Tifny broke off her stare. She took up her compact, a worn silver crescent, and smoothed a powdered ratty puff, across a shiny patch of cheek. Her skin was the character of caramel butter; the colors that accentuated her ranged from bright to black. The eyes were key. Almost almond shaped, she had highlighted them in kohl; used an aquamarine pencil on the lids. Gently. Lightly. A heavier hand would have turned the effect into farce -but in Tifny’s grace, the grotesque seemed to transmute into genius.
There was a slight taping at her door. “Fifteen, honey.”
Tifny looked in final appraisal. Her lips had never been sensuous. They were neither pouty nor prim. They were plain. But after her ministrations, they were proud; intelligent; sufficient. And her hair-.. Tonight, her hair...-her -hair.
“Shit.” Tifny ransacked a hand through the useless black mass. ‘Crop hair’ is what her grandmother used to call it, then cackle, saying, “Couldn’t grow that mess nowhere but on a cotton bush. Or an ear of corn.”
Tifny sighed, and began the manic search through the clutter on her tiny table to find the comb. “Fuckin’ piece of plastic wasted shit-”
There was a bang at her door.
“Yo Tif. Got something for you.”
“You can keep that tired pecker in your pants Micky.”
“It’s a package.”
“…’package’? Listen, you downtown cow chip-”
“Who you callin’ ‘downtown’? You got me all wrong baby.”
Tifny could imagine the bastard standing on the other side of the door grabbing his crotch, his face all screwed up in affront. “No baby. You got me wrong. That door opens when I’m ready to walk on stage. You know that. Don’t open for nothin' else. Not you. Not Jesus Christ himself, and certainly not for some bullshit package.”
“-suspicious, talentless- Fuck you bitch.”
She heard a crinkly sounding thud, Micky stomping away, and then a lighter step of hard heels.
“Five, honey. -Oh. You got a little present here. Just gonna put it inside your door honey.”
Tifny watched in her mirror as the door to her dressing room opened a little. A fine older hand slipped a brown paper package into the room, set it flush to the wall, and retreated, closing the door.
Careful not to get the hem of her gown dirty (the floor was ancient; the dress, sea foam green, and so softly colored that it picked up a change in room temperature), Tifny retrieved the package in a half step; then sat and set it on her lap. It was weightless, tied round with twine, and had the shape of a shoe box.
There was an ugly little light fixture on the wall beside her mirror. The paper was a dark industrial brown. In the tight little glare, she rubbed her hand over her name on the package; the club’s address; the postage stamp. There was no return address. The writing was scratched on with a shaking pen, but it was distinctly...
Tifny raised her hand to her mouth to suffocate her cry. Suffocate it. She sat there; hand in her mouth, eyes glazed; sat in her tiny room, in a dive.
Yes, it was a dive. But Clare had found her.
<
Doctor Weiss watched the child; the child watched the fish. The fish were looking for food.
“Do you want to sit Tilford?”
The little boy tapped the side of the fish bowl.
The psychiartrist remained silent.
Tilford watched as two angel fish made patterns. One went left; the other, right. They’d meet in crossing, near the center of the small bowl, over very blue and pink and green pebbles at the bottom, and circle round a tiny tower which had broken off from a tiny castle.
“Do you want to feed them Tilford?”
Criss - cross. Till they’d crash. “Yes.”
Doctor Weiss pointed his finger. “The food is in that little can on the side there.”
Tilford knew where the food was; it was his fourth visit. He popped four hard shakes of the can across the tiny surface of the bowl. The fish spun upwards, plucked at flakes of dry meal then swirled back down.
“Do you remember their names, Tilford?”
“Liza and Higgins.”
Without shifting his position, Doctor Weiss scribbled something on the pad of paper in front of him. “No. I’ll give you a hint. Fred. And?”
Tilford looked up blankly from the bowl. “Barney.”
“Yes. Who are Liza and Higgins?”
The boy looked back at the fish and tapped more food into the bowl.
“They’ll explode if you feed them so much.”
Tilford knew when he was being told to stop. He put the can down; tapped the side of the bowl; put his thumb in his mouth, and stared at the fish.
“Who are Liza and Higgins, Tilford?”
He smiled round his thumb. Liza was waiting near the tower; Higgins acted funny, like he was nervous to ask her. But Higgins sort of moved closer; Liza wiggled. Higgins bowed; cleared his throat of some bubbles. May I have this dance?
“Are they friends of yours Tilford?”
Liza grabbed at Higgins and they danced.
“Are they friends of your father?”
“No.”
“Will you tell me?”
Tilford knew he was supposed to tell Doctor Weiss everything, but whatever he said, Doctor Weiss didn’t know what he was talking about.
“Tilford?”
The boy sighed to the fish, and gave Doctor Weiss his fabulously devastating look for the absolutely dumb. “My. Fair. Lady. I’ve seen it five times.”
“Did your father take you?”
Tilford’s thumb attached itself to the back of his throat. Liza broke away to hide beneath the tilting tower. Higgins was abandoned.
“Was it your mother who took you, Tilford?”
The boy stopped sucking his thumb; took it out of his mouth, and stared at poor Higgins; alone now, and swimming circles, looking for Liza. A tiny trembling in the pit of his stomach grew in proportion to Higgins’ frantic searching.
“What was her favorite part?”
Liza lay in the rubble beneath the tower. Higgins was going to cry in another moment.
“What’s your favorite part?”
“…the ball.”
Suddenly, she darted out from her hiding place and nipped his tail. Higgins gleefully chased her round the bowl; twice.
“What did you like about it?”
Tilford smiled remembering his mother smiling, as Liza descended the stairs.
“Her dress.”
