The 1st Deadly Sin

including scarlet lip rouge. A tacky tweed suit with a ruffled blouse. A necklace of oversize pearls. Crimson nail polish. And, obviously, a padded brassiere.

She had never seen his ex-wife, never seen a photo of her, but the resemblance was startling. The physical bulk was there, the gross good health, high color, muscular swagger, a tossing about of elbows and shoulders.

“My God,” Daniel said admiringly, “you’re marvelous.”

“Am I like her?”

“You wouldn’t believe. But why?”

“Oh…just for fun, as Tony would say. I thought you’d like it.”

“I do. I really do, My God, you’re so like her. You really should have been an actress.”

“I am,” she said. “All the time. Aren’t you going to ask me in?”

“Oh, of course. Listen, the Mortons are here. I’ll announce you as Gilda. I want to see their reactions.”

He preceded her to the doorway of the living room.

“It’s Gilda,” he called brightly, then stepped aside.

Celia came to the doorway and stood posed, sweeping the Mortons with a beaming smile.

“Gilda!” Sam cried, bouncing to his feet. “This is-” He stopped.

“Gilda!” Florence cried, waving. “How nice that-” She stopped.

Then Celia and Daniel burst out laughing, and within a moment the Mortons were laughing too.

Flo came over to embrace Celia, then patted the padded shoulders of her suit and the tweed behind.

“A padded ass,” she reported to the men. “And sponge rubber tits. My God, sweetie, you thought of everything.”

“Do you think I’m like?”

“Like?” Sam said. “A dead ringer. Even the makeup.”

“Perfect,” Flo nodded. “Even to the fingernails. How did you do it?”

“Guessed,” Celia said.

“You guessed right,” Daniel said. “Now would you like to take off your jacket and get comfortable?”

“Oh no. I’m enjoying this.”

“All right. Vodka?”

“Please.”

He went into the kitchen to prepare new drinks for all of them. When he came back, Celia had turned off all the lights except for one standing lamp, and in the gloom she looked even more like his ex-wife. The resemblance was shattering, even to the way she sat upright in the Eames chair, her back straight, feet firmly planted on the floor, knees slightly spread as if the thickness of her thighs prevented a more modest pose. He felt… something.

“Why the disguise?” Flo asked.

“What’s the point?” Sam asked.

Celia Montfort fluffed her blonde wig, smiled her secret smile.

“Haven’t you ever wanted to?” she asked them all. “Everyone wants to. Walk away from yourself. Quit your job, desert wife or husband and family, leave your home and all your possessions, strip naked if that is possible, and move to another street, city, country, world, and become someone else. New name, new personality, new needs and tastes and dreams. Become someone entirely different, entirely new. It might be better or it might be worse, but it would be different. And you might have a chance, just a chance, in your new skin. Like being born again. Don’t you agree, Daniel?”

“Oh yes,” he nodded eagerly. “I do agree.”

“I don’t,” Sam said. “I like who I am.”

“And I like who I am,” Flo said. “Besides, you can never change, really.”

“Can’t you?” Celia asked lazily. “What a drag.”

They argued the possibility of personal change, essential change. Blank listened to the Mortons’ hooted denials and sensed the presence of an obscene danger: he was tempted to refute them, calmly, a cool, sardonic smile on his lips, by saying, “I have changed. I killed Frank Lombard.” He resisted the temptation, but toyed with the risk a moment, enjoying it. Then he contented himself with an unspoken, “I know something you don’t know,” and this childish thought, for reasons he could not comprehend, made them immeasurably dear to him.

Eventually, of course, they were all talked out. Daniel served coffee, which they drank mostly in silence. At an unseen signal, Flo and Sam Morton rose to their feet, thanked Daniel for a pleasant evening, congratulated Celia Montfort on her impersonation, and departed. Blank locked and chained his door behind them.

When he returned to the living room, Celia was standing. They embraced and kissed, his mouth sticking to the thick rouge on her lips. He felt her padded ass.

“Shall I take it off?” she asked.

“Oh no. I like it.”

They emptied ashtrays, carried glasses to the kitchen sink. “Can you stay?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Good.”

She went into the bathroom. He moved around the apartment, checking windows, turning off lights, putting the iron bar on the hallway door. When he walked across the living room he saw his ghostly reflection jump from mirror to mirror, bits and pieces.

When he came back into the bedroom she was sitting quietly on the bed, staring.

“What do you want?” she asked, looking up at him.

“Oh, leave the wig on,” he said quickly. “And the brassiere and girdle. Or whatever it is. You’ll want to take off the suit and blouse.”

“And slip? And stockings?”

“Yes.”

“The pearls?”

“No, leave them on. Would you like a robe? I have a silk robe.”

“All right.”

“Is it too warm in here?”

“A little.”

“I’ll turn down the heat. Are you sleepy?”

“More tired than sleepy. The Mortons tire me. They never stop moving.”

“I know. I showered this morning. Shall I shower now?”

“No. Let me hold you.”

“Naked?”

“Yes.”

Later, under a single light blanket, she held him, and through her silk robe he felt padded brassiere and girdle. “Mommy,” he said.

“I know,” she murmured. “I know.”

He curled up in her arms, began weeping quietly.

“I’m trying,” he gasped. “I really am trying.”

“I know,” she repeated. “I know.”

The thought of fucking her, or attempting it, offended him, but he could not sleep.

“Mommy,” he said again.

“Turn over,” she commanded, and so he did.

“Ahh,” she said. “There.”

“Oh. Oh.”

“Am I hurting you?”

“Oh yes! Yes.”

“Am I Gilda now?”

“Yes. But she never would.”

“More?”

“Slowly. Please.”