laid out like a sacrificial beast.

“Josie? Are you there?” Hesitation. A scratch of nails against the screen. Silence.

Her heart thudded so hard she thought it would pound a hole in her chest, send her blood to drain down the same fault lines as the dark water below. Then she heard him at the door. “Josie? I know you’re in there. Can I come in?”

Again, the mix of familiar and strange. Perhaps the mask changed more than his face. The man whispered, his voice slurry with caution. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Won’t you let me in?”

Isn’t that what vampires say, just before they suck the life out of you? Shrugging off the crazy thought, she scooted over to the door. “Go away,” she said. “I’ve called 9-1-1.”

“No, you haven’t.” The statement, deliberate, calculating, shook her. How did he know?

“I have a gun.” She released the safety.

“I took out the bullets.” He jiggled the doorknob.

Josie groaned. She popped the barrel. Empty. Then she remembered the extra bullets in with her makeup. She fumbled through her bag one more time, desperate to locate the small, zippered sack.

“You know,” his words slipped through the cracks, “we’re all alone. You might as well open the door.”

She touched the pouch, lost her grip, grabbed it again. The zipper stuck twice on the lining.  She ripped it free, rooted around for the bullets, dropped one round on the carpet. She managed to load three before she heard the key turn in the lock. Scrambling up, she backed away. The man in the mask leaned in, the scales on his chin sparkling like a star too far away to name.

Sweat furred her spine, dripped between her breasts. “Take off the mask,” she said.

“I thought you enjoyed the mystery, Jo, the thrill of the unknown.” He crossed his arms.

Josie swiped at her nose with the back of her hand and jerked the gun up.

“I didn’t think it would be like this.” Her eyes burned. She swallowed hard, backed up against the bed. “Take off the mask.”

The man stepped back, lifting one mirrored edge. Josie squinted into the dim swirl of night and disappointment. 

 “Stewart?”

“No.” The man stepped closer. His fingers scrabbled against the wall, seeking the light switch. He flipped it on and Josie, shivering and revealed in the bright glare, stared into the hungry face of Mark Panzeca. “Are you going to shoot me?”

She couldn’t stop herself. Laughter boiled out in loud gasps and snorts until the tears took over.

“What are you doing here?” Josie clutched her arms to her sides to stop the tremors.

“Look,” he said, “don’t blame Stewart. This was my idea. After I read your blog.”

“My blog?” Warm creepers of shame spread down her legs. “You and Stewart?”

“Stewart helped me write the emails, to get you interested, but he didn’t want me to come here. He wanted you to see him as the better choice. You know, after Mike didn’t show. We had a fight about it.”

“The book? The picture? Gable in my bed?” Her legs were shaking. She sat down.

“Guilty,” Mark said, jingling the key ring on his belt. “The museum needed a caretaker. I needed access.”

Josie flushed. All the rage of the day boiled inside her, the shame of her desire.

“Man,” Mark ran his tongue over his teeth, “you sure look good.”  

It came to her then, staring at Mark’s shorn chest, the mask dangling from one hand, his eyes lingering on her lips. She could claim self-defense. He was an intruder. She had a right to protect herself. Sweet revenge. Payback. She raised the gun and steadied her aim.

Panic flushed over Mark. He lifted his arms. She shifted her weight for balance when a new thought intruded. Why not? No one knew he was here. Below her, the sump pump cycled on, reminding her of secret places. Gable’s car in the garage. Earthen floors and hidden water. Pointing the gun at his chest, she motioned him toward the door.

“Put the mask back on,” she said. “We’re going for a ride.”

Thursday morning, regrets circled in the pre-dawn stillness. A bird called. Josie didn’t recognize the melody, brief, fierce, forgotten before it ended. She repacked her makeup, the nightgown and her shattered dream of romance into the overnight bag. The pistol bulged from the lining. She took it out. The matte steel grey of the piece refused to reflect on her disappointment. Touching the blood blister on her thumb, Josie pivoted, taking in the bed, the TV with the broken VCR, the opaque shower glass. The mirror above the dresser winked, its three panels eager to render a verdict. She stood in front of the glass. Turned her head from side to side. Bent to peer at the hollows beneath her eyes. What could they tell her, these mute panes? No mirror could reveal more than the truth she already knew. She’d made her command decision. Mike and Mark and Stewart, all gone with that proverbial wind.

Josie stepped back behind the bathroom door. Aiming at the woman in the mirror on the left, she pulled the trigger. Empty. She sighted on the right-hand image. Another vacant chamber.  Leveling the gun on the center target, she imagined a live round exploding from the gun. Shards of glass flying out from the mirror, a starburst of reflections twinkling and fading as the dawn light swelled. Jagged slivers piercing her face, her hands, her bare shins. She sniffed, tasting the gunpowder air. Shaking her head, listening for cars, for birdsong, the momentary deafness stranding her like a bucket at the bottom of an empty well. The mirror, untouched by her appeal, refused to speak. She grabbed her bag and carried it down the hall.

Nan had her credit card information. Tomorrow or next week or next month, when they looked in the trunk of Clark Gable’s Cadillac, they’d find their caretaker’s body, folded in like a deck of cards.

“Get in.” She refused to look him in the eye.

“I’m claustrophobic, Jo.” Mark, blubbering. “Please don’t make me.”

“I’ll leave you the flashlight.” She tossed it in and slammed the trunk. “So you won’t be afraid of the dark.”

In bed, unrepentant, she dozed off to Mark’s muffled banging and the sump pump draining and the pounding of her heart until each sound retreated, like those Dali doors down the hall at work. Then she slept.

Rubbing her eyes with her thumbs to keep back the tears that doubled her vision, Josie eased the car out of the parking lot. Someone would come looking for her, but not this minute, not before she had driven out of town along one of those winding backcountry roads. Heading toward the interior of a dream. Following the beveled edges of her own roadmap. Searching for a new truth to replace the one she had just blown away.