"Say it," she says.
The spell?
"Read it out loud," she says.
And I ask, what's this do?
And Helen says, "Just watch out for the chandelier."
She starts reading, the words dull and even, as if she were counting, as if they were numbers. She starts reading, and her purse starts to float up from where it hangs near her waist. Her purse floats higher until it's tethered to her by the shoulder strap, floating above her head as if it were a yellow balloon.
Helen keeps reading, and my tie floats out in front of me. Rising like a blue snake out of a basket, it brushes my nose. Helen's skirt, the hem starts to rise, and she grabs it and holds it down, between her legs with one hand. She keeps reading, and my shoelaces dance in the air. Her dangle earrings, pearls and emeralds, float up alongside her ears. Her pearl necklace, it floats up around her face. It floats over her head, a hovering pearl halo.
Helen looks up at me and keeps reading.
My sport coat floats up under my arms. Helen's getting taller. She's eye level with me. Then I'm looking up at her. Her feet hang, toes pointed down, they're hanging above the floor. One yellow shoe then the other drops off and clatters on the wood.
Her voice still flat and even, Helen looks down at me and smiles.
And then one of my feet isn't touching the ground. My other foot goes limp, and I kick the way you do in deep water, trying to find the bottom of the swimming pool. I throw my hands out for purchase. I kick, and my feet pitch up behind me until I'm looking facedown at the ballroom floor four, six, eight feet below me. Me and my shadow getting farther and farther apart. My shadow getting smaller and smaller.
Helen says, "Carl, watch out."
And something cold and brittle wraps around me. Sharp bits of something loose drape around my neck and snag in my hair.
"It's the chandelier, Carl," Helen says. "Be careful."
My ass buried in the middle of the crystal beads and shards, I'm wrapped in a shivering, tinkling octopus. The cold glass arms and fake candles. My arms and legs tangle in the hanging strands of crystal chains. The dusty crystal bobs. The cobwebs and dead spiders. A hot lightbulb burns through my sleeve. This high above the floor, I panic and grab hold of a swooping glass arm, and the whole sparkling mess rocks and shakes, ringing wind chimes. Flashing bits clatter on the floor below. All of it with me inside pitches back and forth.
And Helen says, "Stop. You're going to ruin it."
Then she's next to me, floating just behind a shimmering beaded curtain of crystal. Her lips move with quiet words. Helen's pink fingernails part the beads, and she smiles in at me, saying, "Let's get you right side up, first."
The book's gone, and she holds the crystals to one side and swims closer.
I'm gripping a glass chandelier arm in both hands. The million flickering bits of it shake with my every heartbeat.
"Pretend you're underwater," she says, and unties my shoe. She slips the shoe off my foot and drops it. With her stained hands, she unties my other shoe, and the first shoe clatters on the floor. "Here," she says, and slips her arms under mine. "Take off your jacket."
She drops my jacket out of the chandelier. Then my tie. She slips out of her own jacket and lets it fall. Around us, the chandelier is a shimmering million rainbows of lead crystal. Warm with a hundred tiny lightbulbs. The burning smell of dust on all those hot lightbulbs. All of it dazzling and shivering, we're floating here in the hollow center.
We're floating in nothing but light and heat.
Helen mouths her silent words, and my heart feels full of warm water.
Helen's earrings, all her jewelry is blazing bright. All you can hear is the tinkling chimes around us. We sway less and less, and I start to let go. A million tinkling bright stars around us, this is how it must feel to be God.
And this, too, is my life.
I say, I need a place to stay. From the police. I don't know what to do next.
Holding out her hand, Helen says, "Here."
And I take it. And she doesn't let go. And we kiss. And it's nice.
And Helen says, "For now, you can stay here." She flicks a pink fingernail against a gleaming glass ball, cut and faceted to throw light in a thousand directions. She says, "From now on, we can do anything." She says, "Anything."
We kiss, and her toes peel off my socks. We kiss, and I open the buttons down the back of her blouse. My socks, her blouse, my shirt, her panty hose. Some things drop to the floor far below, some things snag and hang from the bottom of the chandelier.
My swollen infected foot, Helen's crusted, scabby knees from Oyster's attack, there's no way to hide these from each other.
It's been twenty years, but here I am, somewhere I never dreamed I'd ever be again, and I say, I'm falling in love.
And Helen, blazing smooth and hot in this center of light, she smiles and rolls her head back, saying, "That's the idea."
I'm in love with her. In love. With Helen Hoover Boyle.
My pants and her skirt flutter down into the heap, the fallen crystals, our shoes, all on the floor with the grimoire.
Chapter 38
At the offices of Helen Boyle Realty, the doors are locked, and when I knock, Mona shouts through the glass, "We're not open."
And I shout, I'm not a customer.
Inside, she's sitting at her computer, keyboardmg something. Every couple keystrokes, Mona looks back and forth between the keys and the screen. On the screen, at the top in big letters, it says, "Resume."
The police scanner says a code nine-twelve.
Still keyboarding, Mona says, "I don't know why I shouldn't charge you with assault."
Maybe because she cares about me and Helen, I say.
And Mona says, "No, that's not it."
Maybe she won't blow the whistle because she still wants the grimoire.
And Mona doesn't say anything. She turns in her chair and pulls up the side of her peasant blouse. The skin on her ribs, under her arms, is white with purple blotches.
Tough love.
Through the door into Helen's office, Helen yells, "What's another word for 'tormented'?" Her desk is covered with open books. Under her desk, she's wearing one pink shoe and one yellow shoe.
The pink silk sofa, Mona's carved Louis XIV desk, the lion-legged sofa table, it's all frosted with dust. The flower arrangements are withered and brown, standing in black, stinking water.
The police scanner says a code three-eleven.
I say, I'm sorry. Grabbing her wasn't right. I pinch the crease in my pant legs and pull them up to show her the purple bruises on my shins.
"That's different," Mona says. "I was defending myself."
I stamp my foot a couple times and say my infection's a lot better. I say, thank you.
And Helen yells, "Mona? What's another way of saying 'butchered'?"
Mona says, "On your way out, we need to have a little talk."
In the inner office, Helen's facedown in an open book. It's a Hebrew dictionary. Next to it is a guide to classical Latin. Under that is a book about Aramaic. Next to that is an unfolded copy of the culling spell. The trash can next to the desk is filled with paper coffee cups.
I say, hey.
And Helen looks up. There's a coffee stain on her green lapel. The grimoire is open next to the Hebrew dictionary. And Helen blinks once, twice, three times and says, "Mr. Streator."
I ask if she'd like to get some lunch. I still need to go up against John Nash, to confront him. I was hoping she might give me something for an edge. An invisibility spell, maybe. Or a mind-control spell. Maybe something so I won't have to kill him. I come around to see what she's translating.
And Helen slides a sheet of paper on top of the grimoire, saying, "I'm a little occupied today." With a pen in one hand, she waits. With the other hand, she shuts the dictionary. She says, "Shouldn't you be hiding from the police?"