Mira was named for a binary sun and she was binary, in more ways than one.
*
Though I was considerably older than her 31 years, I had always wondered if Alexandra was attracted to me. When she asked to meet me privately, at a quiet coffee shop, I knew the answer. True, she was also to meet the other members of the creative writing group on an individual basis, eight of us, in all. But as for my session, I believed there was an ulterior motive, a motive beyond her assisting me in my pursuit of becoming a passable fiction writer.
“I’ve read your story, ‘The Colonel’s Overalls’,” Alexandra said from beneath her perfect auburn bangs.
“Thank you for having a look,” I replied from beneath my receding hairline.
“It’s quite good.” she said as she dropped my manuscript on the table between us, “But is there any reason why you killed off the protagonist in the first sentence?”
“I didn’t like him.”
“Right,” said Alexandra. “Anyway, I did not bring you here solely to discuss your narrative.”
“I figured that, but before we go too far, I think you should know that I have a lady friend, I mean, a lady friend.”
“I am well acquainted with Mira.”
“How could you possibly know Mira?” I inquired.
“I will tell you those details at the proper time, but for now, you should know that the woman you are seeing is not what she appears.”
“Was she a man, once?”
“No,” said Alexandra.
“Wooden leg?”
“No,” said Alexandra.
“I don’t care about anything else. I like her, that’s what counts.”
“You do not know what you are into,” she warned.
“No, you don’t know what you are into,” I replied, but I did not know what I meant.
“There is more than one Mira,” Alexandra said firmly.
“Are you saying that there are more than one Miras?”
“I’m saying what I have said,” insisted Alexandra, “and I’m the one with the red pen, buster.”
“You are saying that my Mira, the woman I love, has a dual personality?”
“I am saying that there is more than one Mira, period”
“Why don’t you let me worry about that?” I asked.
It wasn’t long before Alexandra and I said our farewells for the evening. Her handshake was frigid and the chill wasn’t from her iced coffee, trust me.
*
Mira, her hair freshly dyed rose-red, wore a lime-green top with checkered, blue and orange shorts and a canary-yellow baseball cap. She looked like an explosion in a pastel paint factory and yet never more beautiful.
As she approached my patio, I harkened back to our first encounter at Lakeland Park. It was a beautiful, late spring day. I was walking my mixed terrier and I came upon Mira, who was chastising an old man for his t-shirt which read: “My granddaughter went to Disney World and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.”
When she came back and told me she paid $340 a night for the hotel room, I asked her if she was fuckin’ goofy and she said “No”, but that she had been the night before. HA HA HA HA HA!
We made eye contact and there was an instant bond between us. The old man soon left and I took up with Mira. She was a full-figured, young woman and I was happy for that, never one to crave the partially-figured type. She was also very sweet. She took to Ruffy right away. It was important that she liked my dog, very important, I’d rather have a woman like my dog than love me, though both is nice.
Mira had just had her own dog put to sleep and she was still very fragile. Upon learning same, I hugged her. Imagine, I hugged a woman I had only known for 18 minutes. And I liked it.
*
I stopped by the Cetus Public Library on Tuesday. Muriel cornered me near the bulletin board. She was a flighty, OCD sort, who’d done time in prison, though she was never charged with a crime of any nature.
It was rumored that she was incarcerated simply because she was in the way a lot. Muriel had dyed her gray hair a deep brown but I still recognized her. She wore jeans and a bulky, cranberry sweatshirt. This, I said to myself, is a woman trying to look much younger than her 66 years, but why?
“Have you heard anything from Alexandra?” she asked me.
“Not since Friday, why?”
“I sent her an email and she hasn’t responded.”
“She will.”
“Do you think Alexandra is dead?” she asked.
“No, don’t be a drama-lady, she probably went to Cape Cod to work on a novel while she walked the beaches. Our instructor can be a little prone to spontaneity. She’ll be back before you know it.”
“I called the middle school, where she teaches.”
“And?”
“They wouldn’t disclose any information but I could tell by the tone of the receptionist’s voice that something is very wrong.”
“You could be imagining things.”
“She has not reported to her class since the middle of last week.”
“Who told you that?”
“I have connections in the education field.”
“I wish I did,” I responded, “my only connections sell baked goods.”
“Why would anybody want to hurt her?” asked Muriel. “She is so sweet.”
“She’ll be at our class, Thursday, like nothing happened, you’ll see.”
“I hope you are right,” answered Muriel.
“Of course I am right. You can count the number of times I’ve been wrong on one abacus.”
*
“Who are you?” I called out in my dream, a dream which found me on an empty, foggy, city street, long after dark.
“I am Mira B, the lesser Mira.” She appeared out of a fog as she said so.
“But you are the same size.”
