I write this knowing the end is near, which gives me a freedom I didn’t possess in my youth, back when I cared too much about what others thought. I’m an old man now, a sick one at that, but although the fine lines of the years are blurry, I can recount the terrorizing events that occurred when I began dating Elisa with the clarity of a corner office window. These events were so traumatizing, they’ll be seared into my memory well past my death. I’m not putting this forth to win some literary accolade. This isn’t a scary campfire story. It’s a very real warning - if you’re blessed and cursed to meet a woman like Elisa Evangelista, this is how you live to talk about it.
I’ll start at the beginning. Wall Street, 1984. I’m working at one of the most prestigious and longest-standing financial institutions in Manhattan. Reagan has just wiped the floor with Walter Mondale, and Mattingly has just won his first and only batting title with the Yankees, but I’m the luckiest of men because Elisa has just walked into the building where I work.
The moment I first see her, I go into a trance. She’s Filipina, in her 30’s (but it’s hard to tell with Asian women), and has long black silky hair and this delicate, very striking face. Decades later I have yet to see a face so awe-inspiring. I live an entire life gazing at her. I simultaneously feel that she is absurdly out of my league and yet, like she is my home, my haven of comfort.
She is so gorgeous, she could have walked right up to Herb Ritz and told him to put her on a cover, and in two hours flat he’d be shooting. But if you wanna know what really drew me in; it was her heart. The way she said hi to everyone. She knew the lobby guys, the cleaning people, from the very bottom to the tippy-top, by name. My dad was a handy man and my mom was a teacher who lived by the motto “Manners cost nothing but mean everything.” Right away, I see that Elisa is rarer than rare.
She wears a Karl Lagerfeld black pantsuit (I knew nothing of fashion then but I learn almost too much about it through her later on). I mention the suit because Elisa is a woman of multitudes and dualities; she is trendy while being timeless. A total knockout. Swear to God, the first time I see Elisa Evangelista, I say to myself: “I’m gonna marry that girl.”
I follow her into the elevator but am too much of a coward to strike up conversation. I regret this and, all week, the quips and openers I could have used come to me. The only good thing that comes from my yapping is I find out who she had an appointment with in the building. Jimmy. A try-hard junior trader, whom, due to the sudden stroke his boss just suffered, has been entrusted with her account. I also get confirmation from Jimmy, she has “dick-shrikin” amounts of money. But more importantly, she’s single.
I’m also glossing over a company policy that employees of the bank are not to date any client of the bank, especially one of Miss Evangelista’s net worth. I’m also downplaying how overwhelmingly intimidated I am by this woman. But before I even understand that I am… and before I have even spoken a word to her, I am willing to risk everything, including the job I’m consistently told was a lucky draw, to know her.
I decide to walk over to Jimmy’s new trading desk one day and try not to sound too desperate.
“Willy Boy…” Jimmy adds the boy, despite us not being friendly enough to do so. “She’d never date you… I know she seems friendly but she’s a frigid bitch.” He’s only bold enough to talk like this because of his newly acquired Rolodex of clients.
I immediately feel defensive of her - someone I don’t even know. Jimmy is Jimmy and it was a different time then. Elisa’s presence makes Jimmy feel rejected and question all the power structures he knows to be truth. She’s also his only female client, outside of two elderly widows. She has made her fortune herself. And the fact that she’s an Asian woman (he’s just learned she’s what is called a Filipina) who he has to drop everything for, to cater to her every need… this must make him extra sore. I’m not condoning who Jimmy was, hell, probably still is, I’m trying to give you context of the time. I’m an old white man now. That had more weight then than it does at that current moment. Most days, I don’t have the energy or mental clarity to write, but I feel that giving you a sense of the time, as accurate as I can, will help you to better understand the kind of person Elisa was and who she had to be to survive.
“All I need is your calendar. I need to know when she’s coming in next…” I plead.
“Okay, okay. But don’t come crying to me when she shuts you down,” he relents. He lets me know the next time Elisa is coming into his office. I have two weeks.
