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Tango Tigers

Irene Ferraro

    “Aaahh.” Said the mirror on the wall.
    “Aaahaahh,” said Lila to the mirror.
    She pushed her hair out of her eyes. It was a tangled knot of curls.
    “Tell me, mirror, who is the fairest of them all,” said Lila.
    The mirror was silent. Save for Lila’s reflection and the far wall behind her, it revealed nothing.
    “C’mon, mirror. Talk to me.”
    The chocolate brown wall behind the mirror stretched from end to end in creamy smoothness. It was scrumptious. It’s only blemish was the infinitesimal hole that would be left in the wall by the hook upon which the mirror hung. A gong sounded in the corridor of emptiness. The clock struck noon and rang its bells.
    Lila was alone, all alone. Her husband had left her and taken the children.
    “Tiger, tailor, tango, thyme,” said Lila to herself. “See how good I cook? I know all the recipes for a happy marriage. Good luck and long life.”
    Lila threw the mirror to the floor. It smashed into hundreds of small and larger slivers. They shone with passionate duty to whatever light there was. A puzzle of multiple images lay on the off-white tile.
    Lila wept.
    “Angels are never coming to this house,” she cried.
    She walked through the house, touching objects here and there. She came to a wedding portrait of her and her husband. In the picture, Lila was wearing the traditional white gown. Her husband was in a traditional black tuxedo. He seemed to be swathed in yards of lace from Lila’s veil and train. They looked to be a typical couple. When Lila saw the framed likeness, she cried harder.
    “Where have you gone, Aldo? Where have you taken our babies?” With her head in her hands, she sobbed. Through her bitter tears, she heard her phone. A call was coming in.
    “You called the cops?”
    “What else was I supposed to do, Aldo? You took our children. Where are they?” Lila was screaming into the phone.
    “This is between you and me, Lila. You involved others,” Aldo said.
    “You stole my babies and you hid them. You wouldn’t give them back. You wouldn’t tell me where they are. They are my children, too. Bring them home to me,” Lila screeched, again. She was getting hoarse.
    “You got me into trouble. You ruined my life. You weren’t happy just taking the house. You had to have my children, too. You’ll be sorry you told the police. Now, you’ll never see your kids, again,” said Aldo. The call ended.
    “I’ll find them,” shouted Lila, to no one. Aldo was gone.
    Lila considered the possibility of running out of the house, leaving the door open, letting the air rush in. Perhaps it would bring in her children, riding on kites. As a family, in better times, they had often flown their kites in the park. What made Aldo rip all those kites to pieces? What had made him suddenly change one day into a stranger? Overnight, he became a man she had never met, had never known. He left the house, and then started stalking her. He lied about her. That was how he had taken the children, by lying. That was why no one was anxious to bring them back to her, because of what he said. No one was sure she ought to have them with her, anymore. With Aldo’s tales of wild parties and drugs, Lila was seen as an unfit mother. In her heart, she knew he would never get away with any of this. What she didn’t know was that Aldo had lost the children. They had become separated in a gas station. Actually, they had wandered off. They had melted into the crowd and were gone. He had called Lila, but no one else. He didn’t want anyone to surmise where he was. He prepared his escape. He became a new person, someone that nobody would care to find. He was already gone from the mess that was his life. Why not keep going until his whole life was brand new.
    Somewhere, in dank alleys, two children ambled. One was a boy of eight. The other was a girl of nine years. They were glad to be away from their parents. Their parents were nasty and fought all the time. The children loved them with dread. And now the feared thing had happened. They were not together, anymore. The fracture was complete. The glass figurine of the happy couple was smashed. The children did not want to go home.
    Lorenzo and Pamela were the children’s names. They called themselves the Rat Visitors because of the number of rodents they had seen since they had been on the run. The rats mostly ran away from them. The children were fond of the rats, but the feeling was not mutual. Their goal was to visit the sewer and torment the rats in earnest, in their own environment. This plan never materialized, but it was very dear to them. It got them through the day and night. They would toss the idea back and forth as they traipsed over unnamed and suspicious puddles.
