Norrah had just shut off the blow-dryer in her third-floor bathroom when she heard Paul holler, “Hello-hello!”
Norrah cinched her robe’s belt and took a couple steps down the top flight of stairs. “Hi, Paul,” she said with her charming smile—she really is a cute little devil, and that smile makes me fall in love with her all over again every time I see it.
“Morning, Norrah. I was hoping we could talk for a few minutes. I know you’re leaving for work soon, but it’s kind of important.”
“Uh… okay.”
She went downstairs and took a seat at the dining room table. Paul sat opposite her. He wore black slacks and a dark blue golf shirt. His black hair was slightly wavy and always looked wet. He looked like he belonged in any number of teen-heartthrob movies. It was easy to smile at him, easy to get a little lost in his hazel eyes. He’s the kind of guy that you find yourself telling too-personal things to in hope that he’ll reciprocate a juicy nugget of his own. She felt uncomfortable wearing nothing but a bath robe, just a little tug on her cloth-belt away from being nude before this good looking boy, but it wasn’t by her design: he came up to see her. She crossed her legs under the table and asked how he was doing.
“Great, thank you. I’ll make this quick, since you have to leave here in,” he checked his wristwatch, “what, fifteen minutes?” She nodded. “I have a huge favor to ask you. I know I said I wasn’t going to have many people over, and I respect your wish of quietude here”—quietude, who the hell says quietude?—“but something’s come up. There are some guys I go to school with, and every year on Valentine’s Day there’s a party. A masquerade party. It was going to be at Taylor’s house this year; he lives just a few miles from here. Something came up and the place is a no-go. We all had our hearts set on having the party up in the mountains; you know… cozy snow, roaring fire, forest; and being that your house is so near Taylor’s, it seemed like a good logistical alternative. So I—”
“How many people are we talking?”
“Not many. I believe something like eight guys and their dates. Maybe a couple others, but I don’t know for sure. They’re all students of University of Redlands, good considerate guys and girls. I trust them all. We won’t be rowdy, you have my word.”
“From what time till what time?”
Paul looked up and away, considered it. “Eight till about one or two in the morning. We’ll have the music turned down by midnight.”
“I suppose it would be all right, if it’s a one-time thing. Don’t get in the habit of having get-togethers here. It’s not that I don’t trust—”
Paul held up a hand to stop her, grinned sidelong, and said, “No need to say it. I haven’t been here long, I don’t expect you to trust me. But we’ll keep the party downstairs, so there won’t be any reason to worry about things breaking or stuff getting stolen. And being that the nearest house is what, fifty yards away or better?—I doubt anyone will know we’re here other than you.”
“All right,” Norrah said, “it should be fine. I work the early shift tomorrow so I’ll be in bed by eleven. If you could keep it down at around that time I’d appreciate it. I sleep on the third floor, but can still hear music from down below. Do that for me and we have a deal.”
“Awesome.”
“One other thing. Would you mind parking your truck on the street or farther to the right on the driveway from now on? It’s a big truck, not a big driveway.”
“Consider it done.” Paul stood and extended his hand. She shook it with a smile and left the table, went upstairs to dress.
Early that evening Norrah was driving home from work when it began snowing again. Just a light snow, more of an afterword to the storm that landed last night. She parked her Camry on the driveway beside an Infinity sedan she had never before seen, in the place of Paul’s usual Dodge truck. She wondered if he traded it in. She went inside and locked the door behind her. Paul must have heard her arrive because he went upstairs through the open hatch shortly after. He was dressed in black slacks and a white dress-shirt with a black bow-tie. Was he really going to wear a tux tonight? She wondered. He asked if she had any scotch tape he could borrow, and some tacks and a hammer. She had tape and a hammer but no tacks, sorry. He thanked her and waited for her to collect the two items. When she handed them over he said, “You should come hang out with us tonight, if you’d like.”
Her brow arched. “Me?” She considered it was more of a polite gesture than an honest invitation. She was thirty, while he presumably wasn’t old enough to buy booze yet. But maybe he was. He possessed that youthful appearance that lasts a lifetime, like Dick Clark had. She considered herself to be a young-looking thirty, and guys did check her out when she was checking them out (groceries, that is) but still… they were college kids and if the others looked anything like Paul Klein, they could do a lot better than Norrah—her words, not mine; if you ask me, Norrah is the best any man could do. “Thanks, but I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Suit yourself, but you’re welcome to join us.” He turned and took a couple steps down the stairs through the portal while adding, “Might be a single guy or two. They’d be all over you.”
“Wait,” she said after him. He stopped and looked back; only his shoulders and head remained above the landing. “What do you mean by that?”
“Oh I don’t mean anything like that. I’m sorry, that sounded suggestive. I just mean you’re an attractive woman and they’d appreciate it. That’s all.”
She nodded slightly. “That’s sweet of you to say, but I don’t believe that. You guys be safe down there. You have my cell phone number, so call or text if you need anything and I’ll bring it down.”
“Sweet. You’re the best, Norrah.”