“That’s not what I meant, lizard face.”
“What do you want from me, Mira B?” I asked, with a tremble.
“Your blood and lots of it.”
“What?!”
“Just kidding,” she assured me.
“Well, then what do you want?”
“I want you to be in my autobiography.”
“Fine, what do I do?” I inquired.
“I want you to cheat on me, with Alexandra and then I want to write about it.”
“What’s in it for me?” I asked.
“Alexandra is in it for you.”
“What’s in it for you?” I asked.
“I figure, a book deal,” Mira B reported.
*
Alexandra showed up at the Thursday creative writing class, just as I knew she would. She had a little color in her face, evidently from walking the beaches of Cape Cod. The session was non-consequential and ended a few minutes early. Alexandra was the kind to walk out with the writing group after class, but not this time.This time she lingered and motioned for me with her good eye to stay behind. I did.
We sat together in silence until one of us said something. Isn’t that always the way?
“I understand Mira is in a writing group.” said my instructor.
“Yes,” I replied, “and she is gung-ho. Funny thing, too, I never knew she had the calling.”
“Do you know who teaches the group?”
“It can’t be you!”
“Of course not, it’s my twin sister, Amanda.”
“I didn’t know you had a twin.”
“Yes,” she responded, “I found out about it when I was ten years old.”
“Were you separated at birth?”
“No, I just wasn’t very attentive as a child.”
“Things can get by all of us,” I assured her.
“She looks nothing like me, her nose ring is on the other side.”
“Oh.” I replied.
“Do you know why she did that, why she pierced the other side?”
“No.”
“Because when she looks at me, it is like looking into a mirror. I am her personal looking glass. That’s all I mean to her. What do you think of that?”
*
Tawny, who was tawny, and so it fit, had a wonderful idea. She would host the final meeting of the creative writing group at her beautiful, historic cottage. We all agreed and the date was set: Thursday night, a very late October Thursday night, the thirtieth, the eve of Halloween.
I arrived at 7 pm and I knocked on the old wooden door. A woman answered.
“Hello, Alexandra.” said I.
“I’m Amanda,” she replied, “you must be nearsighted, we look nothing alike.”
“Sorry,” I offered.
She escorted me to the dining room and I sat at the head of the table. Tawny had promised Island Ribs but there was no food to be found, just a dusty magnum of red wine. Amanda poured me a glass. She sat next to me.
“Is Tawny in the kitchen?” I inquired.
“Tawny is not here, she has loaned us the house for the night.”
“And the other members of the writing group?” I inquired.
“They’re not coming either,” said Alexandra, as she entered the room and was seated.
“Their cars broke down.”
“What, all of them?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Alexandra, “automobile flu, awful thing.”
I heard loud footsteps in the hall, Mira A entered and sat to my right, Mira B followed and took a seat next to her counterpart.
The four of them stared at me as if I had stolen their collective cat and eaten him with a small green salad with creamy Italian dressing,
I was thinking, though I also like the thousand island, but it is so sweet, unless you get the right brand. I also love the balsamic vinaigrette but who thinks to buy it?
“Do you have anything to say to us?” asked Mira B.
“So there’ll be no food at all?” I responded.
Mira A slapped the table top with an open palm. “This insanity must stop,” she cried to me, “and stop now. One way or the other we will stop you.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“This story,” interjected Amanda, “it’s ridiculous, I have no time for this. This is my bowling night and you’ve dragged me into this bizarre tale. You end it or we’ll end you.”
I rose and backed my way toward the door. “It’s my story,” I called to the gathered, “and I like it.”
“It makes no sense,” said Amanda, as if in pain. “What does the title even mean –‘The Colonel’s Overalls’?”
“It is symbolic,” I promised.
“Symbolic of what?” asked Mira B.
“Don’t confuse me,” I countered. “This story is my baby and I’m not stopping now for nobody.”
Alexandra bared her fangs, apparently angered by my poor grammar. Amanda grabbed the wine bottle. Mira A and Mira B both picked up a candlestick. They came at me, four reasonably beautiful, female demons from the depths of hell – not really – but it’s a nice line.
“End it now!” ordered Alexandra and I could feel her hot breath – garlicky, too.
“Never,” I vowed, as I reached behind me for the doorknob.
“You are my characters and you will do what I say. You do not own me, I own you. I am the writer, I call the shots.”
“You are forgetting one thing,” said Mira A, my only true love, as she raised the candlestick to kill me.
“What, my darling?” I asked.
“It is Thursday,” she said, “and that means Thursday night football.”
Edward Palumbo is a graduate of the University of Rhode Island, (1982). He is a prize winning poet and playwright. Ed’s fiction has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. Ed is inspired by the literary muses that follow him on a daily basis, despite a restraining order he has secured.
