Play Now, Cry Later

By Antoinette Corvo-Caswell

Play Now, Cry Later: Three Macabre Novellas from Antoinette Corvo-Caswell.

 

The Cat That Caught the Canary - When an unloved child loses her only friend, she finds the courage to leave home and reinvent herself as Pearl Lancaster. Innocent and naïve, Pearl's quest to become a theatre star puts her at the mercy of abusive teachers and predatory cult members. This is the story of one girl's rise to fame and the desperate lengths she will go to in order to stay in the spotlight. Blood will be shed, tears will fall, but the show must go on.

 

Dirges in the Dark - When actress Cassidy May lands the lead in the story of Hellen Grimaldi's life, she believes it could be the boost her career needs. However, the more she looks into the past of Hellen and the shocking events which led to her death, the more fearful Cassidy becomes about taking the role. Did Hellen truly summon demons during that fateful performance? Was Cassidy about to unleash the same hell that Hellen had? What dark forces were really at play behind the curtain?

 

The Ivory Tower - My name is Cynthia Montgomery and I am a fighter. Since the world fell apart, when the dead began to rise, I have searched for my lost love, Vera Lynn. The undead are everywhere, desperate to feed, but I soon learned that those humans who survived can be just as monstrous. I need to make it to safety, to The Ivory Tower, but will it be the paradise that I'm hoping for?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Cape Publishing
• Release date: Sep 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215237458

Book preview

Play Now, Cry Later

Three Macabre Novellas

Antoinette Corvo-Caswell

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons or events is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 Red Cape Publishing

Dirges in the Dark first published 2020

The Ivory Tower first published 2020

The Cat That Caught The Canary first published 2020

This edition published 2022

All rights reserved.

The Cat That Caught the Canary

For my Alphas: Mom and Dad

ONE

Do you smell that? Angela smelled fear and didn’t know it.

A single bead of sweat dropped from the girl’s armpit and met her cotton white shirt as Angela asked Salvatore, What’s that smell? They started to sniff the air like a couple of hounds. Salvatore confirmed it. Something smelled funky. The mousy girl in their class, who sat across from Salvatore, believed she was the source of that odor. A sudden flush of heat flustered the girl. More beads of sweat soaked the white shirt of her school uniform. Now, she couldn’t lift her arms. Damp patches of sweat would be a giveaway. Her heart rapidly palpitated. In her mind, any second now Angela and Salvatore were going match that odor to the girl. Any second. The girl trembled at her desk - arms tightly folded. Fortune shone down on her. The bell rang, and class was dismissed. The last class of the day. But what about tomorrow? And the day after? And so on? If only she had taken off from school that day. Being struck with a fever would have been better for the girl. She believed she reeked even though she didn’t; it was a trick of the brain. This wretched day marked the beginning of the girl’s downward spiral. It never used to be this way.

She was given a pink tutu on her fifth birthday. It was captured on a home video. She excelled as a ballet student and never once missed a rehearsal. She reveled in dance and eventually moved on to its other many forms, though remaining an effervescent ballerina. The girl couldn’t hide the overwhelming joy when throwing on that tutu in the video. You could never really hide anything at five. It didn’t help that every little girl somehow gets hypnotized by the color pink. The camera never lies. Her older brother, Paul, had given it to her. The little girl quickly put the tutu on, spun around in circles until she became dizzy, and fell on her little bottom. She was so much a ham, you could glaze her and stick pineapples on her. But that was all in the past.

Now, as a young lady, she remained a student of dance. She was bone thin but not by choice. Things were becoming more and more difficult and challenges ceased to escape her. Constant stress at school caused a lack of appetite. Eventually, her Catholic school’s student body labeled her as anorexic - among other titles. That single hellish day, she thought she’d be able to calm down since there were none of her classmates around and she had worn a sweater to cover her pits as she walked home. Butterflies swarmed and fluttered in her stomach. Today was no ordinary day. It was the day, in more ways than one. The first part of her day was shitty, but she had a tiny bit of hope for the rest of it. She arrived home and happily removed her grey and white school uniform in her bedroom. Her knee-high socks were soaked with sweat. She still felt damp and nervous and found it difficult to unwind. Her mind kept racing. What if I can’t do it? What if they don’t like me? Each doubt added another knot to her stomach and shortened her breath. Her chest wouldn’t expand as far as she felt she needed it to, and her vision began to blur slightly. She quickly slipped into something presentable.

