Dolly nudged her in the ribs and whispered an aside. “He was always the flattering sort of man. Silver-tongued fox.”
Frantic at the imaginary spot on his forehead, the old man rubbed his skin with the ball of his fist. “Pardon my interruption, but is there something in your mirror?” He put his hand on my shoulder and spun me around to face our reflection. Between our images in the glass, a small brown spot about the size of a half-dollar swelled to the size of a coffee cup. I touched the mirror to determine whether some blotch spread sandwiched in the layers, but the object existed somewhere behind the surface, and its diameter continued to increase.
“What is that?” I asked. “It seems to be getting bigger and bigger.”
He grabbed my sleeve and pulled me toward the door. “May I suggest, in that case, we get the hell out of the way.”
All at once the looking glass exploded, shards and slivers raining upon impact as a stick launched into the room. A thick wooden pole, deadly as a missile, protruded from the medicine cabinet and hung perpendicular to the floor. The far end of the shaft, broad and bristled, was lodged in the space where the mirror once had been.
“Looks like an old broom,” I said and grasped it with both hands, ready to pull.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said the old man.
But curiosity got the better of me, and with a tug I freed what turned out to be an old handmade broom, its sweeping end composed of rough bristles hewn from rushes, and the handle gnarled and weatherworn, with two greasy black stains marking its pockmarked top.
Wrapping her arms around her chest, Dolly said, “Now he’s gone and done it.”
Jane just pointed back to the mirror. Where the hole had been, a new layer of glass now shimmered darkly. A wild human cry emanated from the distance, some far-off place inside the reflection. A figure, small as a doll, tumbled in the air, arms and legs flailing, bright auburn hair twirling madly, red dress billowing as she rolled end over end. Steadily growing larger as she approached, the woman screamed as she burst through the surface, sending another shower of glass upon us all, and landing herself in a heap underneath the window.
Crumpled in a heap on the floor, she did not move. Her bare feet were backward in relationship to her head, and her arms had come unglued. The woman who had flown through the mirror seemed irredeemably dead. The speed of her flight and the impact with the wall had most likely broken her neck. Covered in silver shards, she made for a poignant picture: a cracked ornament beneath the Christmas tree. Fortunately, the blast had left the rest of us unscathed. We brushed bits of glass from our clothes, and the old man picked up the discarded broom. I thought he would sweep up a bit, but instead, keeping his distance, he poked the body with the tapered end of the stick.
She sputtered and gasped, a trail of drool bubbling from her lips. Blinking to life, she stirred and placed her hands on the sides of her head and twisted her neck with a crackle of vertebrae. A sigh escaped from her chest, and then she sat upright and pushed the long red hair from her face. Bright green eyes emerged from the mass of curls, and along her alabaster skin, a congregation of faint freckles dotted her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. Her whole aspect was vaguely reminiscent of the first Elizabeth before the virgin queen had been ravaged by smallpox. She was stunning. She smoothed her gown and rose to her feet, a short woman of her late twenties or early thirties, and once composed, she possessed a regal bearing, proud, almost haughty. I expected her to sound just like Bette Davis, but she spoke not a word and merely glowered at me as if I had done her some wrong. So I bowed slightly at the waist, out of some habit, and she, by habit, too, extended her right hand decorated with rings. It was soft and white and when I bent to take and kiss her hand, my lips brushed against a chalky dust. Covering every inch of exposed skin, this powder left a residue upon contact with the windowsill, the blue tiles on the wall, and my own fingers. The grains felt like irregular bits of paper, the kind found in old, brittle books or documents that crumble at the touch. A faint rustling of turning pages accompanied her movements as she glided with sureness of purpose to the commode. Clutching the broomstick to his chest, the old man cowered in the corner while Dolly and Jane huddled in the safety of the bathtub.