Mirror, Mirror (Finale)

     Mateus Dyrbar made daily deliveries of newspapers to Heidi's front porch. Sometimes the door stood ajar with an invitation to enter attached. The visits didn't last long, but Mateus became more comfortable with the woman perched in a wheelchair in the shadows each time. The young man even began to image her face. He didn't find her ugly, at least not as he thought she appeared.
     He purchased a hand mirror  to bring Heidi as a surprise present. He thought showing her how she appeared to him would help her to like herself more. He intended to make her happy, but that is not what transpired.
     He opened the daily newspaper to conceal his surprise gift. He went inside, careful to close the door behind him as usual. He sat in the same chair he always sat in with the newspaper and mirror on his lap.
     'You opened my paper.'
     'I brought you something.'
     'Yes, you opened my paper. Why?
     'I brought you this.' With a flourish he produced the hand mirror.
     'You idiot. Why do you insult me with such a thing when the mirror over the mantle is blind? After I told you I don't care to face my ugliness? How dare you!'
     'I want you to show you the woman I visit every day; a woman who is not ugly at all.'
     'Give me that and get out.'
     Heidi lunged forward out of her chair. Mateus, caught off-guard, dropped the mirror. The glass missed the carpet and shattered on the aged mahogany floor. Shards of broken glass exploded into the air. One of the larger pieces rocketed its way to Mateus and stabbed him in the neck. The severed carotid artery became a geyser of blood. Some splashed on Heidi's face as Mateus fell dead to the floor.
     Heidi stood in apparent shock at the scene playing out in front of her. She bent down to pick up one of the larger pieces of mirror and gazed at her reflection.
     'Mateus, you were right. I am quite beautiful. Thanks to your blood I should remain beautiful for a year or two. Oh, my precious friend, you certainly took your time bringing this mirror. My other young gentlemen callers were much faster in presenting their gifts.

Mirror, Mirror (Part Three)

     'All I can see of you are your lapis eyes.'

     'Are you uncomfortable?'

     'Not at all. Your eyes are beautiful, rather like the Cheshire Cat.'

     'The Cheshire Cat's were green as I recall. Would you like me to smile so you can check my teeth?'

     'Do you make a habit of turning the slightest compliment into something rude?'

     'I don't get many visitors.'

     'I can understand that. I'm sure not many people are willing to sit with you in the shadows without being able to look at you.'

     'But you are? Willing to sit in the shadows with an old lady?

     'You voice doesn't sound old. Something metallic glints on either side of you. Are you in a wheelchair?'

     'I am. You detect more than you thought possible.'

     'The result of an accident?'

     'An accident of birth. You see, someone raped my mother.'

     'I'm sorry for your mother, but something good came as a result.'

     'Something good?'

     'Well, yes. You.'

     'My mother never missed a day to remind me I am the hideous result of a hideous crime committed by a hideous man. She delighted in using the word for me. She named me Heidi as some sort of sick joke.'

     'What a cruel way to treat an innocent child. Did she care for you otherwise?'

     'By way of a nanny, a governess followed by a ladies' maid. My mother's money allowed her to keep her distance.'

     'How do you keep yourself now? Do your friends visit and bring you groceries?

     'Friends? What sort of friends visit and allow newspapers to gather in the front yard? As for groceries, what little I need comes to me, as you did with my papers.'

     Heidi's implication she expected his service to continue caused the young man momentary discomfort. Unsure of what to sat next, he blurted out, 'Mateus.'

     'I beg your pardon?'

     'My name is Mateus Dyrbar.' 

     'Precious. Odd surname for a Swede.'

     'I suppose.' Mateus glanced around the room in an effort to discover some object to change the direction of the conversation. 'Your room is filled with a lot of things I wish I were able to view better. Why is the mirror over the fireplace mantle blacked out?'

     'Why gaze upon Hideous Heidi. Would you want to face your ugliness every day?'

     'I think I so.'

     Heidi laughed. 'You think so. You're handsome is why. I bet you stop by shop windows to check yourself out. You can't begin to comprehend the impact of deformity.'

     'Humans have feelings regardless of their appearance. I think I should leave. I've taken enough of your time.'

     'Will you come again tomorrow?'

     'You should call whoever throws your paper to ask him to make sure the paper hits the porch. He'll do that, you know.'

     'I see. Another life lesson taught me. Yes, I think you should go.'

     Mateus started to approach Heidi to take her hand, but she spun her wheelchair to face the wall, leaving him with nothing else but to let himself out. 

     He determined to take a different route to work in the future. Still, he was sad for Heidi and the life she lived. He sensed her watching him walk to the street, but he never looked back.

     Two weeks later, he walked his former route to his office without thinking and happened to pass Heidi's house. As expected the newspaper rolls tracked the days of his absence. He stopped to pick them up and chucked them like pebbles against the front door. 

