George Pappas paced his living room, a cigar clenched between his teeth. With red, rat-like eyes, he scanned the ravine beneath the bay window. Age had turned his rich, gravely voice into a hoarse whisper and had wizened his body. Images of the pudgy and complacent Peter Saunderson flashed in his brain.

“Victor! Get me my hunting rifle.”

Aghast, Victor struggled to keep the disapproval from his voice. “But sir, shooting wildlife in the city is illegal.”

The old man glared at him and then cackled, “That’s really funny, boy. You, of all people, can’t harm a squirrel.”

Victor took the rifle from its cabinet and handed it to his boss. Together, they stood on the terrace jutting out over the treetops. Pappas scanned the floor of the ravine through the sights.

“Perfect target!” The old man licked his lips and followed a fox darting through the underbrush. Gently, he squeezed the trigger. The snap of the unloaded gun echoed in the ravine. Grinning, he returned the rifle to his assistant.

Inside, Pappas asked, “Tell me Victor, what should I do with Mr. Saunderson.”

“I’d see what he has to say, first, sir.” Victor locked up the rifle.

“It’ll just be more excuses from the useless son of a bitch.” In the library, he settled into his leather chair and began slurping his tea. “I think,” said Pappas, relighting his cigar, “he’s gotten fat and complacent. It’s time to shake the little queer up. I’d entrust that job only to you.”

Peter rose upward in the private elevator to Mr. Pappas’ suite. Victor, looking grim in his three-piece suit, let him in.

“Mr. Pappas has been waiting for you in the library, sir.”

Peter smoothed his jacket and tie as he gazed through the expanse of foyer and living room to the huge bay window at the far end. Beyond the barren ravine, pine trees on the far hill were bent in the wind. In silence, he followed Victor to the darkened library.

To Peter, the old man looked swallowed up by the huge leather armchair. When he held out his hand, Pappas did not move.

“Well, Saunderson, I’ve been waiting for your report.”

Peter sat down on the edge of the chesterfield. “Certainly, Mr. Pappas.” He fumbled with his case and realized there was no place to set his papers down. He looked up into the red-rimmed eyes of the old man.

“Sir? We’re making all efforts to be certain that the shares are not in the David Parrish estate.”

“Fuck! You were doing that two months ago.”

“Yes, sir, but as an added precaution, I’ve assigned a man to follow up any possible leads.”

“Bullshit! Tell me something new, Saunderson.”

“Now we’re taking steps to look into Archie Brinks affairs. He was, after all, one of the original members of the consortium.”

“Christ, man! Don’t tell me what I already know. I was there. Brinks doesn’t have the shares. If he did, do you think he’d be wasting his time looking after Norma?”

Peter tried to contain the sickness welling up in him.

 

 Pappas dug his fingers into the arms of the leather chair. His eyes flashed in anger. “Peter, you have failed me miserably.”

Peter stared at the old man. He was mesmerized by the flecks of spittle on his chin. Strands of yellow-gray hair touched his collar. Inanely, Peter wished he had been able to keep his hair for as long as Pappas.

“But sir. I’ve looked everywhere for the shares.” Peter threw up his hands in dismay. “I’ve been to Germany, France, and Italy. Nothing’s turned up.” His stomach was churning. Suddenly, he was aware that Victor was standing nearby, his arms folded across his chest.

“Then look harder, Saunderson. I’m telling you Norma Dinnick has them. That damned woman is crazy like a fox.” 

“Yes, sir.” Peter bit his lip. “That’s why we’re concentrating our efforts on Archie. I think Norma has left her estate to him and her goddaughter.”

“And who is the goddaughter?” Pappas asked.

Peter kicked himself. He had not planned to drag his wife, Bronwyn, into the mess. But, hell, if it bought him more time, it was worth it.

“What’s her name?” the old man persisted.

“Bronwyn Saunderson,” Peter said quietly. “She’s my wife.”

A thin smile broke across Pappas’ face. “Now we’re getting somewhere. If Archie is out of the way, then everything goes to your wife?”

“I think so, sir. But I don’t really know.” Peter stifled a cough.

“I’m sure you could find out.” Pappas said puffing leisurely on his cigar.

Victor spoke. “And your wife’s estate would go to you?”

