Zippered Flesh 2: More Tales of Body Enhancements Gone Bad (8 page)

“If anyone—curious or otherwise—comes over here, this is a urine sample I’m bringing to
my
doctor,” Jill said. “So don’t get caught swilling.”

They both began to laugh.

1911

“It’s very simple,” Gretchen Burkehart said. “Marina is not only a nurse, she’s a talented medium. You’d be helping Callie, of course. She’s still grieving for your mother and she’ll be stronger emotionally. It may be her best chance at getting well.”

Iva looked at her sister, blade-thin, propped on pillows and seated at a small, round table between Marina and Gretchen. Gordon Fields sat opposite. In the center of the table, a pair of slates—like the ones used by school children—had been hinged together. Just now they were lying open with a piece of ordinary white chalk lying on the one on the right.

“Let’s try. Please, Iva?”

There was nothing to lose—or so Iva thought.

Gordon Fields closed the slates and latched them shut.

The lights were extinguished and Marina admonished them not to be frightened and to keep holding hands. She recited a prayer and asked Rose Fredericks if she would come and make herself known to her daughters. A long while passed and then suddenly, in the pitch black, the sound of scratching on the slates could be heard.

1973

“When they lit the candles, Callie opened the slates and the words
Flower Girls: Calla and Ivy
were written in chalk. My mother called us her flower girls,” Iva said.

She motioned for the jar of wine and Jill handed it to her saying, “I drank ninety percent of this. There’s only a sip left; go ahead and finish it.” Iva nodded. “Go on,” Jill said.

“After that, that’s when I started seeing Marina wearing Callie’s silk robe, and Gretchen wearing a diamond ring that had belonged to Mother.”

“Do you think Callie told them—even accidentally?”

“I think one of them found those words written in Callie’s red leather diary. It was one of the things that was gone. Even Maggie couldn’t find it.”

“So they tricked her into thinking your mother was there and communicating.”

“Oh yes—all the usual japes and shenanigans. From trumpets floating in the air, to ectoplasm, to more and more detailed messages written on the slates.”

“Did you believe it was real, Iva?”

“I was out of my mind with hunger, cold, and fear.”

“Did you think it was your mother?”

“I was certain Callie came back to me.”

Jill flipped through her notebook and read, “In 1926, Harry Houdini wrote, ‘Distressed relatives catch at the least word which may remotely indicate that the Spirit which they seek is in communication with them. One little sign even, which appeals to their waiting imagination, shatters all ordinary caution and they are converted.’ Is that what happened to you?”

Iva lowered her eyes and shook her head.

Callie. The dreams. Callie barefoot by the lake, shuddering with cold. “I’m hungry, Iva.” She mourns. “I’m so cold and so hungry.”

“But you know that Gretchen Burkehart stole from you and others—she took money and jewelry, property. You know that she killed many, many patients—ten or fifteen others. She was arrested for practicing medicine without a license even after she served time for murdering Callie.”

Iva gave a thin smile. “Maggie told me those same things—over and over—all the rest of her life. Callie was starved to death, and I was nearly dead—but I’m still alive. I’m one hundred two and still alive because Callie has never left my side.”

SKIN DEEP

BY CARSON BUCKINGHAM

It all began innocently enough with the removal of a single unsightly wart.

Lucinda Parker had been begging her mother for years to take her to someone who could get rid of “the immense-by-any-standards” growth next to her nose.

“Mother, it looks like I have three nostrils,” she would wail, and her long-suffering parent would then give her the same, half-listening broken record response, “When you’re older.”

To which Lucinda’s broken-record rejoinder was, “I’ll never be ‘older’ because I’ll kill myself before then!” This was invariably followed by stomping down the hallway and slamming her bedroom door—often more than once.

“The difficult years have arrived,” Mrs. Parker could be heard to mutter as she dried another dish.

The difficult years. Lucinda was twelve. She had had exactly one menstrual cycle, thirty-two (she counted them) pubic hairs, and one training bra which she wore night and day. She was already shaving her underarms and legs, though not out of necessity, and was experimenting with make-up. Her best effort to date made her look, if you squinted, like Lady Gaga; her biggest failure, a cross between Alice Cooper and Tammy Faye Bakker.

The hairstyles are not to be mentioned, much less discussed.

In short, Lucinda felt that she was now a Grade-A, one hundred percent woman, and she wanted the perks that went with it; but before they could even begin to kick in, she had to do something about her face.

Everything would be perfect if I could only get rid of this tumor next to my nose. It dwarfs the Empire State Building, for cryin’ out loud!

Mr. and Mrs. Parker remained unconcerned for most of that year, chalking their daughter’s antics up to number one, a phase, and number two, hormones.

However, as Lucinda’s thirteenth birthday neared, things shifted dramatically.

“Lucinda, it’s Saturday night. Why don’t you go out to the movies with your friends?” Mrs. Parker asked.

Her daughter looked up from her copy of “Marie Claire” and rolled her eyes. “I don’t have any friends.”

“Oh nonsense. Of course you do! Call one and go out—my treat.”