There was no Instagram or Snapchat or, heck, even text back then. She’s hard to find out about. Do I… nuke some serious pay and wrangle a reservation to Le Cirque, or Lutèce, maybe Maxim’s? She doesn’t seem like the type to be impressed by that. I rack my brain. Then it hits me… I do my research: flowers! No, not just any stem or vine, the flower of the Philippines. The sampaguita - an intricate Jasmine type of scent as graceful and elegant as Elisa herself. Getting the vine out to New York from Manilla was more complicated than I ever anticipate. Hours coordinating transport of the fragile flower before it dies, learning a few conversational phrases in Tagalog, and getting florists in the Philippines paid… I’ve structured mergers less complex.
It is all worth it. I intercept Elisa before she enters the building and present her with the box. The buds are so pungent, she knows what it is before she opens it.
She looks at me, vulnerably, and, in the sincerest way, she goes, “This is the smell of my childhood. You have brought me the memory of home.”
I was so concentrated on the flowers, I honestly didn’t prepare what to say next. I just stand there like a dud before I think of something.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
“Will. Will Claiborne.” I’ll bet I was blushing.
“Salamat, Will Claiborne.” She leaves me with that as she enters the building. I know “Salamat”! It means “thank you”. She said my name! I’m over the moon.
I also don’t know what to expect after that. She could have dated anyone she wanted to, so the fact that someone like her gave someone like me her attention was enough flattery for a lifetime. A week later, she calls. I don’t know how I am this lucky. I have no idea how she got my home number, but I’m so elated I don’t even question it.
All these years later, I remember when she brings up the condition, the one rule to going out with her:
“I can’t ever go to dinner with you.” She says.
My heart sinks… then, “How about lunch?” She playfully suggests. She has a sense of humor.
My heart buoys back to the surface. Once there is a little levity in the air, she gets serious. Clear.
She can spend her days with me but NEVER AT NIGHT. No dinners. No calls. I am not to ever disturb her at night.
Evening is her sacred time, when she works. She’s on a world clock, but mainly the clock of the Asian markets; day in Hong Kong, Tokyo, Manilla, and Jakarta is night in New York. I wholly accept and respect this. Yes, it’s different but different can be good. Can be great. I don’t question it. For every reason I can think of, I am in awe of Elisa Evangelista. I do, however, remember this being the first time I am scared of a woman. Of course I was scared of my mom losing her cool when I was a kid, but not like this. There was a distinct chord of fear that was struck within me on my first phone call when she explained her rule.
*********
I now sit in front of a box of all the memories I have collected over the years. I’m oddly sentimental. I saved the napkin from the Filipino restaurant we went to on our first date. A lunch date of course. I don’t know then that she has a chef cook her Filipino food at home so I take her to the place I frequented when I was trying to figure out how to talk to her. It’s called “Bahay Ko”, which translates to “My Home”.
Elisa and I cannot be more different. She’s from Antique, a country town in the Philippines, and somehow gained knowledge of Asian markets and markets throughout the world. She parlays those funds into real estate and now she’s very intrigued by computers… thinks the potential there is exponential. I hang onto her every word even though she’s smarter than me and I don’t understand all her foresight and projections. I tell her I’m from the Bronx and how, through sheer grit, I wound up at one of the most prestigious banks in the world. But now, up against the fierce competition, I lack the edge that could take my career to the next level. I feel like I have plateaued before I even peak. She is so easy to talk to and, under the florescent lighting of Bahay Ko, it all comes out.
We continue to date secretly because of my job. She’s a private person, so it’s not that tough to stay under the radar. The only people I introduce her to have nothing to do with finance and the only people she introduces me to are the Filipino staff who run her sprawling apartment overlooking Central Park. They are her family. It doesn’t seem like she has many—well, any—friends outside of them, but I attribute this to her being a workaholic. She gets to know my boyish two-bedroom in the Village. There’s something very humbling and real to having to stay hidden from the world; we get to really know each other and fall in love with who we both are beneath the money and fancy titles, hers being a lot more monied and fancier than mine. All our interactions happen during the day. We never spend the night at each other’s places and I follow her rule of never disturbing her at night.