The opportunity of a lifetime had come her way, a life-changing opportunity in the form of an audition. A make-or-break moment. Her dance instructor recommended the girl to an agency in Manhattan. The agency was well known for turning little girls into award-winning superstars on the silver screen and, greatest of all, illustrious Broadway. The girl was too green to understand how the business could be nothing more than a circus where the children were like little animals performing amusing tricks until they weren’t cute anymore. That’s when they were put to pasture. Paul drove his little sister there. He was the only family member who supported her dreams and the only person willing to drive her from Brooklyn to Manhattan. Paul was always there for his sister. He didn’t fail to notice how unusual she had been behaving lately. She was different from the rest of the family, that was for sure. It seemed she had problems coping with the family dynamics that he was used to. He would shrug his shoulders and move on whenever anything went wrong at home. Paul didn’t take his family so seriously. He had thick skin. Upon arrival, they took a seat in the tight office-building corridor. The air was thick with tension but there were no other girls in the waiting room. The pair remained silent. The young girl focused and rehearsed her first impression in her mind. Just beyond a door were the people that could make every wish she ever dreamed come true. Her high hopes would soon deteriorate. It didn’t take the agent long to call her name. Prompt. The almighty one, the judge, jury and executioner, slowly opened the door and welcomed her. Paul wished her well, and she stepped through the door.

Two women occupied the office-looking room. One remained on the phone while sifting thought bundles of headshots. Paper was scattered everywhere. The young girl thought she had made an excellent first impression with a friendly, How do you do? until she extended her hand to shake the woman’s - those blasted hands of hers were cold and sweaty, the same way they were cold and clammy in school earlier that day. Oh no, she thought. That accursed phantom odor must have followed her to the audition. If only she didn’t have to sweat like this when she was nervous. She could have handled butterflies but not this obvious giveaway of her anxiety. It was cyclic - the more she sweat, the more self-aware she became, and the more she’d sweat some more. The agent looked through her amateur résumé and didn’t seem impressed. The girl had won only a handful of trophies from school talent shows and leads in school plays. Nothing that impressive. A surplus of framed photos of the little girls they’d turned into superstars rested on the walls like awards.

The little girl was given a sheet to read.

She breezed through the paper. It appeared to be a commercial for some burger joint. The agent behind the desk said, I’ll give you a few minutes to read it. Take your time. The girl smiled quite chipper and nodded. She carefully read the paper under the gaze of those little girls, the eyes of the framed trophies. She felt as if they were scrutinizing her. They intimidated her. The girl used to be a big fish in a little bowl back home. Now, she was dealing with the big time. The pressure swarmed over her as she vacantly stared at the paper which shook in her trembling hands. The girl started to sweat again, this time profusely, and she became fixated on the notion that they saw her sweat.

She started to read the script aloud for them.

When she was finished, she looked at the agent, smiled crookedly and swallowed whatever saliva she could gulp from her dry mouth. Sweetie…, the agent said. She held herself as if using the word sweetie made her a pro at dealing with impressionable children. Even at the tender age of thirteen she was still impressionable, living in a bubble back home in Brooklyn and ill-prepared for the wide world.

Fail.

The girl placed the paper on the agent’s desk. Her hands were colder and clammier than ever before. It hadn’t dawned on the dimwitted agent that the girl simply choked and was nervous. Rather than apply that common sense, the agent said the unexpected, something the girl never heard of. You stuttered a lot. I believe you have a speech impediment and I suggest you get a speech therapist, otherwise I don’t think it’s possible for you to work with us successfully.

