Pythia

Everyone else seemed so enamored with her right from the start. I admit it, she was charming as hell. From her wild, crimson lips, to the way she’d toss her head back and guffaw as loud as a barn animal, at your joke – or any joke- anyone made. Then she’d poke you in the shoulder with one of her long, manicured fingernails, brightly colored- and ask if you work out every day, because you look so fit. That’d be early in the night when we all drank beer.

Then later, in the quiet when the night turned maudlin and the lights seemed dimmer, we’d break out the wine glasses- red of course. She would lean forward and stare deep into your eyes, those crimson lips pursed, just listening. And suddenly, you were the most sophisticated, interesting person who’d ever walked into town. And the way she smoked cloves wasn’t the way 15 year old drama club students smoked them, but rather the way they hoped they looked when they smoked them.

“I love smoking and hate the smell!” Even her explanation was unpretentious.

She was, what all we young women wanted to be, but she made us all feel like she envied us and we couldn’t imagine why, but we sure as hell wanted to find out. She acted like we were the ones the boys looked at with the glimmer in their eyes when we piled into the bars on Saturday nights.

“You darlings look gorgeous tonight!” and she’d kiss each of us on the head, like we were her little angels.

No-one got more affection than Cheryl. Cheryl was the lucky one. She’d seen an ad online for a roommate and it was crimson, guffawing, charming Morgan who came to the door. She had a way of walking into places and making them hers without being overbearing. It was a mystical quality that ignited feelings of power in our own womanhood. Since then, she’d been accepted into the fold without much vetting.

One night, at MorganandCheryl’s –as it came to be known, we were all drinking Absinthe. Morgan opened a fresh bottle and made us watch the “green fairy”. She said it was part of the ritual. She showed us how to drown the sugar cubes over our glasses placed ceremoniously atop slotted spoons she said she’d got from France. None of them quite dissolved completely and took a bit of stirring. Even still, Morgan was the only one who didn’t make a face when we all toasted.

“Whatsa matter, babies? Don’t like black licorice” She asked in between sips. “I didn’t either before I spent that year in Denmark. You know they put salt on it there? I guess it’s an acquired taste.”

I couldn’t agree more, but we all felt so worldly that none of us complained and instead started sharing stories of travel. Not all of us had been across the pond, so could only share stories about other towns or states. Morgan treated those with no less fascination and glee than Cheryl’s story about Scotland and Linda’s story about Thailand.

The night wore on but the liquor didn’t wear off and we found ourselves listening less to the soft music we had playing and listening more and more to the sounds of the night. The mood of the evening took a mystical turn and we started to talk about spiritual matters. Linda and I expressed staunchly agnostic views. Margot grew up Baptist but didn’t have any specific god in mind, just that she believed in “something”. Morgan talked about different gods and goddesses old and new with the enigmatic glow of an old world shaman, but lacking the piety and conviction of a priest. Cheryl nodded dogmatically, while the rest of us sipped our wine and listened, intrigued.

Morgan then started talking about the oracles of Greek myth, specifically the Pythia – a woman of great power and prestige, who was considered the mouthpiece of Apollo. Then just as quickly, the topic changed to witchcraft and tarot and numerology.

“Once upon a time, I had my own fortune reading service in the country-side.” Morgan pulled softly on her lit clove. She had a wistful look in her eye. “Oh! It’s been years though!”

“Can you still do it?” Cheryl asked.

“Well, I imagine, I could. I could give an example. I’ll need birthdates though.”

Cheryl went first. Her reading was that she was generous and worldly. It also said that she was optimistic about people, but nobody’s fool. Morgan told her that she would be successful in money matters but have trouble in love.

Linda went after. Morgan said she was kind and honest unless it came to matters of business, then could be unscrupulous if threatened.

Mine said that I was intelligent, but callous and while I liked a challenge, could be lazy in day to day life.

Margot declined to have her fortune told. She said she was happy enough to watch.

I think we ended the night talking about music and art.

A few weeks later, Linda, Margot and I got together at my place to drink and talk. After a short time, I managed to veer the conversation towards Cheryl and Morgan. None of us could reach them and Margot and I became startled when the number Morgan had given us no longer worked.

I shared that I had spoken to Cheryl on Wednesday the week before, but she was short with me and I had noticed something tense about her voice, and since that I had only ever reached her voicemail. She hadn’t responded to my emails either.

“Do you guys think there’s something weird about Morgan?”

“Like what? I think she’s awesome.” Offered Margot.

“Well, that numerology thing. She seemed to take it so seriously. I felt like she really wanted me to believe it too. Did either of you feel that way too?”