I’ll say this because I’m going to assume the question is going to come up: whatever regular couples do at night, we reserve for the day. Weekend days. In that department, everything far exceeds my desires. Elisa is the most stunning woman I have ever encountered, except, and I believe this makes her more beautiful, she has these deep scars she never talks about. Physical scars. There is one straight across her waist, like a belt, but a thick keloid. It’s like she was sawn in half. The other two are on either side of her spine, right around the scapulae. I love these imperfections. To me, they make her human and I like that I might be one of the only people who knows they exist, since they are fairly easy to cover up with her dresses and suits. When I first see the scars, I tell her I love her. This is the first time I have told her this.
“How much?” she inquires.
I’ll admit it’s a touch disappointing that she simply doesn’t say it back, but I said it because I meant it and felt it, not to evoke a certain response from her.
“More than you will ever know,” I tell her.
“Would you love me if I were to… change?”
At the time, I assume she means if she gets older, fatter, maybe loses all her money. And from the depths of my soul, I would. I fell in love with her heart, not how she looks, which just happens to be a spectacular and serendipitous bonus.
“Of course,” I respond. “I’ll love you if your face falls off.” These are the gooey things you say when you are head over heels for someone.
She seems genuinely moved by this. Maybe the men she has dated in the past had only valued her for her appearance. “I love you too, Pogi.” Pogi means handsome in Tagalog. She was calling me that early on. I blush whenever she says the nickname.
Another time, I begin to ask her about the scars and she shoots me a look so petrifying it stops me in my tracks. Whatever happened, it must have been so painful for her. Knowing this gives me pain. I don’t bring it up again.
Sometime around five months of dating, Elisa tells me comprehensive insider trading information about the financial struggle a seemingly lucrative company is facing. What she relays is so juicy and could be such an opportunity for me that, at the time, I don’t push her as to how she knows this. With the information Elisa gives me, I go back to the big whales I know and tell them to unload the seemingly lucrative company’s stock immediately… when it bottoms out, we buy it up again. I make many rich people even richer. This gets me noticed and promoted.
Two days later, the CEO of the seemingly lucrative company dies at Mount Sinai. In elite circles and over hushed tones, it is rumored the cause of death is blood loss.
The day I get the promotion, I am so thrilled and the only person I want to celebrate with is Elisa. She is also the reason I had gotten this unfathomable career escalation and I want to thank her. I find myself taking a cab over to her apartment and ignoring the one rule she asked of me. I get out of work unusually early, before sunset, and I honestly think she’ll be so happy with the news that she’ll understand why I’m breaking the rule. As my cab pulls up to her apartment, I see her exiting the building in a fitted black dress, and getting into her car, a Mercedes Benz 500 SEL AMG. She is being driven Ronaldo, her chauffeur, a Filipino guy in his late 20’s. Her car takes off before I can get out of the cab. Maybe she has to entertain for work or maybe she’s on her way to an office I don’t know about… I realize there is a lot I don’t know about her.
I decide not to tell Elisa about this slip up. It will only upset her. We celebrate my promotion over a brunch that next weekend. I ask her how she found out about the company’s declining profits because the CEO had gone through great lengths to hide the financials. She tells me that every first Tuesday of the month, several CEO wives, including the wife of CEO of the seemingly lucrative company, go to the Pierre for high tea – which is code for coke and B-52s. So Elisa goes to the Pierre and follows Mrs. Seemingly Lucrative Company and a friend to the bathroom where the wife is distraught about having to sell their East End and Vail estates. This makes absolutely no sense because, with the housing market at a 14% interest, no one is selling unless they have to… which also doesn’t make sense… unless seemingly lucrative company is seemingly misreporting their quarterly earnings.
First off, I’m astounded that this woman even tolerates my presence. But something is off about her story. I stop her right then.
“Darling, you are many things, but unnoticeable is not one of them. Why did these women talk so openly in front of you?”
She explains that when she doesn’t dress up and even a few times when she does, these wealthy, white housewives often mistake her for the help or maybe, a foreign tourist who doesn’t speak English. They rarely guard their secrets around her; they make the mistake of thinking she has no power.