The old man grinned. “Now Victor, that’s very clever. Peter, you wouldn’t be planning anything as foolish as hiding them from me, would you?”

Peter turned pale. “Oh, no sir! Please. I would never think of such a thing. I’ve been completely loyal to you, Mr. Pappas, for over twenty years.”

The old man slapped his knee. “And I believe you, Saunderson. You may not be too bright, but I’m sure you are an honorable man.” He paused. “If you betray me, I will personally see you suffer a horrible death.”

“Yes … I mean no, sir. I would never do that, sir,” Peter stuttered as he rose to go.

“Sit down.”

Peter sat gingerly on the couch. “Yes, sir?”

“You have disappointed me, Peter, far too many times.” Pappas struggled forward in the massive chair, waggling a bony finger. “You’ve got one more chance to get those shares. Do you understand?”

Peter nodded. Clouds swiftly covered the sun and darkened the library. Pappas said quietly. “Victor, show Mr. Saunderson out, please.”

Thank God the meeting was over, thought Peter as he climbed into his car and headed downtown for his office. He thought he might throw up. He breathed slowly and deeply to ease the pain constricting his chest. His cell phone rang.

“Yes?”

“Peter?”

“Yes, Roger.” Peter’s voice was flat.

“What’s wrong? You sound like you’ve been strangled.”

“Nothing. Just business.”

“I want to see you, Peter.” Roger’s voice was filled with promise.

“I’ve got a million things to straighten out. When?”

“Tonight.”

Peter fussed. “I’ll try to get away around eight.” He had promised Bronwyn he’d be home for dinner.

“Marvelous!” Roger exclaimed in a burst of enthusiasm. “Roxanna will be waiting for you.”

As fantasy took over, Peter breathed heavily into the phone. Images of Roger, in drag, floated before him.

“Or would you prefer Delilah, tonight?” Roger teased.

“No, Roxanna.” Peter pumped the brake. He had almost gone through a red light.

“See you at eight, lover boy.”

Everything was closing in on Peter. His attraction to Roger was very expensive, with huge sums of money going out to prop up his faltering antique business. But the thrill was the payback. With Roger, he could sink into a world of fantasy and desire where no one, not even Pappas, could reach him. What Roger left over, Pappas would chew up in an instant. And then there was Bronwyn. What man could succeed in a major law firm without the obligatory wife and hostess at his side? A lawyer had to be part of the straight world, at least on the outside—or so it was back then. But what did it matter now? Most of those “happy” marriages had gone down the toilet years ago. Even though acceptance was preached, pretence really did still matter.

Peter could see the Bloor viaduct arching high above the valley road. A favorite place for ending it all. He imagined standing at the top in the cold, unremitting wind. After one last look at a world, where he had always been the outsider, he would close his eyes and jump. Probably, his heart would stop before he hit the road.

He had met Roger through Bronwyn. In the days when he sought to please and placate her, he had agreed to stop in at Roger’s shop, Paramour Antiques, to pick up a print for her. When the front door swung open, Peter’s mouth went dry. Before him towered the tallest man he had ever seen, dressed in tight white jeans and a blue silk shirt. His hair, gray at the temples, was pulled back into a ponytail.

“Yes?” the man said.

“My wife asked me to pick up a print she ordered.” Peter thrust out the crumpled receipt.

“Step in,” was all Roger Blenheim said.

Peter followed him through a dark and narrow passageway into a large room at the back. Dazzled by light and overwhelmed by detail, Peter slowly set down his briefcase. Each wall was crowded with small oil portraits framed in gilt. Men in long, tight frock coats gazed sternly at him. The women were pale in their pearls, surrounded by ugly children with unnaturally rosy cheeks. Peter was lost in a dark and richly colored world.

Roger’s voice was deep, sonorous, and mocking. “I don’t sell prints, Mr. Saunderson. The lowest one could sink here would be a pretty little lithograph.” He was intrigued with the soft, slouching man before him. Not his usual type at all.

“My wife bought a lithograph?” Peter croaked. “How much did she pay for it?”

He tried to smooth out the receipt. “Jesus Christ! Eight thousand five hundred dollars!”