     The door opened wide enough for the familiar hand to appear. This time, however, the hand wore no glove. The gnarled and twisted fingers grasped each roll like a talon with a twig and drew them inside one after the other. He shamed himself for his impatience. Perhaps tomorrow, he would deliver the paper to the door and ring the bell. The hand did not acknowledge him as usual before the door closed. 

     'Then again, the best thing may be to leave things alone.' 

     He would think about it some more.

     

     

     

     

Mirror, Mirror (Continues)

     Several days later, the young man found himself on the same street. More rolled-up newspapers littered the front yard. He gathered these as before and walked up to the porch to ring the bell. Again, no answer came so he left them piled near the door and left.
     He watched from the sidewalk for anyone would bring the papers indoors. After a while, the door did open. A small, delicate gloved hand reached out for the papers, drawing them inside one by one like a mechanical clockwork. 'So it is a lady who lives there.' The young man further assumed she must live alone since there was no one other than himself fetched the papers from the yard.
     The next day, he brought the daily edition to the front door and rang the bell. Again, no one responded until he returned to the street. The door opened as he observed before and the same gloved hand reached out for the paper.
     Intrigued, he made delivery of the paper to the house part of his daily routine. After a few weeks, he brought a single pink, almost white long-stemmed rose which he stuck into the center of the rolled paper. The gloved hand paused midway of the usual reach. The man imagined a friendly wave before rose and paper disappeared into the house.
     When he return the following day, the door stood ajar. A note card written in a delicate feminine hand said, 'You may come inside, if you like.' The young man smiled and entered the house. He stood statue still as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. His hostess sat in the shadows of the far corner of the room.
     'I am very happy you accepted my invitation. I wanted to meet you and say thank you for your courtesy.'
     'May I turn on a light? All I distinguish your silhouette. I think people ought to converse face-to-face, don't you?'
     'No. No light. I see you quite well.'
     "But, I --'
     'Perhaps I made a mistake inviting you inside.'
     No one ever put the young man into an awkward situation before. He understood he should do as the lady asked, but he wanted to share a conversation with her. 'I'm sorry. We didn't exchange names yet. Besides, you only said you wanted to say thank you, but you didn't.' He smiled the smile that always won him his way.
     'If you insist on staying you may. Thank you, young man for bringing my newspapers within my reach.' The front door slammed shut startling the man. 'Please make yourself comfortable since you won't be leaving right away.'
     His winning smile faded into apprehension.
   

Mirror, Mirror

     Their relationship began with a simple act of kindness the previous winter. Movement of a curtain caught a young man's eye as he passed the old Victorian house. Several rolled up newspapers gathered at the curb on the sidewalk leading up to the house. The young man delivered them to the front door and rang the bell. Another quick movement in the curtains signaled the presence of someone inside, but no one answered the door. He left the papers and went on his way.
     The woman stood at an angle so she could observe the young man leave without being seen. When he didn't turn back after a few minutes she decided it was safe to retrieve the newspapers. This she did so quickly any observer wasn't sure the door had even been ajar.

Heir Unapparent

     Mr. Schneidermann studies each person entering the room with an intensity most of them found uncomfortable. This is a reading of the last will and testament of Otto Stjärna, not some criminal judicial case. He is an attorney, after all, an expert at reading faces so his manner is understandable. After everyone is seated, he begins his remarks.
     'Thank you all for coming here today for the unsealing of Otto Stjarna's will. I also want to express my gratitude for your willingness to submit the DNA samples for testing Mr. Stjarna stipulated for your attendance here today. Mr. Stjarna wanted to make sure his work to upraise humanity continues. As you are aware, he never discussed his work with anyone. He kept his successes private, but his generosity with people in need endeared him to many while he amassed a sizable fortune; a fortune he intends to fund whoever takes his place.'
     Glances are exchanged by those gathered, but not a word is spoken. 'As some of you may surmise, Mr. Stjarna wanted to be certain of the linage of the person inheriting his entire estate.' More glances exchanged. Smiles transformed into consternation.
     Mr. Schneidermann picks up a stack of manilla A4 envelopes. 'I hold in my hands your DNA results.' A few of the men lean forward in anticipation. Stjarna's estate is enough to provide each person in attendance a sustainable income for life. 'Only one of you is a complete match to Otto Starna. Lars Dagdrömmare, I have some papers for you to sign. The rest of you may go. Thank you for your time.
     'Wait a minute, Schneiderman. Not so fast. Is there nothing in the will for any of the rest of us?'
     'I'm afraid not. Sorry. None of you were a familial match to Mr. Stjarna.'
     'That cannot be true. I am his brother.'
     'And I am one if his sons. This woman is my sister. How can we not be a fam- whatever kind of match you said? Your tests have to be wrong. The lab made a grave mistake.'
     'Did you not submit a sample of your hair and a fingernail clipping in addition to the swab of your mouth?'
     The men and the woman nodded.
     'Each sample was sent to a separate lab as a cross-check of the results. None of them showed anyone but Mr. Dadrommare to be a suitable match. Again, I am sorry.'
     Otto's brother continued to protest. 'Dadrommare is not even blood relation. At best he is a family acquaintance. Your tests are wrong.'
     'The three top-rated laboratories in the country evaluated the samples. They are not mistaken.'
     The young woman stepped forward with tear-filled eyes. 'How on earth can this be?'
     'That's a good question. Unfortunately, the only man capable of an answer it is no longer among us. You see, Mr. Stjarna's DNA is unlike any of the accepted models. You might say possessed no verifiable DNA. Mr. Dagdrommare is the same.'
     'How on earth is this possible?'
     'I agree. How on earth?'