*********
A month later, I relent to my mom’s incessant pleas to meet the woman who has captured my heart and locked up all my free time. Elisa is happy to meet my family as long as we abide by the rule of having her home before sunset. My parents are older, so an early lunch is perfect. Ronaldo, her driver, takes us up to my parents’ home in Hunts Point. My parents have invited my mom’s mom, my Mimi, my dad’s parents, my Nonna and Nonno, my sister, Jean, and her husband, Doug. Mom probably thinks it will be another six months until she sees me next, so she’s cramming it all in.
I have been so focused on work and the precious weekend days with Elisa that I didn’t realize Jean is not only pregnant, but in her second trimester. There wasn’t FaceTime or social media back then, and I’m a dud when it comes to keeping up with my only sister. It’s so good to finally see her at the family gathering. As Elisa talks to Jean, I help my mom set the table.
“We can’t let this much time go by again, Wompy.” This is what my mom and only my mom can call me.
“I know, I know. It’s just work…”
“We know about your big fancy job in the city. And we know as much as we can, or as much as you let us know, about your big fancy fiancée,” Mom teases.
“Not yet,” I reply. “But hopefully someday soon.”
My mom smiles wide. “I need it sooner than later, honey. One grandkid simply isn’t enough.”
“One thing at a time, Ma,” I reason. “I don’t even know if Elisa wants kids.”
My mom gasps at my blasphemous statement. “She coulda fooled me…” Mom says, gesturing over to Elisa gawking over Jean’s round belly. Come to think of it, never before this have I seen Elisa as enraptured with anyone as she is with Jean that day.
That day, Elisa organically charms everyone the way she had charmed me. Or so I thought.
The time comes for Elisa and I to leave, but I’m having a little trouble wrapping up conversations. Elisa tells me to stay, take the train back. She will ride with Ronaldo so she can get to work. She works every weekend. I appreciate how thoughtful she is and love her fiery independence. When I wave off to her in the car, the flood of family input on my girlfriend bubbles up.
“I’m in love with her!” Mom says.
“She’s definitely a keeper,” resounds Dad.
“Does she always work this much? Does she have to?” my conservative Mimi inserts.
“Let the woman be! If I could I would…” Nonna responds, and Nonno, in his brusque way, talks over her, “Too independent if you ask me.” To which Nonna then talks over him, “No one asked you!”
And then, quietly but piercingly enough to part the seas of the conversation, Jean mutters:
“She really scared me.”
“What do you mean?” I ask Jean.
“The way she hovered over the baby. It was like she wanted it—” Jean clarifies.
“So she wants a baby!” Mom interjects.
“No!” Jean stands firm. “She didn’t want a baby. She wanted my baby.”
Then Jean hurls herself forward and emits a pained shriek. Mom and Mimi attend to her and I get her a water. She ends up being okay, it’s an intense lower back spasm that she can’t take anything for because of the baby. But once she’s settled on the couch, heating pad on back, the family doesn’t return to the conversation of Jean’s fear of Elisa.
Later, as Mom and I clean, she tries to smooth things over.
“Be easy on Jumpy.” Jumpy is what my mom and only my mom can call Jean. “It’s her first pregnancy and it isn’t an easy one. Plus, her nerves (this was what people called hormones back then) and everything are changing. She’s becoming a mama bear now. She might be extra protective.”
I nod, promising to talk to Jean later.
I walk Jean and Doug to their car, an older Mercury Colony Park station wagon. This is what I will help them upgrade with my next bonus. That will help them out more than any bassinet will. Jean is unusually quiet. Doug has moved onto the Yankees now in another attempt to make conversation.. I cut in.
“I know I can’t apologize for Elisa, but I don’t think she meant to scare you. I’m not sure she can have kids… maybe she was jealous of you is all I’m saying.”
I know I shouldn’t have revealed Elisa’s secrets or what I thought were her secrets, but I’m trying to show my baby sister who I had spent months ignoring that I’m on her side too. I am trying to extend sympathies, albeit not mine to dole out, from my girlfriend to my sister.
Jean nods and, like a good Irish Italian Catholic, drops the ordeal. “Come up to Tuxedo Park soon, okay?” Tuxedo Park is the idyllic village where Jean and Doug live.
