390
DAVID ZANE MAIROWITZ
t
daughter for an inevitable merger. Four days a week under the sun–
lamp, a dozen creams and ointments, but Perfidia's stubborn persona
failed to yield up its facial fruits. Then brushed and combed, vaginally
deodorized, caked with paint, small breasts uplifted in tight brassieres,
revealing pastel sweaters, nightly pin curls, the package was as com–
plete as it might ever be. Still, the demons of Perfidia resisted and
an ungainly, plump and marked specimen emerged from Mother
Munch's machine.
It
was further evidence to the crimes of existence
she had perpetrated from the starting gun.
A sort of reverie takes the old woman as she watches over the
chainlock entrance.
It
is a face she knows, evidence of an old pox,
features unwashed, unkept. From out of some dim conjunction of
planets a face has presented itself in the four inches of chainlock
evidence-space and breeds in her a sudden paralysis of memory. Truly
enough, the stars have warned her of the apocalyptic nature of the
day, heralding, above all, "illegal entries." Against the promise of "un–
invited guests, perhaps bill collectors or insurance salesmen, domineer–
ing and resolute," she has chainlocked the entrance to her sanctuary.
"Sagittarius beware," are the first words to greet her over morning
tea, "night time is closing in upon you even in the crisp light of day.
Today your home is your castle and it is sacrosanct. Beware of a dark
man who enters during the peak hours of sunlight. Be he secret lover
or scourge, your money is unsafe, even rolled inside your hair curlers,
even stashed in your deepfreeze."
Yet it is raining and bleak and the face belongs to a woman.
"Why don't you let me in?"
"None today, thank you."
\
The old woman cannot quite close the door. Something in the
face is carving out a niche in the rage of her consciousness. The dim
stranger perhaps has appeared.
"I'm leaving."
She undoes the chain.
Seven years of Perfidia slip through in a flash. Tea is served.
Silence is manifest. The large house glares empty and unused at her.
Only this sitting room, with its amateur maps of the heavens and
zodiacal symbols embroidered on doilies and tablecloths, continues to
perform in the house's new aura. The fa ce she stares at is aged and
painted, the hair sprayed to a hard fiber and softly blue. Now the