The child had no idea what a speech impediment was. Why? Because she didn’t have one. She barely understood a word the woman said. Y-y-y-you don’t want me? I don’t have to speak. I am a dancer…I can d-d-d-dance for you, the girl stuttered again.

No, the agent said coldly, we don’t. You aren’t starlet material, and you don’t have…the ‘it’ for Broadway, especially with that speech problem of yours. You should think about doing something else with your life. Thanks for your interest. The agent stood up, opened the door for the young lady and coldly said the cliché cordial, Good luck. Goodbye. The door slammed behind the broken girl. Tears swelled the child’s eyes as she ran to her brother.

What’s wrong? he asked her as he hunched on one knee and held her in his arms, collecting her tears in his shirt. Paul was startled. A pit the size of a rock forced its way deep down in the core of his stomach. Big protective brother syndrome. What in the world could warrant such a reaction? His little sister was so damned talented; how could this happen? I have a speech impeedment, she sniffled.

A what?

They said I have a speech impeedment, she hoarsely conveyed.

Impediment? The girl nodded into his shoulder. No, you don’t. What the hell are they talking about? Paul didn’t know how to make things right. He didn’t know how to stand up for her this time. She cried endlessly into his shoulder. The girl wiped the gooey snot dripping onto her lip right across his shirt. He attempted to soothe her emotions by softly explaining, You just got nervous. Don’t worry. There are other agents out there and one day you’ll prove them all wrong. The ride home was a silent one. Silence became her. Don’t feel so bad. At least one or more of those famous little girls will wind up in an alley with ugly faces when they grow up or needles in their arms.

Why? she asked, naive to such things.

Trust me. You’re better off trying with another place.

Hope for the spotlight was gone. Back home that day, she rushed to the bathroom and gagged until her eyes were full of tears from heaving.

TWO

Torment in school combined like a twisted tornado with her family life. She became old enough to understand it now. She lived her life with a family of six in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. Bensonhurst, a melting pot of many cultures, was once dominated by the Italian community. Her family was part of that community; Mama and Grandpa were natives of Italy before they immigrated. She and her three brothers were born in America. The girl never knew how her father passed away and never would. Mama wore black, and only black, each and every day - the perpetual widow. Grandpa had said this was how some Italians mourned. No makeup, no hair dye. Apparently, Mama remained completely off the market and occupied most of her time tending to mundane tasks. The family considered the girl’s dreams a passing phase they never took seriously. The brief times they sluggishly indulged her and watched her perform, their minds drifted, and they heard a ticking clock in their heads. Speed it up. Better things to do. Must water the plants after the sun goes down, her mother and grandfather would think. Her other brothers were no different. Paul was special. He got her. Her other siblings were mindless carbon copies of their mother and grandfather - either brainwashed or trying to suck up to them for approval.

With all her self-imposed responsibilities, Mama hardly left the house. She went to funerals, church, and the local focaccia where she’d meet up with fellow self-enclosed members of the traditionals that hailed from across the Atlantic. She was not very proud of her daughter. She’d coldly scoff at her trophies without an air of conscience. Where are they going to get you? she’d say in that accent. Learn how to cook with me, she’d say. Mama never realized how she mind-fucked her daughter. Enforcing her children to have practical jobs in the future was of the utmost importance. Be a receptionist, work for the Church Rectory, then get married and have kids. Otherwise, what will people think of you? The opinions of how the traditionals viewed this family were wrongly prioritized. People. Always people. What will they say? What will they think? Mama just simply couldn’t get her daughter. In that household, your worth was measured by a steady, honest living, not passion. Having her children live out their true dreams, as far-fetched as they might have been, was highly discouraged.

Mama and Grandpa planted their vegetables in a dirt patch in the backyard. It was their annual passion. Nothing else mattered. The children weren’t allowed anywhere near the garden unless they were contributing to the effort of cultivating. Heaven forbid a plant was prematurely uprooted.