“I will,” I meekly offer.
“Really. It’s only an hour from the city, ya know, with no traffic.”
“I will. Really.”
“Love you, Wompy,” she softens.
“Hey! Only Mom can call me that! Love you too, Jumpy.” I help her into the passenger seat.
Little do I know that by the time I make it to Tuxedo Park, it will be too late.
*********
I was naive then and I took all the wrong sentiments from that lunch with my family. Now from the vantage point of someone close to death, I have no regrets about the choices I have made, but looking back there were so many signs I could have caught that day. That day, I walked away from that family brunch with one thought: I have to propose to Elisa.
Shopping for a ring for your girlfriend is hard, but if your girlfriend is a millionaire who can buy herself anything she wants, it is damn near impossible. For me this isn’t about being showy or diamond cut and clarity (subjects I come to know intimately through the ring shopping process), it’s about finding a ring worthy of Elisa. This comes in the form of a three-carat, vintage, Asscher cut, yellow diamond set in white gold that I win in an auction at Christie’s. I outbid a countess and famous collector for it and I emerge from the auction house holding the box, feeling like a champion.
As I walk up 5th Avenue, I run into a drunken Jimmy. The worst kind of Jimmy.
“Well look at who we have here… William ‘never-has-time-for-a-martini-with-the boys’ Claiborne,” he says, a lot too loud.
“Hey, Jimmy. Sorry about the missed drinks, you know how work’s been…” I reply, rather dismissively. I have never walked around with something of such high value and the prospect is making me uncomfortable. I want to get home right away.
“Why are you brushing me off?” His movements are jerky and erratic.
“I’m not brushing you off, I just bought something and I wanna get it home.” I figure honesty might be my best route.
“Well what is it you got there?” He sloppily lunges at me and, in my moment of confusion, he’s able to swipe the box from me. In writing this, I see that this situation seems so juvenile, so high school, but that was how the pissing contest that is finance was, especially when the players are inebriated. He opens the box before I can get it away from him.
“William! You have outdone yourself. What is this?”
I don’t say anything. People are staring now. Jimmy is attracting a lot of attention and, as a Beta who believes himself to be an Alpha, he’s putting on a show.
“Well who’s the lucky lady?” he prods. I try to get the ring back but he jerks in the other direction.
“Who is she, my boy?” he shouts. I try again; he jukes again. He must have been a wrestler in high school.
“Tell me!” He gets up in my face with this. I use it as an opportunity to agilely get the ring back. I succeed.
I start to walk away. I’m almost done with this buffoon, but I stop, and because I’m too rich and too young, I am dumb… I don’t have the assuredness of a real man and, at this point, there is a part of me that still needs to prove myself. I do a millisecond calculation and conclude: I’m too high up now and too valuable to the bank to be fired over a personal relationship. Pride goeth before a fall. And now pride is the tomb that will collapse my dominos one by one.
“It’s Elisa.” I brag. Shit-eating grin slapped across my face.
Jimmy is unfazed. “Yeah right.”
And with a point to prove, an ego to satiate, I stare him down and I. Don’t. Fucking. Blink. He begins to walks away. A power move, I’m sure. As he stumbles down the street, he looks back ever so slightly. “She’s probably cheating on you.” He spins around. “And you probably buy it! The whole ‘don’t disturb me at night’ bull. She feeds that to everyone she works with…really covers her ass.”
I am boiling. I can’t let this go. I remind myself over and over what a fool Jimmy is. I have the world: Elisa, a killer job, a wonderful family. But Jimmy’s words needle at me. He has planted a ravenous seed of doubt. It’s all he needed to do. It makes sense that she would cheat on me. She is too good for me. What was she wearing the night I saw her get into that car? A fitted black dress? Was she going on a date? How did she get the information about the declining company, really? Maybe she was sleeping with the CEO himself! That blood loss rumor never added up.
And as Elisa supposedly works, I let each destructive scenario eat me alive. I don’t sleep a wink.
