Atmospheric Avalon

         Anna gazed, spellbound, at the twinkling lights above her. It seemed as if she could see the whole Milky Way, but there was no moon.

         Still, it reminded her of long-ago evenings on the beach, sitting around fires her father had built. Her mother would sing old Irish ballads, as the wind whipped her voice out among the crashing waves of Lake Michigan. Anna would lay on her back in the pebbly sand, with her mother’s gentle, callused fingers running through her hair.  The quiet roar of water and wind would sweep through her head, rocking her, and she would drift among the stars until she fell asleep.

         The beach, and here, were the only places she could see them.  There was nowhere else in her world, where smokestacks, and harsh electric signs, street lamps, and fumes from all the automobiles suddenly on the streets, did not obscure those little pinpricks of light. Sometimes, she would watch that glittering ceiling for so long, she lost track of the silent stories unfolding in front of her. Half of the time, she went to the movies to lose herself, instead, among her own memories. It was good to recall she had been happy once, back before the factory fire which had made her an orphan. 

         The Avalon, with its atmospheric ceiling, was why she loved movies so much. Most people went to the theater to see the pictures, but she bought her tickets to sit in a palace, roofed with the night sky. It made her forget for a while, how she lived in the stench of beer yeast for nine cents a day, and slept in a small ramshackle room, sharing her bath with half a dozen women at least as unfortunate as her.

         The Avalon made her feel like a princess, and she bought that sensation as often as her meager salary would allow. To her, it was heaven.

         She saw the glamour of feminine mystique, watching Louise Brooks and Marlene Dietrich. Buster Keaton made her believe in men who cared, enough to do anything for a lady, and make her laugh. They lived in a world where women were beautiful, treasured, and allowed to spurn a man until he proved his devotion.

         If Anna was in the movies, she might actually deserve a love like that.  She never knew what to tell sympathetic souls, who occasionally asked why she always looked so sad.

         Where to begin, with a real answer, if anyone could have listened long enough around the brewing vats? She hated the whole Pabst complex, but it was the only place that would hire her, after what happened with Chris. She already was very much the shy outsider, and people tended to regard a woman alone in the world with some degree of suspicion. Women had won the vote.  They bobbed their hair, and wore skirts above their knees, boldly proclaiming they were now equals in society.  But she was still nothing without a man.  Wouldn’t she be a pariah, if they knew she had left him?          

         Saying she was a widow prevented further, awkward inquiries. In truth, she was the one who had wound up dead; almost.


         The only physical signs he left were a scratch on her neck, which vanished within days, and a little bruising on her knee. She could not understand why there were none on her face: those strikes were hard, and should have left some mark. They certainly did on her heart.

         He had knocked her down and sat on her back, pinning her to the floor. Then, he wrenched her head back so she saw stars, with his hands covering her mouth and nose. He was strong from heavy work in the port, and she could not breathe at all. Pulling against him made black sparks dissolve the edges of her vision away, and trying to scream only wasted precious air.

         Her life was literally in his hands.  If she did not quit struggling now, he would not let her up again until she had stopped: permanently.

         Denying every animal instinct in her, she went limp. She stayed still, relaxing even the muscles in her face, as her body, nerves, brain, and everything, all screamed for breath. She could not remain passive. She had to fight, must save herself! But she could not, if she wanted to live. She would die, lying like a sack of potatoes on the floor; but she wanted to live.

         Then, he took his hands away.

         She could only let the blessed, life-giving air seep in, slowly, between her lips. Fortunately, her initial gasp was masked by the thud when he dropped her head. She hoped she did not flinch too much, as her cheek impacted the rag rug, covering hard, scuffed wood. She did not know, with her eyes closed, if he could see her face.

         She could feel him watching her, though: waiting for signs of life. She lay like a corpse, until the door slammed, and she heard nothing but street and tenement noises.  She waited, to be sure, for a small eternity.

         He’d likely gone to the bar again.

         That was where he always went, after. Times before, he’d drunk away the week’s food money, then kept her up for the rest of the night, apologizing. He had only hit her until this, so it would be much worse for him, too. He might not even come home until the next day. Still, she packed as swiftly as she could.

         Despite having hardly enough to fill a small cardboard suitcase, it was only much later that she realized she had taken her mother’s teacup and saucer, and her ragged old dolly, but no knickers.


         Being alone did not bother Anna so much, though people found it curious. What concerned her was the possibility of Chris finding her again. When she went to the movies, Anna bought her ticket to a dark, safe place, where no one could see her. She could sit among people, in total silence, and anonymity. Few noticed her coming and going, and no one cared. If she did loiter before or after the picture, letting her eyes spiral up black pillars to their carved gilt tops, finding new patterns in mosaics on the moorish arches, people in the lobby could easily assume she was waiting for someone.