“Wives can be such a nuisance, can’t they, Peter?” Roger smiled benignly, thinking the man would certainly be an interesting challenge. “Cheer up,” he said happily. “It’s a mere bauble compared to what I usually sell.”

“Well, you’d better get me the picture.” Peter checked his watch. “I’m already late.”

“Let me show you around first, Peter.” His glance silenced any objections. Touching his elbow lightly, Roger guided him to a staircase.

Mesmerized by Roger’s sinuous motions as he mounted the stairs, Peter followed at his heels.

“I established this little business fifteen years ago. The Rosedale matrons—they’re fabulously wealthy and have far too much time on their hands—are my very best customers.” At the top of the stairs, Roger brushed against him saying, “They go for the chinaware, sterling silver, and paintings. But my special collections of really interesting works are in the bedroom. I have a fantastic collection of North American Indian masks you simply must see.” He motioned Peter into a bedroom. “They’re in the cabinet behind the door.”

Peter entered the room and stopped. Roger closed the door. An immense four-poster bed covered with a gold and burgundy spread lay before them. Mountains of cushions were stacked before a triptych of mirrors. The air between them throbbed.

From the cabinet, Roger took down a mask and held it out to him. Instantly, Peter was drawn. Running his fingers lightly over the shimmering surface of the honey-colored wood, he quivered inside. A semi-circle of tiny figures curved upward from the chin around the cheekbones.

Roger’s breath was warm in his ear. “The figures close down by the chin are contorted in torment. They represent our earthly existence, trapped in a world of pain and sorrow. But see?” Roger reached across Peter to trace the progression of the figures. “Higher up, they become willowy and floating, signifying the transformation of the soul from its wretched state in this world to its pure and free form in the next.”

Peter handed the mask back.

“Try it on.” Roger was driven to provoke him.

Hastily, Peter shook his head and backed away.

“Go ahead. It’s an amazing experience.”

Peter did not understand why he consented to Roger’s lowering the mask over his head. His throat constricted, and he struggled to lift the heavy, wooden piece from his shoulders. Roger adjusted the mask. Moments later, Peter felt a lightness lifting him up and breezing throughout him. His breathing slowed and deepened. His hands dangled at his sides.

Roger led him to the mirrors. His voice was languorous and soothing. “See yourself transformed by the power of the mask. It awakens your true spirit. With masks, we find the ‘other’ within ourselves.”

Energy flowed through Peter. From unknown depths, his anger spurted upward into his consciousness. Always the yes-man for Pappas and all his law partners. Forever trapped under Bronwyn’s thumb. Hiding his shameful desires—Peter was sick of the pretence of happiness. Trapped in his own carefully constructed world, he was now suddenly gasping for air. Quickly, Roger lifted the mask from his shoulders.

“Enough of that,” he said briskly. “I can tell you need to be led more gently to your freedom. I’m afraid you’ll have a heart attack casting off your shackles.”

Peter was caught. He wanted desperately to feel once more the smoothness, the power, and the release of the mask. But he had been stricken with fear, and so he had not reached out until the moment had passed.

By then, Roger had set the mask back in the cabinet, saying, “I have no idea how you lawyers don your straight jackets every morning to slay the dragons, or whatever it is you do.”

Shaken, Peter sought to call back the moment, but he was left stranded in frustration and longing, with only a taste of the real power of being himself.

“One more thing to show you! My pistol collection.” Roger unlocked another cabinet near the bed. “See? My Gautier flintlock dueling pistols. They really are my most prized possessions.” He held out a box that contained two beautifully scrolled silver pistols. “I keep them well oiled and locked up. After all, it is hard to find a dueling partner these days.”

Peter glanced briefly at the pistols and handed them back. He said stiffly, “Could you get me the lithograph now?”

Blenheim nodded. He sensed that the strange little man’s true spirit was buried under an unholy pile of garbage. Maybe that was part of the attraction he felt. But Roger sensed that he did show promise. Within five minutes, Peter was stowing the artwork in the trunk of his car. Weariness flooded through every inch of him as he backed from the driveway

Since their first meeting, Peter had frequently visited Roger at his shop, but he still remained trapped in his life. He could get away from the office in the afternoon for a few hours more easily than he could escape from Bronwyn in the evenings. The secretiveness had acquired a thrill of its own. But it was becoming outrageously expensive. He was single-handedly bankrolling Roger’s failing business. Tonight, he decided, they would talk finances first.

