Death Mask

The television was on, even though the sound was mute. WKRC’s 11:00 P.M. news was on, showing downtown Cincinnati and anxious shoppers being interviewed. Sissy picked up the remote in time to hear Kit Andrews saying, “ — avoiding the elevators in almost all office buildings and major department stores.”

Colonel Thomas H. Streicher, Cincinnati’s chief of police, appeared on the screen. “I cannot deny that there has been a wave of panic throughout downtown Cincinnati. This afternoon, it was virtually a ghost town, with office workers leaving early and shoppers staying well away.

“But at the same time I cannot emphasize strongly enough that my officers are hunting for these murderers round the clock, and I am satisfied that we can not only apprehend them, but that we can protect the good people of Cincinnati before we do.

“So, please. Be vigilant. Be careful out there. But go about your daily business as usual. These Red Mask individuals want to cause as much fear and disruption as possible, and we should not allow them to succeed.”

“There you are,” said Sissy. “Do your bit for the city’s morale. Go out and get yourself stabbed to death by red-faced maniacs.”

“You’re a cynic, Momma. You always were.”

“I’m not a cynic, Trevor. I’m a realist.”

“A realist? That’s pretty rich, coming from a woman who wants to bring her dead husband back to life by having his picture painted.”

Sissy reached for the Cherry Mashes on the table, unwrapped one, and popped it into her mouth. She didn’t trust herself to say anything polite, so she thought it better that she say nothing at all.

That night, she dreamed that she was somewhere in the South of France, on a very hot afternoon. The sky was intensely blue and the fields were stacked with bright yellow corn. All she could hear was the sewing-machine sound of crickets in the hedgerows and the cawing of crows as they circled overhead.

She was walking along a dry, rutted road, beside a long stone wall. At the far end of the stone wall there was a gateway, with two dilapidated oak gates. A man was standing in the gateway with his back to her. He had a shock of gingery hair, and he was wearing a red checkered shirt. He seemed to be having trouble with a complicated wooden structure like a deck-chair frame without any canvas.

“Monsieur,” she said. “Do you need any help?”

The man finished folding up the deck chair and propped it up against the gate. He turned around to face her and he was Red Mask. His eyes shone like silver ball bearings, and his forehead was shiny with sweat.

“What’s done is done,” he challenged her. “What’s painted is painted.”

“You can’t escape,” she replied. “It doesn’t matter where you go, somebody will find you. I can promise you that.”

Red Mask seemed to be amused. “Even if you find me, child, what can you do? Je suis deux personnes.”

With that, he turned and walked away through the archway behind the gates and into the orchard beyond. He reached the corner of a sagging stone barn and disappeared. Sissy waited, but she was reluctant to go after him. She was only seven years old, after all.

She was just about to continue on her way when the same man appeared, walking very briskly. In each hand he was carrying a large triangular butcher knife. Sissy stepped back, frightened, to let him pass.

When he reached gateway he stopped and stared at her as if he had never seen her before. “What are you waiting for, child? It’s no use waiting. What’s done is done, and all we can do is more of the same. No rest for the wicked. No justice for the innocent. Je suis un fou qui crois qu’il est moimeme. I am a madman who believes that he is me.”

With that, he stalked through the gateway toward the orchard and disappeared behind the old stone barn. Sissy felt a cold tingle of fear, and she began to run away from the gateway as fast as she could.

Up ahead of her, however, the sky began to grow black, and she saw flickers of lightning. The poplar trees along the side of the road began to rustle uncomfortably and sway. Then, on the horizon, she saw the silhouette of a giant. He was standing beside the road, as if he was waiting for her.

She stopped, panting. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to go back to the gateway, in case she met the gingery-haired man with the knives. But she was too frightened of the giant to carry on. Perhaps she should run across the fields.

The sky grew darker and darker, and the wind began to whistle. In the field to her left, she saw several gravestones, some of them tilted at odd angles.

Frank, she thought. Frank can save me. He may be dead, but he can save me.

Molly set a glass of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice on the nightstand beside Sissy and went across the room to pull up the blinds. It was a gloomy morning, with heavy gray clouds. Scores of cicadas were still crawling around the window frame.

“Looks like rain,” said Molly.

Sissy sat up. “Did you talk to Trevor anymore?”

“I tried, Sissy, honestly, but there was no point. He never really believed in any of your psychic stuff, did he? And when Trevor makes his mind up, that’s it. Stubborn is his middle name.”

Sissy said, “I had another bad dream about Red Mask. Actually, it was a dream about Van Gogh. Two Van Goghs. One was chasing after the other, with knives.”

“It is that necklace that does it, isn’t it?”

Sissy sipped her grapefruit juice and wiped her mouth. “More specifically, sweetheart, I think it’s that ring. Van Gogh painted so many self-portraits, and I’ll bet you that whenever he was wearing that ring, his self-portrait came to life. Chrissie said that Red Mask had a piece missing from his ear — just like Van Gogh.”

Molly shrugged. “It doesn’t matter anymore, anyhow. I’m not going to paint any more pictures while I’m wearing it.”

Sissy didn’t say anything. All she could think of were the tilted gravestones in the field, with the storm clouds gathering overhead. All she could think of was Frank lying in the absolute darkness of his casket, and how much she needed him.

“Am I being selfish?” she asked Molly.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Do I want to do this to save people’s lives, or do I want to do it for me?”

“It’s academic, Sissy. It’s not going to happen. Big Chief Trevor has spoken.”

“Even if I beg you?”

“Sissy, no. We never lie to each other, Trevor and me. We never do anything behind each other’s back. And I can understand how he feels. Even if I paint Frank and he doesn’t come to life, that’s just as bad as if he does.”

Sissy thought of Mary the cleaner dying in the darkness of the elevator. She still felt so guilty about that. If only Mary could have seen daylight before she died. She knew what Frank would have thought about Mary, too. Frank had always been so selfless. On the afternoon that he had been killed, Frank had been acting without any regard for his own personal safety.

But of course, that had been his decision, not hers. Maybe Trevor was right. How could she resurrect Frank without knowing if he would be resentful at being resurrected, or angry, even? Maybe the dead preferred to be dead, sleeping their way through all eternity, resting in peace.

“How about you and me going for lunch together today?” Molly suggested.

“What about Trevor and Victoria?”

“Trevor promised to take Victoria downtown to buy her some designer jeans.”

“Designer jeans? She’s nine years old!”

“You think that makes her any less fashion conscious? And she’s getting an iPod, too, for doing so well in her spelling bee.”