    What Lorenzo and Pamela did not realize was that Lila was different, now. Mom had mentally split apart like an atom and was proceeding to render destruction as far as she could reach. She was angry, that was true. But she was mostly hurt by the public entertainment her life had become. Because kidnapping was involved, her divorce had become media property. In the news, she was “The Swinger Mom,” “The Party Girl,” “Neglectful,” “Open For Sex.” She was enraged at the casual misinterpretation of her actions , none of which could be judged by outsiders since they had not experienced what she had through this ordeal. She felt alone in this mob. Lila, therefore, never left the house anymore. She had taken to being a recluse. The impact was devastating. She would not eat. She lay in bed for hours and did nothing. She would not let anyone in. And the media people collected on her doorstep.
    Meanwhile, Aldo had managed to slip unnoticed over the border. With a political boundary between them, he did not fear Lila’s revenge. He felt safe.
    Where Lila was, the golden days of Autumn had renewed disinterest in the great outdoors. Cooler weather brought less outside activity as temperatures dropped. The heat was off. She stayed inside, not as noticed as she had been. Except to gape at the neglected appearance of her house, her audience had stopped visiting to ogle the scandal. Now the curious were interested in the freakishness of disarray. If only one had bothered to knock on Lila’s door one bright, leaf-splashed October afternoon. That subsequent stench may not have brought the police to Lila’s door to find her dead. It appeared that she had choked to death on a piece of food. Poor, thin Lila had finally decided to eat. Now, she was a ghost.
    Lorenzo and Pamela remained unfound. So did Aldo, though it was largely assumed that he had the children with him. He did not. Lorenzo and Pamela, the Rat Visitors, were communing invisibly with other lost children. They had taken up with another orphan of good fortune. She was a woman of indeterminate age who called herself Miss Mary because everyone said she reminded them of a schoolteacher. No one ever bothered with her real name, whatever that was. She took the children in as though they were her own. She cut and dyed their hair so no one would know who they were. She called them Lo and Mel. Their favorite place to play in her house was her linen closet. She had tons of sheets in a variety of colors and prints. Lo and Mel’s favorite were the satin tiger skin print. The closet was as big as a regular room. The children liked to “make a bed” with the tiger skin sheets on the floor. They pretended to “camp out,” two determined hunters on safari.
    “We’re catching big game, Aunt Mary,” they would say. A very large television was parked in the living room. Mary received visitors here. By now, most of Aldo’s deeds had past the point of high interest. Except every now and again, though seldom, the faces of the two children appeared. Viewers were urged to pass along any information concerning their whereabouts to the proper authorities. Mary pretended not to notice. Somewhere, in the middle of an abduction, Lo and Mel had run away from home. They did not want to be found. “You’re where you want to be,” Aunt Mary reminded them. Lo and Mel had told her that both their parents were dead and they had been living with a cruel uncle. They would have been surprised to learn that some of this was true. Aunt Mary did not question anything they told her. Silence on certain subjects was their unspoken agreement.
    “I’ve loved you for a lifetime
     And you know that it’s not fair.
    Today, you are my everything.
    Tomorrow, you won’t be there.”
    The song poured from the radio. It filled up the room.
    “You are as fickle as a sunny wind,
    As charming as the tide.
    You’ve broken all your promises.
    My love will let it ride.”
    In an empty room, an idle bug strayed through the dust. It took itself through a crack in the wall and disappeared. On the floor, a shadow came and went. And old-fashioned sign kept throwing it down. Then the sign took it away. A repast of colors blinked on and off, on and off. The shadow came with the light. It was gone with the dark.
    “I’ve burned my heart and soul for you.
    You don’t care, you don’t care.”
    The radio played . The song went on. But no one was there. No one was there.
    Lo and Mel “stashed it up” for Aunt Mary. No one called it stealing, though that’s what it was. Whenever Aunt Mary was low on funds, which was more often than she cared to admit, the children were sent out to gather goods without paying for them. The children were told to conceal their actions so they would not get caught. At “home” with Aunt Mary, nothing was concealed. She did not tell them to hide their thieving because it was wrong. Aunt Mary did not think it was wrong herself. If one did not have money, one just “took.” In private, the three of them reveled in their booty. The children forgot that they had ever had another kind of life. Aunt Mary and a full purse were all they knew. Aunt Mary was so proud. She told them that when they were older, they would do “other things” to make her proud.