She grinned and went upstairs to change into some lounge-wear. Sweats and a sweat-shirt, her most comfy socks, and tied her hair into a pony-tail. She nuked some Lean Pockets in the microwave and poured some iced tea, mulling over the idea of a masquerade party. It was intriguing, a masquerade party. And on Valentine’s Day, of all days. Weren’t those kinds of things only on Halloween? She wondered if they’d be wearing costumes or just a mask. Every instance of masquerading she had heard of or read about was mostly just a mask. She remembered watching The Count of Monte Cristo, and there was the carnival at Rome, taking place sometime in the early 19th century, and those people had those little masks that were attached to a stick and held up against their faces. She supposed some of them were fastened to their heads by a string going over their ears and tied at the back. They were partial masks, covering the forehead and nose but not the mouth. She doubted this was the type of masquerading her tenant had in mind, but who knows? In her memory of the carnival of that movie the people were classy, dressed formally, and it was a regal occasion, a big deal. Could college kids put together something so tasteful? It seemed more likely they would wear costumes. She could see in her imagination a girl dressed as Elvira, tits popping out of her low vee-cut shirt, and another girl with a less desirable figure dressed as Snow White or Cinderella, the fabric at the waist threatening to bust at the seams. She pictured a college boy wearing a Spiderman mask. Peter Parker. Maybe he’d try to get a chuckle out of the dames by calling himself by his porn-acting name Peter Pork-her. Perhaps a muscular boy would flaunt his rippling beefcake by going shirtless and painting his torso green, and pretend to be the Incredible Hulk. The more she considered the possibilities, the more curious she became about this party.
Norrah remembered her sleep mask. One of those black deals that sleepers wear when they are forced to contend with an unchecked morning sun. She had been one such sleeper at a younger age, but had since gotten blinds put up over her window and put to rest the use of a sleeping mask. What if she cut holes into the eyes and wore that down to her tenant’s party? Nah, that’s ridiculous. That isn’t any kind of disguise. And besides, what would she wear with it?
She sat at the dining table and bit into the first of two Lean Pockets.
It was the pizza flavored one. She preferred the mozzarella and meatballs ones but for some damned reason those made her gassy; the remarkably similar pizza ones didn’t. Go figure. She looked out the glass wall into the forest that Jack Frost had shit all over. It was getting dark, the sun long invisible below the wooden horizon. The trees would stay white until the temperature finally got above freezing. The flood light of her back second-floor deck was on a timer and just then clicked on. Large snowflakes feathered down to a carpet of snow specked with what looked like diamond dust. She was nearly two months removed from songs of walking in a winter wonderland, but only two yards away from literally doing it.
Car doors closed somewhere out front.
Norrah hated that she was officially in her thirties now, and had been for months. As stupid as it sounded, if she was still twenty-nine she’d strongly consider making an appearance downstairs sometime tonight. But being thirty changed things, if only internally. Thirties were the years for settling down and pumping out babies; twenties were the years for preventing babies from being born by any number of contraceptives and ancient family secrets—hop up and down if the jackass doesn’t pull out in time. One’s twenties are a string of bad-judgment calls and too many colorful cocktails with cherries skewered on toothpicks, driving the back-roads at two AM and waking up with a massive headache and a sensation of bodily violation that you may or may not have any recollection of. Those were the years when pleasure took a front seat to everything; these were the years that pleasure took a back seat to anything practical and well considered.
There was a knock at the door, then the doorbell.
Norrah left the table and went to the door, looked through the peep-hole. A boy and girl. She smiled at what she saw: half-masks not unlike the ones worn in The Count of Monte Cristo. The girl wore a deep red dress, long and formal, with a black cat mask, whiskers and stubby nose. Her hair was ash blonde and professionally styled, like something you’d see Nichole Kidman sporting at the Oscar’s. The boy wore a tuxedo. His mask was a lion’s face, complete with tawny fur and ears. She could see both their smiling mouths. She didn’t hesitate to open the door. Just as she greeted them, Paul came up from behind and apologized, said he told everyone to enter through the downstairs back door.
“It’s okay,” Norrah said assuredly, “I don’t mind.” She smiled wider at the two guests. “Cute masks.”
“Thanks,” the boy said. “I’m sorry, I totally forgot that we were supposed to go around back.”
“Sorry,” the girl said in a high tone.
“It shouldn’t happen again,” Paul said to Norrah, then gestured the two to follow him.
Norrah closed the door and locked it, followed after the trio. “Is everyone going to wear masks like that?”
Paul looked back with his patent crooked smile and said, “You bet. The offer stands, if you want to join us. Free drinks.”
“Are you all old enough to drink?” She regretted saying it immediately. It made her feel older than she was ready to be. She frowned and said, “Don’t answer that. I’m sorry.”
He didn’t answer that, but instead winked at her. The three went downstairs.
Over the next hour Norrah heard the downstairs door open and close several times, a few car doors slamming shut in the street. She decided to upgrade from sweats to something less comfortable; put on a cute little black skirt and pink cardigan sweater. Not that she intended for anyone else to see her tonight, but she hadn’t intended for the first couple to see her either, and we know how that turned out. And didn’t Paul mention that there would be one or two single guys here tonight? Yes, he had.
