Atwood Margaret - The Heart Goes Last

“That so totally sucks,” Charmaine says, wrinkling her nose.

“And then you’ll live happily ever after,” Jocelyn continues in her neutral voice. “Just like in a fairy tale. And Ed will too. That must be what he thinks.”

“How do you mean, he will ?” says Charmaine. “The first part of it’s not even happening! It’s not happening! You won’t let it happen. That’s what you said.”

“Correct,” says Jocelyn. “That’s what I said. So now you can relax.”

And Charmaine does feel relaxed; her eyelids are drooping. She nods off, but then she’s awake again. Awake more or less. “Maybe I’ll have that coffee after all,” she says. “I need to wake myself up.”

“Too late,” says Jocelyn. “We’re about to land. And look, I think I see the ambulance, right on cue. I sent them an email before we took off. Feeling a little sleepy? Just lie back.”

“The ambulance? What ambulance?” says Charmaine. It’s not just sleepiness, there’s something wrong. She looks at Jocelyn and there are two Jocelyns, both of them smiling. They pat her arm.

“The ambulance that will take you to Ed’s clinic at Ruby Slippers,” she says.

You promised, you promised , Charmaine wants to say. It must have been the water, something Jocelyn put in. Oh heck! You lying witch! But she can’t get the words out. Her tongue feels thick, her eyes are closing. She feels her whole body leaning sideways.

Bumpity-bump, they must be on the runway. She’s so dizzy. Voices, far away: She’s fainted. I don’t know what … she was fine a minute ago. Here, let me … That’s Aurora. She tries to call to her, but there are no words, only a kind of moaning. Uhuhuhuh …

Don’t let her head hit the wall. Jocelyn.

She’s in the arms of someone, some man; she’s being swung through the air. It feels lovely, like floating. Easy does it. There. He sets her down, covers her. Is that Max? Is that Max’s voice, so close to her ear? All tucked in.

Falling, falling. Gone.

It’s better for Stan not to return to the Elvisorium, says Conor, because although the guys in sunglasses who’d come looking for him were only Conor and his three pals, you never knew. Next time they might be more sinister, and better to have left no trails, because after the big snatcheroonie took place, leaving trails might turn out to be a fucking bad idea. If everything went as planned there wouldn’t be a problem, but if everything did not go as planned, then there would be police involved or security things, and then it would be all five of them on the red-hot barbecue.

Conor doesn’t seem very worried about this prospect. If anything, he’s excited. Break the window on the mobile home, talk Stan into sneaking inside with him, then, when someone comes, run away very fast, leaving Stan to explain what he’s doing with two steaks from the freezer and a lady’s underpants. Always Conor’s idea of a fun night out.

Conor and the boys have a two-bedroom Emperor Suite at Caesar’s Palace: whoever’s hired Con isn’t poor. Con says they can’t go out, to a show or a strip joint or the casinos, because he can’t run the risk of them fucking up so close to bingo. Budge says that’s fine with him, maybe they can watch a game, but there’s some grumbling from Rikki and Jerold. Con shuts that down by saying who’s running this, and if there’s a question about that he’d be happy to settle it. So the five of them end up playing Texas hold’em for grapes and pieces of cheese off the Cheese Assortment plate Con’s ordered in and drinking Singapore Slings because Con’s never had one and wants to try it, but they can only have three each because they have to be fresh for the next day.

Stan wins a moderate amount of cheese, which he eats; but after three Singapore Slings he’s out for the count and nods off on the sofa. Just as well, because there are only four beds, and he has no yen to be in any of them with someone else.

In the morning the five of them sleep in, shower, complain about their hangovers – all except Budge, who’d showed some self-restraint the night before – and order in breakfast. Rikki stands behind the door when the cart arrives, Glock at the ready like something in a cop show, just in case it’s a trap. But no, it’s only scrambled eggs, ham, toast, and coffee, wheeled in by a cheerful Caesar’s wench: they’re safe so far.

Then they get suited up and paint their heads green. Con’s hired a van; it’s in Parking with the Green Man gear already loaded into it. Before they leave, Con goes over Stan’s gong cues. Every time he points to his ear, Stan is to hit the gong. He doesn’t need to know fucking why, he only has to hit it. That shouldn’t be too hard. If Con should suddenly rush off toward, for instance, an ambulance that might, for instance, be pulling up in front of the facility, and if the other fake Green Men should rush off with him, Stan should hit the gong three more times so people think it’s all part of the show. Then he should wait for further cues. Then he should go with the flow.

Once they’re in the van Stan gets butterflies. What is the flow? Is this going to be another case of Con vanishing over the fence while Stan is left floundering?

“You missed some green at the back,” Jerold says to him. “I’ll paint it in.”

“Thanks,” says Stan. He has a crick in his neck: he’s sitting up very straight so the green from his scalp doesn’t rub off on the upholstery.

Con has a pass that gets their van in through the Ruby Slippers gate, with its motto: There’s No Place Like Home.

Inside, the road divides: Main Entrance and Reception to the left, Clinic to the right and around the corner. They park in the Visitors Disabled section at the front and lockstep inside; Con flashes his pass at the receptionist.

“Oh, the special event,” she says. “You’ll be in the Atrium.” She’s obviously used to green guys or the equivalent filing in past her desk. Clowns, jugglers, singers with guitars, zombie dancers, pirates, Batmen, whatever. Actors.

In the Atrium there’s one already in full flight – an Elvis, in the white-and-gold outfit. He’s finishing up a gargly rendition of “Love Me Tender” and gives them a dirty look as they troop in. The old people in the audience provide a smattering of applause, and the Elvis says, “Thank you, thank you very much. Would you like another song?”

But Con blows the green New Year’s Eve horn he’s brought along, which puts a stop to that. “Timing’s everything,” he says to Stan. “Can’t have that loser cutting in on our act. Get that music going!”

The music’s on Con’s phone, attached to a Bluetooth speaker. Jerold’s blowing up green balloons with a hydrogen cylinder, Rikki’s handing them to Budge, who doles them out to the audience members. They take hold of the strings, some with confusion, some with distrust, others maybe with pleasure, though it’s hard to tell. Several Ruby Slippers Events Assistants in their trademark red shoes help out, wearing green hats in honour of the Men. “Isn’t this nice?” they coo, in case there’s any doubt, which there is. But no one has protested yet, so the act must be doing well enough, or at least well enough to convince. Conor points to his ear and Stan whangs the gong.

Con looks at his watch. “Fuck,” Stan hears him mutter. “What’s keeping them? Squirt some water out of your mouth,” he tells Rikki. “That’s always a howler.”

Now there’s the wail of a siren, coming closer. An ambulance drives in through the front gate, heading for the clinic entrance at the side. Con produces a giant rubber tulip from inside his jacket, waves it aloft. It explodes, mildly. That’s the signal: Jerold, Rikki, and Budge release a clutch of helium balloons into the air, rush out through the Atrium door, and disappear around the corner.