Trust me, Stanley says. I don’t.
Cynthia cops a coltish Audrey Hepburn pose on the banister, getting back her cool by acting cool. Her voice is bright and thick and unconvincing, maple syrup dripped over spun glass. They’re not my parents, you know, she says. Claudio told you, right? I’ve just been shacking here for a couple months. I met Adrian on the beach, just like you did. They’re nice people, no matter what you think. Anybody who asks, we just tell ’em I’m Synn?ve’s niece. Around here, nobody asks.
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. Synn?ve 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?