Lucinda sighed and picked up the phone.

Ten minutes later, there was a soft knock at the front door.

“Must be Lu’s friend,” Mr. Parker muttered behind his newspaper.

Mrs. Parker, ever cautious, glanced into the peephole. “There’s nobody there, George.”

“Damned kids. You’d better see if they left a bag full of dog crap on the stoop, hoping that you’ll step on it.”

“George Parker,
really
!”

“We did it when I was a kid. Doubt things have changed all that much.”

“Haven’t,” Lucinda said, walking in. “Except now they set fire to it to make sure you step on it.”

“How charming,” Mrs. Parker said. The word “disgust” could have actually appeared across her forehead and no one would have been surprised.

“Aren’t you going to open the door?” Lucinda asked.

“There’s no one there.”

“Sure there is.” She swung open the door and there stood six-year-old Charlie Foley from next door. He was so small that he didn’t show up in the peephole.

“Oh, I’m sorry to keep you waiting out there, Charlie,” Mrs. Parker said. “Does your mother need something? Eggs? Sugar?”

“No, m’am. I’m here fer Lucinda. We’re goin’ on a ... uh ... what was it again?” he asked Lucinda.

“A ‘date,’ Charlie.”

“Thassit! A date. Whassa ‘date,’ Mrs. Parker?”

Eleanor Parker was too flummoxed to reply. George Parker, on the other hand, was laughing quietly behind the sports section—you could tell because the paper was shaking.

“Charlie, a ‘date’ is when we go to the movies and stuff ourselves with popcorn and candy and soda!” Lucinda said, tickling his tummy. She would have tousled his hair, but in honor of the occasion, it was so plastered down that she was afraid she’d stick to it.

Mrs. Parker turned to her daughter. “May I see you in the kitchen, Lucinda? Oh, and
do
come in, Charlie. You can have a nice chat with Mr. Parker. We won’t be a moment.”

Mr. Parker sighed, folded his paper, shot the missus a dagger-filled look, then put a smile on his face and turned to their little guest.

Once in the kitchen, Lucinda’s mother rounded on her. “What are you trying to prove, Lucinda?” she hissed. “Do you think you’re funny?”

“No, just funny-looking.”

“What?”

“I don’t
have
any friends my own age, Mom. I keep trying to tell you that—and it’s all because of this ... this ... whatever it is on my face!”

“But why Charlie?”

“He’s too young to care about how I look. He just cares that I like him and treat him nice. He’s the only real friend I have. We were walking home from school the other day and one of the football players called me ‘the Wicked Witch of the West.’ Well, Charlie ran right up to him and started punching his leg.” Lucinda smiled, tears welling up at the memory. “It was as high as he could reach, Mom, but he did it without a second thought. He did it for me. That linebacker could have made him into a stain on the sidewalk, but Charlie didn’t care. So, yes, Mom, I’m going to the movies with Charlie Foley, my little knight in shining armor and red Velcro sneakers. Are you driving us, or is Dad?” Before her mother could reply, Lucinda dried her eyes and left the room.

Mrs. Parker was floored. “I had no idea things were as bad as that,” she murmured before joining everyone in the living room.

Mr. Parker looked up, an expression of wonder on his face. “Eleanor, this little guy knows more about the Yankees than I ever did—every stat on every player! A fine young man ... just fine.” He reached over to tousle Charlie’s hair, thought better of it, and settled for a manly pat on the back.

“I brought all my saved ‘lowance, Lu, and I’m gonna buy you a humongous bagga popcorn—all by myself!” Charlie was really good at saving his money—even at age six. He had big plans, that one; but he understood the importance of gratitude, as well, and it didn’t take a chain saw to get him to part with some cash when it was appropriate.

Lucinda kissed Charlie on the cheek. She knew how hard he worked for that fifty cents a week—it wasn’t just handed to him. “You are the sweetest man in the world, Charlie Foley, but my mom’s paying tonight. Save your money, kiddo. Someday I’ll want a car ... or maybe an elephant.”

“Or a giraffe?” Charlie giggled.

“Nope, no giraffe. Costs too much when they get a sore throat.”

“What are you two going to see tonight?” Mr. Parker asked.

“Oh! ‘The Incredibles’! Pleeeeeeeeeeeease, Lu?”

“Absolutely.”

Mr. Parker stood. “I’ll drive. Let’s get going. Coming, dear?”

“No ... no. I think I’ll stay here, thanks.”

Twenty minutes later, Mr. Parker stepped back through the door, chuckling. “We had to stop next door so Charlie could put his bag of quarters away. He’s such a nice little kid—no wonder Lu likes to baby-sit for him. Smart, too, that one, and ... what’s the matter, El?”

“I thought she was going out with Charlie to defy us or to make some obscure pre-teenage point, but she wasn’t.” She recapped the kitchen confrontation for him and when she was done, Mr. Parker sat back in his chair looking thoughtful; but when at last he opened his mouth to speak, it was his wife who voiced his thoughts.

Mr. Parker just smiled and nodded.