 

That afternoon, Bronwyn was shopping at Holt’s with Meredith Harcourt. Past the cosmetics counters, aglow with the promise of youth, they rode the escalators to the suit and dress department. There it was. The little black dress. Bronwyn stroked the filmy silk and checked the tag. Size six. Twenty-five hundred dollars. Perfect. But for what? It scarcely mattered since Peter had never found her attractive. How could he? Upon marriage, she had willfully blinded herself to his true nature. Now she was weary with self-deception. Glancing in a mirror, she thought she and Meredith looked sallow and dried out in the mirrors, despite their rigorous diet and exercise regimes.

In the dressing room, she tried on the dress. Its folds fell over her bust and hips with flawless grace. “What do you think, Meredith?”

“Perfect. It looks positively elegant on you, sweetie!”

“You’re absolutely sure?” she asked turning once more before the triptych of mirrors.

“Trust me. It is you. Besides, you can wear it to one of Peter’s cocktail parties. The gentlemen will find you ravishing.” Meredith smiled broadly.

Bronwyn handed over the credit card to the saleslady at the door.

After ten minutes, she complained, “Why is she taking so long?”

“Service is deteriorating everywhere, Bronwyn.” Meredith flipped through a magazine, and Bronwyn undid the back zipper of the dress.

The saleslady was at the door. “I’m so sorry, but the credit department has declined your card, madam. Perhaps you have another one?”

Bronwyn was incredulous. “There must be a mistake!”

“I’m afraid not, madam. I tried twice and even called upstairs.”

Bronwyn’s face froze like an alabaster statue. Letting the dress waft to the floor, she stepped out of it and began to dress. In one deft motion, the saleslady retrieved it. Meredith busied herself with her purse.

When Bronwyn’s head emerged from her collar, her face an ugly knot of fury. “This is a shoddy way to treat a customer of twenty-five years!” she cried.

“But Mrs. Saunderson, your husband’s account was put on hold for arrears,” the woman blurted out.

Bronwyn swept from the room. Meredith followed at a safe distance. When she did catch up with her at the curb, they made kisses in the air and Bronwyn hailed a cab; smiling so hard she thought her face might crack.

“Wonderful to see you, darling, but I must run. Give my love to George.”

Meredith smiled back—what a delicious story for the club!

At home, Bronwyn seethed over the statements she found in Peter’s desk. Gift upon gift danced before her on the page. A silver cigarette case, an eight hundred dollar silk robe, a leather bound volume of Shakespearean love sonnets. And finally, items from the lingerie department, set out in embarrassing detail. One black lace corset. Two garter belts. On and on. Bronwyn found the thank you note further back in the drawer.

Bronwyn poured herself another glass of wine. She would straighten her bastard husband out tonight Right now she had other problems.

That morning, before the Holt’s scene, Peter’s nephew Jeremy, had shown her Norma’s draft will. His brilliant blue eyes had borne in to her.

“Here’s your chance, Bronwyn. The old lady has to kick off soon. Half her estate is already yours, and soon you’ll be entitled to three quarters. Once she dies, you can dump Peter.” He winked and patted her bottom. “Then it’ll be just the two of us,” he said as he rose from the bed.

After saying good-bye, Bronwyn thought, Shit. I don’t want Brinks in the will at all. What right does he have to anything? I’m going to need all that money if I’m going to keep Jeremy and get the hell out of here.

Shortly afterwards, the mailman arrived with a registered letter from Norma containing an early birthday present, a check for five thousand dollars. Standing in the foyer, another thought struck her. If Archie dies first, I’ll inherit everything. Jeremy said so.

She caught her reflection in the hall mirror. In the harsh light, her eyes looked like hollows in her worn and gray face. Almost forty, she thought, but looking fifty—so much for all those spa treatments  She closed her eyes and pressed her face to the cool mirror. The anti-depressants weren’t working. She felt slowly sucked into a dark well where she would be lost for days on end. Opening her eyes, she smiled slowly. There must be people who could arrange something accidental for Archie. Peter would know. Peter knows everyone.

