Part 2

“Hello. I’m looking for Lila.”

“Didn’t you just call?” He felt a mad jiggle in his belly.

“No. I’m looking for Lila. Is she there?”

“No.”

“Oh, are you her fiancé?”

“No. Unfortunately, I’m not. This is a new phone. This must be Lila’s old number,” Harlan explained to the stranger. The stranger didn’t engage.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the sterile voice said, and disappeared again behind the new segment of the hang-up tone.

“Me too,” he answered to the tone. The utter impossibility of a coincidence boiled in him and brought out a chuckle. A current of dread ran through him. He swiftly threw his red folder, stolen pen, and a water bottle into the black backpack. The computer screen turned black. His coat hung on his left arm and his backpack on his right shoulder. His mind warped like a tree. He fearfully pulled the door open. The hallway outside still existed. He exhaled with relief, and his dry tongue smacked against his dry palate. He ran down the poorly lit, narrow, concrete staircase – away from the voice inside the phone, away from Lila, away, to the second floor, and further down the steps, out and into haunting darkness. Standing in the freezing rain, Harlan giggled at the possibility of madness that softly bloomed in him.

* * *

In his small room above the loud naked love makers with the long-haired girl with perky breasts on top, he lay on the dark chestnut hardwood floor surrounded by dirty clothes. His head lolled to the side, and his eyes fixed on the strip of light beneath the door. Then he turned to the window and watched the bare tree bend in the wind as sleet rattled against the windowpanes and the slate roof above. He hadn’t slept in months.

In his mind, Lila listened to his instructions. She cut her hair, and the lovely black bangs highlighted the big, black eyes. Her wondrous eyes were the astounding crack in space, the gate, the passage into another realm. Under dim candlelight, he built a dollhouse and stitched a tight little red dress with red shoes for her. His eyes widened as the doll sat on the swing hanging from an apple tree enclosed by a white picket fence. The big marble cheeks and glass eyes in a red dress overwhelmed him. He fought it, but it was too late. The spell, the family hoodoo heirloom, took shape. Her substance perished while the doll persevered. All the hair and the warmth and bodily humours vaporized. Only the sweet perfume was left in the air – intense, tangible, always alive. So alive he could touch it, hold it in his hand. The sweet scent of swinging hips that stalked men’s noses, and their feet just followed. He saved her scent in a Mason jar. And out of the jar, just turn your head, and the scent will come back through the frozen air, straight back into the soul, a reminder of a body he once knew thoroughly. The doll took hold as Lila thawed away. With his eyes closed, Harlan sniffed the doll’s air, and the perfume entered the deep crevices of his fractured mind.

He took a needle and pricked the doll’s arm. The doll bled.

Downstairs, the loud naked love makers with the long-haired girl with perky breasts on top died into breathless silence. A cold draft crept under the door, bringing with it a sharp blade of hallway light. The fridge downstairs opened and shut.