         This latest feature had promised to be a sensation: Lon Chaney, starring in “the greatest horror film of modern cinema!” His Hunchback character had entranced her, and this Phantom of the Opera was accompanied by the most beautiful score she had ever heard, as an organ featured prominently in the story.

         The Avalon’s mighty Wurlitzer was one of the finest in the city. She loved to feel its deep bass notes rumble through her, bellowing out from behind the screen.  It gave voices to the immense vistas and gorgeous faces, shining like silvered ghosts of things she would never see. That organ had more stops and sound-effects than anything. It seemed to contain an entire orchestra, and sometimes made her feel as if its music made the pictures move.  To her, it was a magic show in a box; the engine and heart of the Avalon.  Its rolling chords would move her like wind and waves, inside the palace named after a story from her mother’s homeland.

         When that ungrateful Christine snuck up and pulled the Phantom’s mask off, Chaney’s face shocked Anna to the bone. He had transformed himself into a grimacing mask of death, with round, staring eyeballs, each bigger than her head. It was horrific.  His skin was pulled so tight, his nose had collapsed and his cheekbones jutted, like those of a bare, living skull. Her blood ran cold as he advanced on Christine, lips stretched back from his teeth in a grotesque sneer.

         Her skin turned to gooseflesh, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up. Her whole body turned to water, yet went rigid.  Clenching her hands around the hard ends of the armrests, she resisted a wild impulse to suck air between her teeth, and hiss like a cat. The theatrical effects were spectacular, but no movie could frighten her like this. What was wrong?

         In the next breath, she knew. She smelled it. A very particular odor, which she had put up with for almost two years, after damning herself forever by saying “I will” to it.

         She had been so lost in the trills and pumping of the Wurlitzer, she had not heard the creak of a nearby seat. Why, oh why, when already invisible, did she still sit so far apart from everyone? The darkness of the theater turned on her, swirling, so she and that smell were the unholy eye of a silent hurricane.

         Popcorn crunched, directly behind her. Loudly, with his mouth open, in that crude way she had always hated. She must have stirred slightly in response.

         “Want some, Anna?”

         “Chris...” Even in that dim light, reflected by the screen like a flickering moon, she could not turn to face him.

         “Who did you tell?”

         “No one. Not a soul. I said I was a widow...”

         She could feel his eyes bore into the back of her head, sucking her soul away. “Why do I not believe you?”

         Solitude closed around her like a fist. “You must! Please...  I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I did not come back. I live in a boarding house. No one cares about me, and I haven’t spoken a word.”

         She heard the bag of popcorn drop to the floor. Everything went silent for a moment. Then, she only heard the air trapped in her ears, like two seashells, as his wrists boxed them. His hands covered her face, again, pulling her head over the back of her seat. She saw stars, again, but this time they were on the ceiling. Those beautiful, twinkling stars, which had always made her think of heaven.

         She knew they were the last thing her eyes would see, and she damned him for it. This time, she knew, it would not matter what she did.


         Lights snapped on, jarring Anna awake. The seat behind her, and the rest of the theater, were empty. She looked around dumbly, then stood on shaking legs, jumping as her seat snapped back.

         He had let her live. He had let her go. How could she have been so lucky again?

         The enormity of what he had done, twice now, pressed the air from her lungs. She fumbled her way through endlessly marching seats to the aisle, banging her shins on unforgiving wood and metal. Her legs were too numb to feel the impacts, but nonetheless rushed her toward a welcoming sign, telling her to “Exit.” She felt as if her whole life had passed in that room, and she could not bear its walls around her for another second.

         She burst into the alley behind the Avalon, and slumped in the corner where its wall met a wooden gate, shut to the street. Sobs wracked her body, as she curled up with her arms over her head, like a child. She had never felt so helpless.

         “Hey, are you okay?”

         Anna looked up with tear-blurred eyes, and saw a young man about her age. “I’m sorry sir...”

         “I’m a girl.”

         “Oh! I’m so sorry, miss.” Anna hiccuped, embarrassment climbing on top of everything else. It was an easy mistake, though: the woman was wearing denim pants, with heavy boots and a black leather coat. She had no hat, and what must have been a terrible case of head-lice, because most of her hair was shaved off.

         But why had she left those long bangs, and colored them that shocking shade of red?

         “No worries. What’s the matter?”

         “I... I was frightened by the movie.” He had allowed her to live, twice; Anna was certainly not going to tell anyone now. Her face crumpled, and fell hopelessly back into her arms, as she hugged her knees to her chest.

         The strange woman gave her time to collect herself, before commenting lightly, “That must have been some Halloween party.”

         Anna looked up again. “What?”

         The shaved head cocked slightly. “Well, you’re all dressed up like Shirley Temple, or something.”