Her mind drifted back to Jeremy. Such a good-looking kid, and only fifteen years younger! Thank God he wasn’t gay. She’d almost given up hope of being actually loved instead of tolerated as a needed accessory. Jeremy might not actually love her, but at least he was good at the pretence. But Bronwyn, being no fool, knew she needed Norma’s money and everything she could get out of Peter.

She carried the half empty wine bottle into the solarium overlooking the garden and poured another glass. The lawn and flowerbeds fell away to the cliff, which overlooked the downtown. As she watched the sun’s downward path brilliantly reflected in the columns of glass office buildings, she tried to control her anger enough to devise her plan. An hour later, when the garden was in darkness, she held the bottle up and tried to estimate how much she had drunk.

When Peter entered the house, he immediately knew something was wrong. Bronwyn’s venom was like an all-pervasive odor.

She swayed in the foyer.

He tried to assess the damage. How drunk was she?

“You bastard!” she croaked, reaching for the hall table to steady herself. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

Peter stood completely still.

Ugly red splotches covered her hardened features. Her voice slid from a hoarse whisper to a shrill blast. “Answer me! Do you?”

Made reckless by the wine, she screeched, “I know you’ve been buying your lover boy gifts!”

She raised her arm. He grabbed her wrist.

“For God’s sake, Bronwyn, you’re drunk. Exert some self-control. The staff will hear you.”

She broke away from him. “Beautiful gifts…silk robes and garter belts!” Her heels made a sharp staccato on the tiles.

“Jesus! Keep your voice down.”

“That’s right! Always worried about what people will think. Never giving a shit about me!”

Peter saw her tears. The mascara had begun to blotch in ugly black clumps under her eyes. Turning away, he forced into his mind’s eye, the tiny willowy figures of Roger’s mask, which he longed to caress like a totem for its power. In response to her harsh breathing, he consciously slowed his own. Suddenly, he didn’t care about her histrionics. He scarcely cared about anything, anymore.

“Don’t go on with this. It won’t change a thing. This marriage has been dead for years. You don’t give a damn about me. You’re only waiting for Norma’s inheritance so you can leave.”

Bronwyn spun on her heel and marched across the black-and-white tiled foyer.

“Besides, I won’t give him up, regardless of what you do or how many scenes you make.” Suddenly weary, Peter sank to the hall chair.

Turning back to him, she hissed, “You think I care about your infatuation with your boys? We don’t sleep together anymore and never will again, so it’s nothing to me.”

“Good! Then it’s settled. We stay out of each other’s lives.” Peter rose and turned to straighten his tie in the mirror. He saw Bronwyn’s contorted features looming behind him. Her brightly painted lips made an ugly slash across her face. Just like the faces from hell on the mask, he thought with interest.

“I’m not talking about your lovers!” she screeched. “If you want to make a fool of yourself, go right ahead. I’m talking about the scene in Holt’s today. They refused your credit card. Meredith heard everything, so you can be sure the story will be all over the club.”

Bronwyn halted her tirade. Her wine glass dangled from her hand. The last few drops of wine splattered across the black-and-white tile floor. “Pay the fucking bills around here before you buy baubles for your lover!”

Peter was sick to death of money. Bronwyn and Roger were the millstones around his neck. She used credit cards to castrate him. At least Roger gave something in return. Disgusted with the smell of alcohol and the pretence, he sank to the chair and buried his head in his hands. Maybe he should get rid of both of them. Start over.

A sharp crack sounded above his shoulder. Looking up, he heard the splintering, cascading sound of shattering glass. A warm trickle came from under his left eye. Aghast, he shouted, “For God’s sake, Bronwyn! What have you done?”

She was gone. She had flung her wine glass at the mirror, sending shards of glass flying everywhere. Millions of tiny pieces were strewn across the checkerboard floor. In panic, he swung around to examine his cheek in the mirror. An inch-long gash ran from the outer corner of his left eye toward his nose. He dabbed the wound with his handkerchief.

Cold fury seized him. He took the circular stairs two at a time to the bedrooms above. Chest heaving, he beat on her door.

“You bitch!” He shoved the door open. The room was pristine in its neatness. What else? he thought, Bronwyn would never vent her rage on precious things. She went for human flesh. He threw open the bathroom door.