The next day is a Sunday and I usually spend every Saturday and Sunday day with Elisa. Yesterday I lied for the first time in our relationship and told her I was slammed with work so I could make it to the auction. Even though I’m paranoid and have worked myself up into a wreck, the slim rational part of me understands that she might not be cheating on me. And if she is, I need to know before I ask her to spend the rest of our lives together. I use this Sunday as a test.
“Are you always working at night?” I attempt to sound casual as we cook together at her house that Sunday morning. Elisa has a cook, Ate Bing Bing, a Filipina woman only a little older than her, but it’s Ate’s day off and Elisa likes to cook and clean herself. This down-to-earth-ness and normalcy are some of the many qualities I love about her.
“Of course,” she answers. “Every night we’re not together, you work? And do nothing else…”
She is getting annoyed. “I eat.”
It’s silent for a minute. “Why all the questions?” She stops chopping tomatoes for a salad.
“It’s strange that we never see each other at night. Let’s say we spend the rest of our lives together, we won’t spend a single night together?” The timer for the oven buzzes. The bread is done. I turn off the oven.
She looks at me, a truth coming to her. “There is no way we can spend the rest of our lives together.”
I hold out hope that she will snap what she is saying into a joke. When she doesn’t, I am so paranoid and brittle, I shatter. From the shards of my brokenness, a simmering anger rises. “Why? I know you’re lying to me.”
There are tears forming in her eyes now. “You wouldn’t understand. We just can’t. It’s impossible.”
I don’t know how to process this loss. I can’t even accept it is a loss yet. I have the ring at home. Elisa and I are supposed to be together. What I should have said was, “If you give me a chance I can try and understand…” But I don’t know how to effectively communicate my feelings to a woman yet and my ego is so bruised. I’m jittery from no sleep and tense from pretending that nothing has been bothering me all day.
Instead I tell her, “I don’t need you.”
She tells me to get out. And this time, I actually listen to what she is saying and go.
*********
In my apartment, I recklessly stir. I’m furious at how my dumbass handled that. I refuse to believe this is the end of us. I’m in shock she would throw something so remarkable away for what… for an affair? I analyze all the reasons we can’t be together: I’m not good enough. Smart enough. Rich enough. She doesn’t like my family. Then finally, she loves someone else more. These could all be true but for some reason nothing is fully sticking. I don’t deserve it but I know she loves me. Unless she’s acting. None of it makes any sense.
An idea forms that if I see her and her lover together at night, see her with the man she loves more than me, then this whole mess will finally make sense. I hold onto this theory for dear life. I remember the day I wanted to tell her about my promotion and I saw Ronaldo drive her out. Somewhere. Maybe that somewhere is where she meets her richer, smarter boyfriend who comes from a better family. If I could just follow her there…
I offer as much cash as I have to my upstairs neighbor to borrow their little sedan. A Ford Escort. I promise I will have it back later tonight. I throw on a baseball cap and drive up to her building on Central Park South. I nestle the Escort behind a few taxis hoping Elisa or Ronaldo won’t spot me. They don’t.
The ride out of the city with its packed streets and highways makes it easy to stay inconspicuous but slightly difficult to follow them. When Elisa’s Benz starts to make its way toward the George Washington Bridge into New Jersey, I hope the Jersey side is somewhat busy so as to offer me a little cover. My prayer is answered, there are cars and semis on the highway and I’m lucky that the Ford Escort is a popular car; I’ve spotted several since I started tailing them.
As we traverse highway to highway and the sun is on its descent, my anxiousness grows and my worries start to solidify. On a Sunday night, what business could Elisa be doing in northern New Jersey? But then we get on the 17 South back towards the direction of New York. Where on earth are we headed? I try to strategize what I will do when I arrive at her lover’s house. Do I confront them? Will I have the courage to do that? I yearn to be the man I need to be when the time comes. So far I have been coming up short and feel ashamed of my behavior.
We are on 17 for a while before they exit… I exit… and the roads are relatively barer. They turn into a small two-lane pass with no cars on it, so before I follow that turn, I hang back, hoping that I can see the Benz stopped at one of the houses on this country road… if there are houses. The sun is down now and light is rapidly fading from the sky. My heart is beating out of my chest. Now I just want this all over with. I need to know who Elisa has picked over me.