The basil was aromatic and permeated though the garden. Homegrown vegetables from their very own dirt they toiled over changed the taste of food in the world according to the traditionals. Grandpa and Mama had to protect the grapevines roofing the driveway. The grapes of the god Dionysus that must be protected and converted to the nectar of the gods; of course, theirs was always the best. They took venial pride in their cultivated grapes, prouder of their grapevines than the girl’s trophies and accolades and dreams. The maenads ravenously sacrificed animals for the sacred grapes. Naturally, they knew nothing of Dionysus. Just white Jesus. As for the sacrificing of the animals? They protected their precious grapes by setting up traps, horrible, merciless traps, to catch any animal that dare tamper with their precious grapevines. Barbed wire bordered the fences and intertwined with the vines, leaving many a squirrel in a bloody massacre of a death. Animals have no souls so why would Grandpa or Mama care?

Mama spent most of her hours cooking dinner, which resulted in gorging in silence. Food, in most all cultures, brings family together. In this family, it did, but you had to talk about food or don’t talk at all. Worship food. That kitchen always smelled like something was cooking. The girl hardly ate dinner and that was unacceptable - a sin - not a cry for help. Her anxiety at the dinner table consumed her. What will they say about me? What will they want of me? How will they judge me this time? She was fortunate most of the time, seeing how the silence at that table seemed to be the standard, but every so often a judgment was passed and if it happened once it can happen again, she’d surmised. EAT! They had to fatten her up. What would people say?

THREE

The events of that one single day at school, which she could never reconcile, combined with the failed audition that followed, only led to an avalanche that upheaved into a distorted social behavior for several months. Because of her fear of speaking, believing she had a speech impediment, and fearing she smelled bad - ultimately causing her to sweat nervously only to procure a true odor in a cyclic manner - the young girl became withdrawn. She wouldn’t speak to any of her school friends and remained in complete solitude, fearing to open her mouth and fearing they’d catch a whiff of her scent. Yes, Angela and Salvatore…you did smell fear. The girl became a withdrawn social outcast and cripplingly weak. She chose not to speak because she was terribly convinced that she would make a fool of herself and ridiculed for her impediment.

One day made all the difference. What happened to that ham? She even quit dance school, to her heart’s dismay. The girl was ridiculed, taunted, slapped up a few times, mute, and woke up every morning fearing what those kids would do to her the next day at school. Every morning was like clockwork; shake upon opening her eyes, sweat profusely, tremble, gag and spit up concentrated, piss-colored bile from her empty stomach in the bathroom sink when she brushed her teeth. It was misery. Being around people was misery. Thinking about being with people was misery. The person that persistently mistreated her the most was herself. The young girl brutally bullied and hated herself more than any other person. She felt a glimpse of relief when school was dismissed and the walk home brought her to sigh in relief - only to arrive at that household where more butterflies swarmed. What would Grandpa and Mama say or do this time? How did I fuck up this time? thought the little Catholic schoolgirl, whose only coarse thoughts were locked up in her sullied mind.

After her mother routinely greeted her coldly in the kitchen - just a nod as she tossed something in the oven - the girl quickly retreated into her room and didn’t come out until dinner time where remaining silent was somewhat expected yet unexpected scrutiny might present itself. It’s happened before. It can happen again. She remained on the edge of her seat every night at the dinner table before she could return to the warm womb of her room in solitary confinement. Her behavior disorder went unnoticed at home. She kept it all inside.

Eat the fucking food or get the fuck out of the kitchen and starve to death! Goodness gracious! What would the traditionals think of Mama if her daughter wasn’t eating her food and becoming more and more like a skeleton? A bad cook? A bad mother?

Upon hearing such words, the girl’s face burned with panic. She wolfed down food under duress. Not too soon thereafter, there was a toilet full of vomit to flush. She couldn’t keep it down. She was downright sick with calamitous anxiety. Food was godliness and Mama only took note of her eating disorder and not her other sick behavior. Mama hardly knew her daughter.