Abandoned Child

     Once again Sam Goode missed the last bus. Sam submerges himself in his work and misses the bus to the commuter train platform more often than not. He thinks about work even as he walks the several blocks of dark streets.
     On this particular night, Sam's attention is drawn to a house which escaped him until this moment. Well, not the house per se, but to a dim light that reveals the front door standing open. He halts his trek to the train to study the situation. Whoever lives here may be in need of help. He pulls his cellphone from his pocket as he walks up the few steps to the house, but he doesn't make a call. From the stoop, he turns to look back to the street and to either side of the house. No one to be seen. Not a sound. He returns his attention to the open door. He knocks and shouts, 'Hello? Anybody home?' and steps inside.
     The light emanates from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling at the far end of a hallway. Nothing seems to be disturbed, though an outsider can never tell with certainty about a stranger's housekeeping. In this case, none of the sparse furniture is overturned. No drawers pulled out or emptied by ransacking. No one has answered his call. No one is home. Sam decides the resident left in a hurry and failed to latch the door. He is about to leave when someone sobs. 'Hello? Is someone here?' he calls out a second time. Again there is no reply, only continued crying. Sam's palms begin to moisten. He shouldn't be in someone else's house. He is beginning to suspect a crime of the sort he needs to avoid. He decides to leave.
     The crying gets louder. Sam realizes a child is crying. He can't leave now. Who would leave a child alone in his darkened house? The sobbing and cries now advanced to wailing. A door creaks open revealing stairs to the pitch-black basement. Sam switches on the flashlight app on his phone and proceeds step-by-step on high alert down into the darkness. Halfway, he pauses and scans the chamber with his flashlight. In the far corner sits a little boy. He stops crying when the light shines on him. A lot of questions need asking, but he doesn't want to overwhelm the boy.
     'What's your name?'
     'Sammy.'
     Sam squats to look the boy in the face as he talks with him.  'Sam is my name, too. What are you doing down here all by yourself.'
     'Waiting. I want to go outside and play. Will you play with me, Sam?'
     'Too late to play outside. Who left you here?'
     'Will you give me a hug, Sam. I'm a little cold.'
     'Sure, I will, kid.' Sam wraps his arms around the child and holds him close to his chest. 'You didn't answer me. Who left you here?
     'I feel warmer now.'
     'Sammy, you're avoiding my question. You're only a little kid. I want to know who left you here?'
     'You did.'
     'I did? That's not possible, Sammy. We've never met. You're mistaken.'
     'Sam, you left me here when you started working and you never came back. Hold me closer, will you? I'm shivering.'
     Sam tightened his embrace to warm the child all the while wondering what he should do with Sammy. Minutes passed. Sam stroked Sammy's hair and the child says, 'I love you, Sam. Please take me with you' as he began to fade away. Fade isn't accurate to describe what happened next. Sam's body absorbed the boy leaving him sitting alone in the dark basement hugging himself. Tears began to roll down Sam's cheeks. The upper door hinges creak again and begins to close.

      

Between Floors

     Work made for a long, tiring day. Bridget focused on getting into her third-floor apartment, kicking off her Diane Von Furstenberg heels and collapsing into her plush club chair with a glass of wine. For once she opted to take the elevator than climb the flights of stairs. After today she didn't need any further exercise. She pushed the button and the elevator doors opened. She stepped inside and pushed the button for home, glad to be alone and not obligated to chat.
     As the doors closed and the elevator began to ascend, the lights went out. 'Damn. At least this is a short ride,' she said out loud to no one.
     'Touch me.' A man's voice. 'Go ahead. I know you want to. Touch me.'
     She was certain the car was empty when she entered. She panicked. Without any light the buttons all felt the same so she punched them all.
     'Touch me.'
     Panic turned to near hysteria. Again, she punched all the buttons wanting one of the to stop the elevator and open the doors. The elevator halted and the doors opened at the rear. Bridget assumed she was disoriented in the darkness and exited.
      Moments later, the elevator doors opened to the third floor. The lights were on and another resident entered. He spotted a woman's handbag on the floor. He picked it up and looked inside. The wallet contained a driver's license belonging to Bridget Houlihan which he pocketed.
     The man exited when the doors opened onto the lobby. He handed the bag to the doorman.
     'This was on the floor of the elevator. There's no I.D. but the wallets has some cash in it. Someone's bound to miss it.'
     'Very kind of you, sir. Thank you.'
     'Good night.'
     'Good night, sir.'