         “There was no party. Just the Saturday afternoon matinee.”

         Wariness replaced concern in the woman’s expression. “What are you talking about?”

         “I always go to the afternoon show. There’s less people.”

         “What are you on? That theater’s been closed for over ten years.”

         Her words hit Anna like cold fists, deep in the pit of her stomach. “But...”

         “Go around front and see, if you don’t believe me.”

         Anna rose shakily to her feet, pressing against the rough brick of her beloved movie house for support. She stared at the woman in bewilderment. One of them must be insane, and the other’s appearance suggested who. Yet, something in her surety spoke truth.

         Without another word, Anna walked down the alley, then turned the corner. A mournful cry escaped her lips, as her eyes fell on the marquis. Its white expanse stared blankly at her, and the light bulbs underneath, which lit the sidewalk so gaily on a weekend night, were mostly missing. Their sockets sagged like a toothless mouth, over the boarded-up ticket window. Poster frames were empty broken glass, and the lobby had vanished behind black paint and splintery wood. Even the name was missing, unless a mad proprietor had changed it to “For Sale By Owner.”

         In a flash, like the one which had sent her packing so fast she forgot her knickers, Anna thought she understood. After all, what else could she expect? Her idea of heaven had been a cheap plaster palace, where she bought tickets to feel like a princess, and watched flickering colorless illusions, like ghosts of all the things she would never see. He had trapped her: with the plain gold band still circling her finger, and fear, and belief she deserved no better than what she had got. But now... Now, in her own tragic way, she could almost thank him. There was no need to hide, alone and unloved, anymore. He, in his own perverse, violent way, had set her free of him.

         She looked away, from the one place she’d felt happiness since those starlit evenings with her family, and smiled.

         A great white light, like a movie projector using her for a screen, beamed flickering images directly into her soul. It steadied, then brightened impossibly, brighter than any human invention could shine. She went towards it, and magnificent vistas opened up to her. She was the star, at long last, fading out.  Never again would she sit in the darkness, under an imaginary sky with no moon.


         Kara’s boots echoed, clattering against uneven layers of pavement, and partially exposed cobblestones. She slowed to a walk after hitting the street, breathing hard as she pushed long crimson bangs out of her eyes, and back over her buzzed scalp. The area was gentrifying, but still, she didn’t want to look suspicious. She had been running like the devil was after her.

         People often dumped interesting things in that alley, but she didn’t think she’d be going back there to treasure hunt. A cold wind had blown through without warning, almost knocking her off her feet. It seemed to carry a crowd of invisible people, which had surrounded her in a clamoring cloud, and made her bolt like a stung horse. It must have been her imagination, or a heavy truck down the street, but Kara could have sworn she'd heard the fading bass notes of an organ, rumbling the graffiti-strewn walls of the abandoned theater.  She wondered if that strange girl had heard it too, and ran off as well.  Kara looked up and down the street, but couldn’t see her anywhere.

         Having had her fill of the place, at least for one day, Kara was surprised to find herself taking one more slow pass by the Avalon.  She felt like she’d been packing for a long trip, and had forgotten something; some unnamable compulsion said she’d find it there.  She kept her eyes on the sidewalk, averting them from the great boarded wreckage of the old movie palace.  It was sad.  The place looked like a fairy tale, abandoned by everyone who had gotten tired of make-believe.  She’d peeked inside a few times, through gaps between sheets of plywood covering the windows, and couldn’t believe how ornate the lobby had been.  If they still built theaters like that, she might actually pay to see a movie on the big screen sometimes. 

         Kara stopped under the marquis, imagining the magnificence of an era burning out like a 4th of July sparkler.  Then, her wandering eyes spotted something foreign, mixed into the typical litter around her feet.

         It was a scrap of paper, so yellowed and brittle she thought it might turn to dust if she touched it.  It could have been part of a playbill, or poster, with a black-and-white photo print.  It featured a ghoulish face, with wide, staring eyes.  Its skin was stretched like a drumhead: pulling thin lips back from terrible teeth, and making the cheekbones stand out like a living skull’s.  There was nothing quaint about this old-fashioned horror, and it fascinated Kara, despite the chill it gave her.

         She reached down to pick it up, but froze in mid-crouch, motionless except for the shaking of her outstretched hand.  Then, her knees gave way.  She sat heavily on the sidewalk, flanked by ornate pillars emerging from rough plywood.  Blank windows seemed to stare over her shoulder, at her hand, as her jaw hung open in a silent scream.

         Reaching for that scrap of paper had made the sun catch her new ring.  A plain gold band, which she had never seen before, encircled the fourth finger of her hand.  It seemed oddly at home there.  Comfortable; as if she had worn it since time out of mind.