She was debating herself by eight o’clock, the time Paul had said the party started. Stay up here and don’t interfere narrowly edged out go downstairs and mingle. She was seated before the blue glow of the television, watching some old comedy movie whose name escaped her. She wasn’t paying attention to the movie, but to the sounds downstairs, the mirthful sounds. She poured herself a glass of red wine in the kitchen, a bottle that Paul had given her recently for no particular reason, and returned to the couch, folded her legs to the side the way only a woman can do, and tucked a hanging ribbon of brown hair behind an ear.
Norrah sighed. She remembered being in high school like it was yesterday. There were plenty of parties back then, you bet. Some during her junior year, but most were when she was a senior. There had been no masquerade parties, though. Her dumb classmates couldn’t contrive such a neat idea as that. They were masquerading as good virtuous boys, that’s about it. She had let one of them inside her pants at one party. That would be a bad-judgment-call evening. She chalked it up to too many margaritas. What was the boy’s name? She couldn’t remember. Oh yes, Elias. What a cutie he was. Small wiener, though. She giggled just as she sipped her wine and nearly spilled on her pink cardigan. That was her only one-night-stand in her thirty semi-uneventful years. The boy she lost her virginity to was Greg—who she always called Gregory, despite his protestations—when she was a lithe seventeen years old, beauty in full bore, breasts that stayed in place when she unhooked her bra. Not that they sagged much now, but let’s be honest: boobs are at their prime during their teenaged years. Their sun begins setting in the twenties slowly but surely. Gregory sure liked her boobs. He used to offer to ‘massage’ them, as if it was intended to be a benefit to her and not him. She went along with it, loved to see how excited it made him. And it did things to her, too, just not to the extent that it did to him. It’s a shame that when her body was hard and rocking she was a dozen or so years from reaching her sexual prime. How unfair is that? Boys are in their sexual prime as teens, but for women it comes much later. By the time women want sex frequently, that ship has long sailed in men. Why couldn’t both sexual primes meet at the same age? She wondered if all the hormones downstairs had an infectious effect on her, like she was a cat in heat and picked up on the scent of a dominant male.
Maybe I should just drop by for a minute or two, introduce myself to Paul’s friends, then come right back up, she thought. Heck, she was looking pretty good in this sweater and skirt, if she did say so herself. There was the sleeping mask in the bottom drawer of her bureau, she hadn’t forgotten that. She was indecisive. She resolved to make a decision, but not until she bellied one more glass of red, and got to work doing just that.
It was a quarter of nine when she was nearing the bottom of her wine-glass. She felt the alcohol high on her cheeks. She wasn’t much of a drinker, so she appreciated a good buzz. She had heard the music downstairs marginally loud for over an hour now, and had to turn the TV up to contend with it. Progressively what she heard more and more wasn’t the stereo but the laughter of teens and twenty-somethings. As more alcohol was consumed, the laughter got louder and lasted longer. She heard one boy laugh so regularly that she began imagining what he looked like. She pictured a six-foot-two baseball player, trim but hard and strong, with sandy blond hair, fine golden hairs on his toned arms. She even ascribed a mask to him: a pirate. Aaarg, ahoy matey! He’d want to plunder some booty, all right.
With a smile she stood from the couch and sauntered to the window-wall, opened the door and slid into her slippers that she kept beside it, crunched snow to the railing. She took the last drink from her glass looking down over the rail. Just then the door opened down below and a boy stepped outside. She couldn’t yet see him, but soon smelled cigarette smoke. She was still and silent, the large flakes collecting in her hair—it wasn’t coming down very hard, but the flakes were enormous—continued looking down to where the bottom deck ended and sloped down to rugged forest. She felt fortunate to not have any neighbors in her backyard. There was a street closer to the lake with houses, but that was hundreds of yards from where she lived. On a whim she gathered some snow and packed a snowball. She leaned over the railing and chucked it at an angle to where she perceived the boy (or girl?) to be smoking. A powdery poof was followed by footfalls away from the house, until a boy entered her view. He was
looking up with a wide grin. He was wearing a tuxedo, his mask was that of a gray mouse, a long pointy nose with whiskers. He took a pull off his smoke and waved up at Norrah.
“Hi there,” she said.
“Evening, madam,” the boy said.
She humored at that. Madam. Maybe his dressy attire did wonders to his demeanor, instilled in him a sense of class he might not have had under another circumstance. She got a kick out of it.
“Evening, kind sir. Are you enjoying yourself?”
A gust of wind grazed her cheek and legs, breaking her flesh out in goose bumps. Her skirt fluttered a little with it, raised high on her thighs, and for a terrifying moment she thought he could see up her skirt—the railing had wide gaps between the posts. She remembered putting underwear on, so that was good; also was the fact that the light was above her, darkness below her. He’d see nothing but shadows up her skirt.
“Indeed. I take it this is your house?”
“Indubitably,” she said with a rich British accent, and went to sip her wine that had already been drank.
“Looks like you could use a refill,” he said.
“Perhaps. How many of you are down there?”
“Uh…” He looked away from her at the house. “Maybe twenty, twenty-five.”
“What are some of the masqueraders masquerading as?”