Elizabeth Hand - Black Light

“Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Langford withdrew a key hanging from a length of bright yarn and poked it ineffectually at the lock. When at last it gave way the door swung open, onto a cold dark hallway rank with the scents of mildew and old newspapers. “I’ll see you this evening, I imagine…”

A light clicked on. I had a glimpse of walls covered with ancient framed images of forlorn stars and playwrights. She stood for a moment, catching her breath, then turned to close the door.

“Good night, Charlotte…”

I waited until I heard the latch click. Then I walked out to the overgrown sidewalk and started down the street. I looked back to see if anything was revealed by the dingy windows fringed with tattered ivy, but hardly a glimmer of light shone through. There were no shadows, no flicker of movement; nothing at all.

I ENDED UP WALKING to Ali’s house. As I crossed the village green the courthouse bell tolled five-thirty. Too late for me to run into anyone I knew driving home from school, too early for the commuters leaving Kamensic station. I stuck my thumb out once or twice when cars appeared, finally gave up and shouldered my bag, buttoning Hillary’s old jacket tight against the chill. I walked quickly, scuffing through piles of leaves and gazing wistfully into the village shops with their warm haloed windows, the smell of roast turkey erupting from Healy’s as the door flew open and Mr. Healy emptied his pipe onto the steps. I hurried by with head bent, and felt my melancholy fade as the village disappeared behind me.

It was two miles to Ali’s house. Not far, but the road wound precariously up Muscanth Mountain, and dusk fell early there. I knew the way by heart. My boots found smooth purchase between the stones and fallen branches covering the road, and the chill faded as I began to pant with the effort of climbing. Now and then I stopped, perching on one of the stone walls that bordered the road until I caught my breath. By the time I reached Ali’s driveway I could hear the Courthouse bell chiming faintly: six o’clock. I was at Foxhall.

The gravel drive spilled out onto the road. Behind it you could glimpse trees—birches mostly, Ali’s father had cut down everything else—their branches laced with light flowing down from the house. The stone walls were inset with two concrete pillars, one etched with FOXHALL, the other showing a stylized vulpine face, all pointed ears and sharp nose. I headed up the drive. A few minutes later I stood in front of the house, a dun-colored monstrosity that looked as though it had been constructed out of toilet paper tubes.

“Ali—it’s me—”

I went inside, shouting. From upstairs music pounded, Ali warbling along with “Gimme Shelter.” I stuck my head into the living room, a cavernous glass-walled space with built-in white furniture that made it look like a cross between a space capsule and a sepulchre. No sign of Ali’s father, save for an empty pitcher beading a glass coffee table with condensation.

“Lit!” Ali bellowed. “Get your ass up here—”

I went upstairs. Ali grabbed my arm and yanked me into her room, dancing over to turn down the stereo. There were Pre-Raphaelite posters on the walls alongside the Beardsley image of Tristan and Isolde; Polaroids of Ali and Hillary and Duncan and myself; a picture of Noddy Holder torn from Circus magazine. A cone of jasmine incense smoked on Ali’s desk, but I could still smell pot and tobacco smoke. “Where the hell you been? ’Cause I had this great idea—”

“Is it about food? Because I’m —”

“No—your hair, I’m going to henna your hair—” I scowled, but Ali ignored me. “I know I’ve got some henna left—”

“But I’m starving, please, Ali—”

She pushed by me and made for the bureau. “This’ll be great, you’ll look so fucking great —”

It took her a while, fumbling through drawers jammed with mascara wands and Biba lipgloss, L’air du Temps perfume and plastic envelopes of birth control pills, worn-out ballet shoes and innumerable black leotards.

“Hah! Here it is—” She held up an enameled metal tin decorated with hieroglyphs. “I was afraid I’d thrown it out.”

Resigned, I sank onto her bed. “Will it still be any good?”

“Definitely. This stuff lasts forever. Cleopatra probably used this same box—”

She pried it open and stuff like greenish smoke filled the air. Ali pinched some henna between her fingers, redolent of dried grass and incense.

“It looks like dirt,” I said.

“Oh, shut up and sit down. And put this over your shoulders. Just wait, Lit, you’ll be beautiful —”

She mixed henna and water in a cracked Wedgwood bowl, then carefully smoothed the greenish clay onto my hair. “Oh, man. At the party tonight they’ll be crazy for you. It’ll make you gorgeous.”

What it did was turn my hair flaming orange, the precise shade of a fox’s pelt in full winter growth. I shrieked when I looked into the mirror. Ali grinned.

“ Wow. It looks great, Lit.” She dried my hair, leaving muddy streaks on the towel. “God, it looks so great. See, your hair should always have been this color. You just want to pet it—”

She touched it gingerly, that glowing mass that didn’t really belong to me. “Ooh, yeah. Excellent. ”

I stood in front of the full-length mirror and glared. “God damn it, Ali. I oughta kill you—”

“One of these days your face is gonna stay like that,” Ali said, and tapped my nose. “Smile.”

“I look like that thing at Jamie’s house.”

“What? The sitar?”

“No, you idiot. The gorgon. The Medusa.”

She went to the window, hoisted herself onto the sill and lit a cigarette. “I think it looks totally cool. Before your hair was so—well, it was just beige. This is much better. Here, hold this—”

She shoved the cigarette at me and hopped off the sill. “— I’m getting dressed.”

She slid out of her Danskin and pulled on a velveteen Norma Kamali minidress with heart-shaped cutouts in the bodice, fluffed her hair, and proceeded to spend forty-five minutes putting on mascara. I kicked off my boots and jeans and got into my dress.

“Don’t you dare put your hair up,” Ali yelled when I started tugging my damp curls into a braid. “Just leave it. Look”— She stood behind me, close enough that I could catch the smoky smell of her skin, sweat and tobacco and jasmine. —“see how pretty it is now?” She thrust her fingers into it. “Medusa. Is that the one who started the Trojan War?”

“No, Ali. Medusa is the one who turned everybody to stone.”

She laughed. “So you can be the one who gets everybody stoned. Ha!”

I put my boots back on and we went downstairs. Despite the chill, Constantine, Ali’s father, was sitting out on the back deck overlooking the woods, a pitcher of screwdrivers on the table beside him. He was a slight man, with dark hair and Ali’s golden eyes, his sharp features starting to go slack from too much drink.

“Charlotte!” he said. “What happened to your face?”

“My face?” I clapped my hands to my cheeks in dismay.

He pointed at my dress. “It’s the only part of you that’s not orange.”

“C’mon, Dad, leave her alone.” Ali peered at a sheaf of blueprints stretched across the table. “What’s that?”

“Just some sketches I’m putting together for Axel’s opera.”

“I thought Ralph Casson was doing design for that,” Ali said innocently. She plucked an ice cube from the pitcher and ran it across her cheeks. “I mean, that’s what I heard.”