“So she’s eccentric. I’ve had Christians who really wanted me to believe their crap too, but that didn’t stop me from being friends with them.” Said Linda. “No offense, Mar.”

“Well, has anyone been by Cheryl’s?” I changed the subject. I couldn’t find the words to describe my trepidation and gave up.

“No. I haven’t.” Linda answered.

“I swung by yesterday after work. Nobody answered though.” Margot fidgeted.

“It’s suspicious. It’s not like her, you have to admit.”

“You two are being alarmists.” Linda interjected. “She’s probably just sick or something.”

“She’d still probably answer her door and phone.” I argued.

It was a two against one vote that we go check on her again. And again there was no answer at her door. We tried jiggling the door handles, back and front, then tried every window we could reach. The house was locked up tight.

I turned the flashlight on my phone and peered in through the kitchen window and gasped. In the shadows I could make out that a chair had been overturned and it looked as though some things had been rifled through.

“Look!” I pointed. “Do you believe us now that something’s not right?”

I could see in the wan light that Linda’s brow was now knitted with concern. Margot’s hand was poised over her mouth.

“I think we need to make a police report.”

We were all smoking on the porch when the squad car pulled up to make the welfare check we requested. We were all a little surprised that they made it under an hour.

After taking our statements and walking around the house, it was determined that there was probable cause to enter the apartment.

Cheryl’s landlord was awakened to open the door. He approached us wearing a bathrobe and slippers, muttering under his breath.

We were all made to wait outside the door with a female officer, while her partner went inside to search. The living room and kitchen light went on while we stood nervously on the porch. We kept trying to peak over the woman officer’s head at her annoyance.

I couldn’t tell you what else was said and what happened. Everything else was a blur.

More cars showed up and the area and we were eventually sent home. We weren’t told what they found and when we called the police station every week, we weren’t told anything other than they were looking into it.

Cheryl’s mother and brother kept regular contact with us. I’m not sure what Margot and Linda told them. I barely remember what I told them. Mostly the calls were met with uncomfortable silence and Cheryl’s mother’s quiet sobs.

It was over two months later in the early spring before the thaw when I finally got a phone call from Cheryl’s brother. He asked if he could come by; he was in town. We met at my house after I got off work.

The blood was drained from his face when he related how they called him to identify her. Her fingers and head were missing. They had to take his blood he said, to test the DNA. Hikers had found her, thinking she was a mannequin at first.

There were long pauses of reflection in between every other sentence.

He fumbled in his pocket for a moment before pulling out his hand. There was a glint of metal peaking between his fingers.

He cleared his throat before speaking again. “Anyways, my mom said to give this to you. Cheryl told us a lot about you. We appreciate you being there for her.”

“Was I?” I held the little ring in my hand. It was so small. I could feel the water drip alongside my nose. “I don’t deserve it.”

He leaned forward. “It wasn’t your fault. They said Morgan wasn’t her real name. She was a con artist. They think she’d been active for decades.”

I couldn’t meet his gaze. “Please, from a grieving mother and brother. Just take it.”

When he stood on my stoop to leave, I folded my arms around his neck. I had heard so many stories about him, but none of them came to mind. He wasn’t a stranger. I asked that he call sometime so we could talk about her. His face seemed pinker and he smiled.

I remember all the time spent between Linda, Margot and myself in the months following the discovery of Cheryl’s remains. It’s hard to remember all the words spoken. Those nights were filled with guilty confessions, expressions of shock and horror, talk about sore muscles and insomnia and nightmares, regret and many sobbing sessions. We asked ourselves why we didn’t see it sooner. Maybe if we had done this or said that we could have saved her.

Those months, I wore that tiny ring on my pinkie.

Linda moved to the East coast and Margot got married and I put the ring in the bottom shelf of my jewelry box and didn’t take it out again until a few years later.

It was a Sunday when I was flipping through channel after channel and I saw her face. I paused mid-flip and stared. I picked up the phone and told Margot to change to channel 4. I needed a witness. She started to speak and I only turned up the television, not responding, then she was silent too.

A reporter with platinum hair and pink lipstick told me that Morgan’s real name was Claire MacNeil. She had been apprehended South of Miami. The tv cut to footage of a gray haired woman being escorted by two stern policemen. She wasn’t laughing.

I wondered how she felt about being filmed without that bright red lipstick.

And that was it.

The cameras returned to that platinum reporter and she changed the subject to something else that I don’t remember now.

Margot was silent on the other end.

Finally, I asked her, “What do we do?”