In the mirror, she glanced briefly at him. With casual strokes, she continued brushing her hair.

“Look what you’ve done!” He thrust the bloodied towel at her.

She shrugged and said calmly. “I only want two things from you, Peter. And I’m going to get them.”

“What?”

“A divorce. I take half the assets, and you pay me monthly maintenance.”

Peter looked beyond her into the mirror. Clutching the towel to his wound, he drew back from her hard, thin face. Venomous, he thought.

Methodically, she slapped the hairbrush in the palm of her hand. “Peter, sit on the bed. You and I are going to get some things straight.”

He sank onto the bed. She stood over him.

“You’ve failed miserably at hiding your secret life from me.” Her smile was cruel. “You’re a weak and gutless fool. And you make yourself a ridiculous target. If you don’t do exactly as I say, your dirty little secrets will be all over the office and the club.”

“For God’s sake, Bronwyn. You’re blackmailing me?”

Her smile was pitying.

Peter felt ice forming in his stomach. Where was the flow of energy from the mask?

“What a sniveler you are. It’s not just the boys. You’ve really thrown caution to the winds, all for your darling Roger.”

“How do you know his name?”

“You’ve given him all sorts of money. Just imagine the whispers at the club and the office. Senior corporate counsel of Blackburn and Swanson, esteemed Bencher of the Law Society, has not only loaned his boy very large sums of unsecured personal and client funds, but he has also diddled with trust funds to cover up the sorry mess.”

Peter turned a ghastly green. At least she hasn’t mentioned George Pappas, he thought inanely.

“But, if you do one little thing for me, you can keep your lovely Roger, and your secrets will be safe with me.”

Peter saw only her bright red lips parted in a mocking smile. Rising up, he struck her hard across the face. She dropped to the bed. Instantly, he was on top of her, jamming his knee between her legs. He clutched her neck and saw her face turning purple. Little gurgling noises came from her throat.

Flailing frantically, Bronwyn grasped the bedside clock and smashed it on the side of his skull. He crumpled on the bed.

“You fucking bitch! You almost killed me.”

“Jesus! You were strangling me.”

Panting, Peter sat up on the bed. “We better get out of this unholy marriage before we kill each other.” Blood trickled down his cheek. “It’s not as if you didn’t know me, before we got married. I’m just an endless river of money to you.”

She held out a towel to him. “Hold this on your cut. It’s still bleeding.”

He pushed her away. “What in God’s name do you want from me.”

“I want you to give me a name. A contact.”

“For what?”

Suddenly, she became nervous. “Someone who can arrange an accident.” She picked up a nail file.

“What? You mean a hit man? I don’t know any one like that.”

“I suppose that’s what you call them.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Peter shouted. “You’re asking me to find someone to kill me? How sick are you, Bronwyn?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! I’m not that stupid. It’s for someone else.’

“You hate someone else more than me? Who is it?”

“You don’t need to know.”

“I goddamned well do need to know! Who is it?”

“Archie Brinks.”

“Good God! What has poor Archie done to incur your wrath?”

“Nothing.” She paused to file a nail. “He’s a beneficiary under Norma’s will.”

Peter began to laugh. “How very slow of me, my dear. He stands in your way to Norma’s millions.” He shook his head. “Poor bugger!”

“All I need is a phone number.”

Jingling the change in his pocket, Peter considered the matter. Undoubtedly, Bronwyn was right on the edge. One little push and she’d be a basket case. He smiled and said, “All right. I’ll make a few calls.” For Peter, it was an opportunity not to be missed. Didn’t matter who got screwed. The whole fucking world was to blame for his shitty life.

“Good. I knew you’d see it in the proper perspective.” She returned to filing her nails.

Downstairs, Peter entered his study and called Roger. “I can’t come tonight.”

“But sweetie, Roxanna is all gotten up and waiting for you.”

Peter sighed. Images of Roxanna and her lace corset swirled in his head. He said, “I’m sorry, but business has come up. I can’t get away.”

“Wifey won’t let you out?”

“Something like that.”

“All right, then. But Roxanna can’t wait forever.”

“I know,” Peter said softly. “I’ll call soon.” Peter hung up.