Richard Montanari - Play dead

In the darkness, in the deep violet folds of night, he hears whispers: low, plaintive sounds that dart and shudder and scratch behind the wainscoting, the cornice, the parched and wormy wood lath. At first the words seem foreign, as if uttered in another language, but as dusk inches toward dawn he comes to recognize every voice-every pitch, tone, and timbre-as a mother would her child on a crowded playground.

Some nights he hears a solitary scream rage beneath the floorboards, stalking him from room to room, down the grand staircase, across the foyer, through the kitchen and pantry, into the consecrated silence of the cellar. There, below ground, entombed by a thousand centuries of bone and fur, he accepts the gravity of his sins. Perhaps it is the dampness itself that accuses, icy droplets on stone shimmering like tears on a brocade bodice.

As memories flower, he recalls Elise Beausoleil, the girl from Chicago. He recalls her proud manner and capable hands, the way she bargained in those final seconds, as if she were still the prettiest girl at the prom. A Dickensian waif in her high boots and belted coat, Elise Beausoleil liked to read. Jane Austen was her favorite, she said, although she considered Charlotte Bronte a close second. He found a yellowed copy of Villette in her purse. He kept Elise in the library.

In time he recalls Monica Renzi, her thick limbs and body hair, the frisson of exhilaration as he enthusiastically raised his hand like one of her contemptuous classmates when she asked why. The daughter ofa Scranton shopkeeper, Monica liked to dress in red; shy and wordstruck and virginal. Monica once told him that he reminded her of a young banker in one of those old movies she watched with her grandmother on Saturday nights. Monica's room was the solarium.

He recalls the thrill of the chase, the bitter coffees consumed in rail stations and bus terminals, the heat and noise and dust of amusement parks and Home Days and county fairs, the frigid mornings in the car. He recalls the excitement of driving through the city, his quarry so delicately in hand, the puzzle enticingly engaged.

In time, in that gauzy cleave between shade and light, in that gray confessional of dawn, he remembers it all. Each morning the house falls silent. Dust settles, shadows depart, voices still.

On this morning he showers and dresses and breakfasts, steps through the front door onto the porch. Daffodils near the sidewalk fence greet him, brazen blonds spiriting through the cold sod. A breeze carries the first breath of spring.

Behind him looms a sprawling Victorian house, a lady of long-faded finery. Her back gardens and side yards are overgrown, her stone paths tufted, her gutters dense with verdigris. She is the very museum of his existence, a house crafted at a time when dwellings ofsuch distinction and character were given names, names that would enter the consciousness of the landscape, the soul of the city, the lore of the region.

In this mad place where walls move and stairways lead nowhere, where closets give onto clandestine workshops and portraits solemnly observe each other in the midday silence, he knows every corridor, every hinge, every sill, sash, and dentil.

This place is called Faerwood. In each of its rooms there dwells a restive soul. In each soul, a secret. He stands in the center of the crowded shopping mall, taking in the aromas: the food court and its myriad riches; the department store with its lotions and powders and cloying scents; the salt of young women. He surveys the overweight couples in their twenties, urging the laden pram. He laments the invisible elderly.

At ten minutes to nine he slips into a narrow store. It is garishly lit, stocked floor to ceiling with ceramic figurines and rayon roses. Small, shiny balloons dance in the overheated air. An entire wall is devoted to greeting cards.

There is only one other patron in the store. He has been following her all evening, has seen the sadness in her eyes, the weight on her shoulders, the fatigue in her stride.

She is the Drowning Girl.

He eases next to her, selects a few cards from the glittering array, chuckles softly at each, returns them to the rack. He glances around. No one is watching.

It is time.

"You look a little confused," he says.

She glances up. She is tall and thin, magnificently pale. Her ash blond hair is pinned in a messy fashion, held in place by white plastic barrettes. Her neck is carven ivory. She is wears a lilac backpack.

She doesn't respond. He has scared her.

Walk away.

"There are too many choices!" she says animatedly, but not without caution. He expects this. He is, after all, an unknown piece on her game board of strangers. She giggles, chews on a fingernail. Adorable. She is about seventeen. The best age.

"Tell me the occasion," he says. "Maybe I can help."

A flash of distrust now-cat paws on an oven door. She peers around the room, at the publicness of it all. "Well," she begins, "my boyfriend is"

Silence.

He begs the conversation forward. "He's what?"

She doesn't want to say, then she does. "Okay he's not exactly my boyfriend, right? But he's cheating on me." She tucks a filament of hair behind an ear. "Well, not exactly cheating. Not yet." She turns to leave, turns back. "Okay, he asked out my best friend, Courtney. The slut." She reddens, a sheer crimson pall on her flawless skin. "I can't believe I'm telling you this."

He is dressed casually this evening: faded jeans, black linen blazer, loafers, a little extra gel in his hair, a silver ankh around his neck, eyeglasses of a modern style. He looks young enough. Besides, he has the sort of bearing that invites faith. It always has. "The cad," he says.

Wrong word? No. She smiles. Seventeen going on thirty.

"More like a jerk," she says. "A total jerk." Another nervous giggle.

He leans away from her, increasing the distance by mere inches. Important inches. She relaxes. She has decided he is no threat. Like one of her cool teachers.

"Do you think dark humor is appropriate for the occasion?"

She considers this. "Probably," she says. "Maybe. I don't know. I guess."

"Does he make you laugh?"

Boyfriends-boys who become boyfriends-usually do. Even the ones who cheat on achingly beautiful seventeen-year-old girls.

"Yeah," she says. "He's kinda funny. Sometimes." She looks up, making deep eye contact. This moment all but splinters his heart. "But not lately."

"I was looking at this one," he says. "I think it might be just the right sentiment." He lifts a card from the rack, considers it for a moment, hands it over. It is a bit risque. His hesitation speaks of his respect for the age difference, the fact that they've just met.

She takes the card, opens it, reads the greeting. A moment later she laughs, covering her mouth. A tiny snort escapes. She blushes, embarrassed.

In this instant her image blurs, as it always has, like a face obscured by rain on a shattered windshield.

"This is, like, totally perfect," she says. "Totally. Thanks."

He watches as she glances at the vacant cashier, then at the video camera. She turns her back to the camera, stuffs the card into her bag, looks at him, a smile on her face. If there was a purer love, he could not imagine it.

"I need another card, too," she says. "But I'm not sure you can help me with that one."

"You 'd be surprised what I can do."

"It's for my parents." She cocks a hip. Another blush veils her pretty face, then quickly disappears. "It's because I've-"

He holds up a hand, stopping her. It is better this way. "I understand."

"You do?"

"Yes."

"What do you mean?"

He smiles. "I was once your age."

She parts her lips to answer, but instead remains silent.