    It was cold, and all the windows were shut tight against bitterness. The winter iced the brick and sidewalks of the cityscape with austere mastery. In spite of the glass seals, music spilled out of the closed windows of the first floor apartment. The little hovel was no more than a cube space.
    “You make the angels cry.
    You lie.You lie.”
    The song poured out with the agony of heartbreak. The landlord grumbled at the lack of consideration. He entered the building and headed for the tiny suite. He banged on the door from which the music emanated.
    “Stop the noise pollution,” he shouted, “Turn it down.”
    No one answered. He reached for the set of keys he always had with him. Unlocking the door, he walked in unimpeded. No one was there. The room looked unlived in. The landlord was concerned. Had these rooms been rented? Were there squatters here? The song played on and on from a radio on an end table by an armchair. All were covered with inches of dust. No one was sitting there. Yet, in a matter of seconds, a woman in tiger skin pants rose from the chair and looked at the person legally responsible for the premises. Both looked through one another. The woman in tawny and black stripes looked past the perplexed man, at conditions beyond him. The man looked through the woman because he could see right through her. She was transparent. The hair on the back of his neck rose.
    “Tiger, tailor, tango, thyme,” the transparent woman sang. Her voice was hollow.
    “Time?” stammered the man. “Do you want to know what time it is?”
    It took him a few to join one thought to the other. She was there, but not in the usual manner. The landlord turned and walked briskly out the door.
    “I’ll come back later,” he said as he left.
    On the other side of life, Aunt Mary was welcoming a “guest” to her home. He was singular in size. Large, strong, and well-muscled, he seemed to take up the better part of any space he occupied. Aunt Mary cooed and sighed. He was good-looking. She twirled the ends of her hair in her fingers. She invited him into her world with eagerness. Yet, in spite of all the attention and approval she lavished upon him, he did not respond. He was as hard as steel, as cold as ice. Aunt Mary tried a different approach. She tried poking and insulting him. She really did not mean the nasty things she said. She just wanted to get him going. She did get him to react, though not as she expected. He put his hand around her throat and squeezed, hard. He became violent in an instant. Obviously, he was easily provoked, Mary thought, as she died. On the street of dreamers and survivors, Mary became a statistic. The man left behind him not a legacy of fingerprints. He left pitiful Aunt Mary without a trace of his own existence. There were witnesses to his presence, in that neighbors had seen visitors come and go at Aunt Mary’s all day and night. But this man was one of many and he was hard to place in time and circumstance. No one could pick him out of the crowd that routinely arrived on Aunt Mary’s doorstep. Neighbors also reported the absence of two children that had been seen there that day, a boy and a girl. The two children seemed to have been living with the unfortunate woman. No one could be sure if they had frequent stay-overs with their “Aunt” or if they were permanent residents. Aunt Mary did not reveal much of her personal affairs to anyone. She was a private and concealed person. In the absence of certainty there was confusion and delay. It was the handsome stranger of Aunt Mary’s demise who had, in fact, taken the children with him.
    “You can’t hide from me,
    Not at the bottom of a stormy sea,
    Not even if you were up a tree.
    You can’t hide from me.”
