“I do love the water. It heals the body and the soul. It inspires the imagination.” She releases herself from my embrace and looks me in the eye. “But we have the Charles River right here, don’t we?”
I nod.
“Besides, it will be your brother’s turn to take care of me first.”
I know what my mother doesn’t know. That my brother is just like my father. If and when he makes money, he’ll spend it on himself. Gambling and booze and girls. He’ll never take care of her. Not the way I will. “Yes” is all I say. The last thing I want to do is break her heart.
Which I suppose is why I never call Shams back. I want to, of course. I desperately want to. But every time I pick up the telephone, the same thoughts stop me.
What good can come of this?
What if Mother finds out?
What if we get caught?
And who is he, anyway?
I know nothing of him. Well, almost nothing. I know he has kind eyes and a sharp mind, full lips and a romantic soul. I know enough to spend two weeks filling in the gaps of my knowledge with my own fantasies. I imagine he’s the youngest student at Tufts University, a genius who was admitted to college at sixteen. I imagine he’s a vaudeville performer, the son of a traveling circus star, royalty. In the absence of information, I create countless fictions.
Once two weeks have passed, I go back to Brendan and Jack’s room. I tell Mother I’m going to study, and of course she believes me. But I know exactly where we’re going tonight. The masquerade ball. It’s been on my mind since I heard about it. I want to see those men in women’s clothes wrestling each other.
Mother, of course, sends me with a jar of cookies. When I enter the dorm room, the whole group of boys is gathered in a circle, mumbling and laughing. “Hello,” I say. “I’ve brought cookies.”
“Cookie, that’ll be your name!” Jack exclaims as he applies makeup to a boy whose face I can’t see. “Cookie Nookie.”
“Hilarious!’ Brendan squeals. “Now what will my name be?”
“Hilda Homely,” Jack suggests, and from behind, I see Brendan slap Jack’s back.
“It’s a compliment,” Jack insists. “A handsome man makes a homely woman.”
“What’s going on here?” I ask.
Finally, the circle disperses and reveals Shams at its center. He’s been transformed into Cookie Nookie by the rouge on his cheeks, the mascara on his eyelashes, and the lipstick on his mouth. Pointing to Shams, Jack announces proudly, “Ladies and perverts, I give you my latest creation, the belle of the masquerade ball, Cookie Nookie.”
Shams looks at me warmly and waves. He mouths a “hi.”
I wave back, then look around the room. Shams is not the only one in makeup. Brendan has some on too. So does Cyril. Jack, who seems to be in charge of the transformations, has left his own face untouched. “What do you think?” Jack asks.
“It’s a start,” I say.
“That would be because I’ve just begun,” Jack snaps. “I have yet to reveal the costumes I borrowed from the theater. These gals will be absolutely gorgeous when the illusions are complete.” Jack moves toward me. Puts a clammy hand on my cheek. His breath smells of gin and cigarettes. “You’re next, I think.”
“Absolutely not,” I say.
“Let The Jackal paint that pretty face, baby boy.” Jack pouts.
“Leave me alone, Jack.” I move away from him, placing the jar of cookies on Brendan’s desk.
“You’re a bore,” Jack says, matter-of-fact. “Boys, come look.” Jackpulls a bag of costumes out from under his bed. He throws dresses and gowns around the room haphazardly. Ruffles and sequins. Scarves and hats. Gloves and heels. The boys cluster around him, fascinated by the illicit feel of these fabrics. Their bright colors. Their feminine softness.
“Tremendous,” one of them coos.
Cyril drapes a dazzling velvet cape around himself. “It’s incredible, isn’t it? The power a frock can have to transform you into someone else entirely.” Catching his reflection in the mirror, he adds bittersweetly, “Someone without a care in the world.” He throws the cape off and grabs a corset.
In the opposite corner of the room, Shams finds me staring at them in quiet contemplation near Brendan’s bed. “How have you been?” he asks.
“Oh, fine, busy.” I glance at him quickly. The warmth of his gaze discomfits me. I glance away. “I’m sorry I didn’t return your phone call.”