FOUR

At a P.T.A. meeting, teachers brought the girl’s behavior to Mama’s attention, but Mama didn’t care so long as her grades were good. Mama half understood English anyhow. Hearing the teachers recommend therapy made Mama scoff and nearly laugh. Mama didn’t believe in therapy; therapy was something to be looked down upon, for crazy people who screamed in madhouses, banged their heads against the wall or claimed to be Elvis. Therapy was for people that got hosed down when they misbehaved and wrote erratic messages on the walls with their shit. According to the self-enclosed bubble of the traditionals, therapy was an embarrassment that reflected the family. Aunt Conchetta went to a therapist and was never treated like a member of the family the same way again. One person in therapy meant a household of crackpots. The family reputation meant more to Mama than her daughter’s phase. Mama considered it just another phase, like that dream her little girl had of being on Broadway. Boy was that put to rest. Besides, she rushed home as fast as possible from the school meeting. Dinner had to be served.

The girl knew she was in deep shit the minute Mama left to go to the meeting at her school. She knew her own behavior was eccentric and that was unacceptable in this household. The girl’s heart palpitated, her hands cold and clammy. She rushed to the bathroom and started to gag in the bathroom sink the moment she heard the front door open. She had no food in her stomach and washed away spit and bile with the faucet. When Mama returned, she immediately put water to boil on the burner for pasta then called for her daughter at the same time. The girl trembled from head to toe. Even her head started to vibrate erratically as though she had essential tremors. She just might have. Twitch. Twitch. Twitch. The girl slowly descended the stairs and breathed heavily, keeping her eyes on the floor before greeting her mother. This would not be easy.

What is your problem? Huh? Huh? she hollered at her daughter in that heavy Italian accent of hers, then, with the force of her knuckles, struck the girl in the side of her head. That was the way she’d learn. Brute force. The girl felt the hot tears before the knuckles. Mama was raised by knuckles, just like her mama before her, and it didn’t seem like she was going to be the one to break the cycle. That’s how Mama had learned in life and that is how her daughter will learn too. The knuckles hurt like hell, and the girl wept like an infant, but not because her mother hit her. No. She cried because she didn’t know how to remedy her helpless situation both at home and in school. What was her problem? It was a puzzle the girl couldn’t figure out. "You do know that I know the mothers of the kids in your school and the teachers told me you were acting all…I don’t know." She really didn’t know because she didn’t know how to translate the word screwy and fucked up in Italian. She simply used hand gestures. You get yourself together! You hear me? Mama hollered. The blistering sound of her voice deafened the girl slightly. The girl cried, nodded pathetically, and rushed to the solitary comfort of her bedroom. If she had shown any more tears then Mama would have given her more knuckles to cope with. The girl trembled like a leaf and crawled into the bed, gagging and pitifully crying in a fit of anguish into her pillow, silently praying for a terminal illness. She felt broken, so helpless and abandoned by God whom she had begged to cure her of her unbearable eccentricities. Her thoughts and pleas were interrupted by a gentle tapping at her window. The girl, drained and forlorn, broken and defeated, slowly crawled out of bed and, in a stupor, looked out her window. She was somewhat distracted and surprised by her unlikely visitor. On the sill stood a young cat with an orange and white tiger-striped coat. This cat was the most beautiful cat the girl had ever seen in her life. The girl sobbed as she opened the window and welcomed the cat and the cool breeze. She thought the cat amazing as it stood so confidently on such a thin pane. The cat had no fear of falling as it casually stared at her with its striking amber eyes. And if the cat was afraid, it did not show it. She admired the courage of the feline. The cat was perfection. The girl did not have a speech impediment whatsoever and spoke to the cat lightly in a whisper, gently. She stroked the feline and smiled, all the while talking to it. You are so beautiful, she told her. The cat arrived just when she needed her the most. I wish I could be more like you, she had told the kitty. She made the cat comfortable and a bond immediately forged.

FIVE

Naturally, everyone, aside from her brother Paul, complained that the cat was the newest addition to the family. The cat, dubbed Pearl, was distained from the