    The singer caressed the lyrics, a real crooner. The music teased from the car radio, inviting response. They had stopped at a drive-through restaurant; the boy, the girl, and the man. Surprisingly, the children were no problem. The girl kept looking at him. The man felt that he had shook something in her that was still sleeping. The boy looked at her as tough he did not like it. The man understood that the little girl had a childish crush on him, and that the brother was possessive of her. The man strongly felt that they were easy to manipulate, no more nor less than other children, but these were his. They would provide a perfect buffer zone between himself and his accusers. He did everything to gain their trust. He went out of his way to make them like him, especially the boy. He told them his name was St. Nick, which it was not. He told them Aunt Mary was hiding from the police because she had “done something.” When they became alarmed, he said it was best if they pretended, for the sake of outsiders, that she had gone to Heaven. He told them not to believe anything they heard about Aunt Mary actually dying. When they insisted on “helping” her, he told them Aunt Mary had sent him to take them away and soon they would be with her, again. Lo and Mel were no strangers to hiding their deeds at that point in their lives. Yet, they were still children. They had faith in this Mr. St. Nick, whose name smelled suspiciously like hot chocolate and peppermint sticks. They did whatever he told them. They even explained how they had come to be with Aunt Mary. The children both confessed that they hated being at home. They said they did not like their father. Though they did not dislike their mother, they could not stand being with her when she was with him. Mon and Dad fought and they were mean. Their father was cruel and cold to them. Lo and Mel asked Mr. St. Nick when they would be with Aunt Mary. They also asked him if they could see their mother, but not their father. Through the details the children had given him, St. Nick was already planning to sell them back to their father, in lieu of delivering the old man to authorities for his parental woes. He felt he knew where and how to find their dad. How useful this boy and girl were. How glad and fortunate that they were still alive. How lucky St. Nick was to have these flesh testimonials of another man’s crimes.
    “I love you in the darkest night,
    And when the skies are blue.
    Would it trouble you
    To let me know
    You are mine.
    Give me your number
    And the day.
    I’ll be on my way.”
    No one was there, but the door opened anyway. St. Nick and the children were sleeping inside, he in one bed, they in another. The creaking of the dusty floor made St. Nick open his eyes. It truly sounded as though someone were treading cautiously across the floor, a person making his or her way to him. He scrutinized the space between his bed and the open door, but no one was there. His mind clicked forward, seeking adjustment. He tried to determine a conclusive judgement from the evidence presented, but was not able. Was someone there or not? Was he dreaming? St. Nick felt the chill of his perspiration drying on his skin. He started to shiver. He began to cry. And then he felt the breath leaving his body. It were as though all the air was drawn from his lungs, all the oxygen sucked through his skin. In terror, he fell limp, dead for all the world to see. His body was mottled, covered with purple bruises from head to toe.
    Someone had called the police. This was after St. Nick’s emissary had found Aldo. Someone had called the police because St. Nick had passed away. It had not been the children. No one knew who it was. No one had told Aldo that St. Nick was gone and departed. When investigators found Aldo poking around St. Nick’s last sleeping quarters, they assumed he had made the phone call. They also believed that he had caused St. Nick’s death. So they arrested him for homicide. Aldo was surprised.
    “Tango tigers,” the whisper settled like Autumn leaves in a corner of the room. A night light burned in the house that sheltered Lorenzo and Pamela. Officially and with public conscience, the boy and girl were now the State’s children. They slept uneasily in a mindful bed.
    “Tango tigers,” the whisper swept out again.
    Lorenzo lifted his head from his pillow. Lila stood before him, more than an image cast upon a half-wakened eye. His mother was really there.
    “Mom?” he asked.
    He stood up, quietly. He walked toward the ghost. Pamela followed.
    “They said you were gone forever, Mama,” said Pamela. “I guess they were lying.”
    “Who said I was gone forever?” whispered Lila.
    “These people, here, in this place,” answered Pamela, softly.
    “Then we must leave this place,” said Lila.
    A door opened silently, then another, and another. Soon, Lila and the children were outside. It was another golden October. The night air was chilled. The luminous stars were unmoved by the brisk breeze. The moon was patient and still. Only some clouds were hurried by the wind. They flew past the glow and twinkle of the sky like commuter trains carrying souls to urgent destinations in an evening rush hour. Aunt Mary walked out of the pools of darkness.
    “Let’s go,” she said to the two children. Aunt Mary held out her hand.
    “I don’t know....,” said Pamela.
    “Come on,” said Lorenzo, “We can just take stuff, like we did before. We’ll be okay.”
    Pamela finally nodded. The four of them held hands. Two adults and two children were joined in time and necessity. A quartet of figures walked forward unseen. The spinning planet threw protective arms around them. Then, Lila, Aunt Mary, Lorenzo, and Pamela were gone.

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