Up the road, the Benz is slowing down. There is nothing on this road but corn fields. Alright. I slow down. To my surprise, Ronaldo pulls over and Elisa exits into the field. Ronaldo starts to drive away. Why is he leaving her there? Oh… so she can spend the night. Ronaldo is further up the empty road. I pass the small clearing where Elisa has gotten out. I memorize this spot but keep following Ronaldo, at a healthy distance of course. When he makes the turn off this rural road, I pull a sharp U and park by the clearing where Elisa entered.
It’s too dark to see from here but maybe on the other side of the corn field is a mansion where Elisa’s other boyfriend lives. Maybe all the lights are off and I can’t see this house because they like to make love in the dark… Perhaps he is the largest corn producer in the US. Or maybe I’m thinking too small. Maybe she didn’t love me because I’m a small thinker. What if her lover has patented a way to turn corn into energy and they’re both thrilled by this business venture? My imagination is running wild with thoughts of Elisa and this man as I quietly follow her deeper into the corn field.
I walk trying not to make any noise. I don’t know where I am going and, all of a sudden, it’s dark. This field is vaster than I imagined. I have no experience with farm life and, I have to admit, there is something ominous about these towering rows of maize. They engulf you. I push any worry about getting lost to the back of my mind, the disorientation and imagined scenarios of Elisa and the Corn King of America are hitting a fever pitch. I hear steps, Elisa is close. I try to sync up my steps to hers as not to alert her to my presence.
Then just a few feet in front of me, a small circular clearing. She appears. She approaches the clearing and stands there waiting. I am thankful for the shielding of the corn rows now; she has no idea I have followed her this whole way. The soft moonlight serves as a spotlight and I have a perfect view of her. My God, she is stunning. Where is her lover?
She takes off her dress, her bra, and panties. Her smooth golden skin and river of onyx hair glisten in the moonlight. I am turned on but also… thoroughly confused. I guess this is some kinky game her and the Corn King play where he meets her naked in the field…
Then, and I can only describe this because I have seen it, a brutal transformation begins to happen: her veins darken and every inch of her supple tan skin takes on a grayish, rotting corpse pallor. My breaths become shallow and I tremble at the sight. Her body and bones start to contort as her lower half starts to tear from her upper half. The separation is happening right where her stomach scar is. Right above her belly button. She’s screaming in pain, being ripped in half right in front of me. Every part of me wants to help her, but her screams morph into a bestial growl and I’m paralyzed with terror… the Elisa I know is disappearing before my very eyes… how can I help her if it is not her?
As her grey legs and abdomen half fully separate from her grey top-half, her sinewy, bloody intestines hang—no, float—above… because from her upper-half, where the scapula scars are on her back, tremendous bat-like wings jut out. Their span must be at least ten feet. It’s all happening so fast and at once, only now do I see that her face, the face I fell in love with, is devoid of all humanity. It’s the same corpse color as the rest of her and has become more angular. Demonic. The eyes are fully black. That face will haunt me for as long as I live.
When the human to… demon-beast… change is complete, I have no reference point to relay the extremity and terror of what I have just witnessed… but when this piece of it is over, her top-half flies away. Her lower-half remains, completely still, in the middle of this corn field. I now realize that I am in a state of PTSD, and sometime between the organs being pulled apart and seeing her demonic face, I have wet myself.
When I can’t see her flying top-half anywhere in the night sky, I run for my life. I am my most animalistic at this point and I feel my only objective is to survive. I whip through the corn stalks, retracing the exact path to the car, and break the keys out as I run so I can enter as quickly as possible.
Once I’m inside, I drive. I finally start to breathe. The only thing I can do to keep from coming apart is concentrate on the signs and street lights around me, anything to not see that face… holy hell… what in Satan’s name happened to her face?!
As I’m driving away, a new wave of dread starts to wash over me… This town looks so familiar… though I can’t pinpoint why. It’s only when I see the sign: You Are Now Leaving Tuxedo Park. I am able to put the pieces together. This is where my pregnant sister, Jean, lives.