Callahan: A Gothic Tale

A Birthday Revelation

24 A Birthday Revelation

"That cuckold lives in bliss, Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger:...Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves!" -William Shakespeare, Act 3, Scene 3 "Othello"

8 am, Six Weeks and Five Days In, Mid-Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory

The next day, Macy noticed Cora stumble in wearing ostentatious Jackie-O sunglasses, avoiding any trace of sunlight whatsoever; the laboratory shades had been pulled down far in advance.

"Rough night?" Macy called out to the older woman, who muttered an obscenity under her breath before stalking out to her adjoining closet-sized office, slamming the door behind her so hard that several test tubes rattled precariously close to the desk's ledge.

"What's eating her?" She heard Dima's voice behind her.

"Haven't the faintest idea," she smirked, continuing her stage two experimentation—Scythe remnants versus four major types of gelatin.

2 pm, Early-Mid 2000s, Maggie's Fifth Birthday Party, Vera Manor

Maroon 5 played in the background as he awaited his little girl's presence so the festivities could finally begin. Marisol had really outdone herself this time, decorating the entire house with a bevy of glittering purple streamers that had to have cost a pretty penny. The theme was supposed to be a "pretty purple unicorn ballerina." Mel retorted a month earlier that there was no such thing—how could a quadruped be anything that graceful—causing Maggie to throw her vegetables on the floor and storm up to her room in a huff. An apology and a sisterly hug ensued shortly thereafter, but Ray never forgot the seeming contradiction—a unicorn and a ballerina.

And speaking of contradictions...

"DADDY!" he turned around and swung a curly-haired girl up in the air as she giggled all the while.

"Margarita," he mused, "you must be the prettiest unicorn ballerina in all the land—" He carried her over his shoulder, introducing her to several of his archaeology colleagues who'd shown up. Patrice, a new hire, stroked Maggie's curls and smiled up at the doting father.

"Why if those aren't the prettiest curls! Ray, those are some gorgeous West African genes!"

Ray's brow furrowed in confusion. "My daughter's got Latin roots, not..." he paused, "African. Marisol must've curled her hair earlier—" oblivious to the fact Marisol was a highly-skilled witch in the way of concealment charms and glamour potions.

"You're kidding, right?" Patrice replied. "I'd recognize that curl anywhere," she continued, gesturing to her own hairstyle in turn. "My fifteen Guinean cousins, and aunts and uncles too, across the Liberian border—"

"Right..." a lingering doubt began to creep into the forefront of his mind as he turned to greet his other colleagues.

One Hour Earlier, Early-Mid 2000s, Maggie's Bedroom, Vera Manor

"Sweetie, let me just—" Marisol tried to maneuver herself into a comfortable seated position to the side of her youngest, who pouted before the dresser mirror.

"NO!" Maggie shouted. "I don't want straight hair! I want my hair!" Her eyes began to well up as Marisol threw her hands in the air, exasperated. "My hair...my hair...it's my birthday, mommy, and I want my hair..."

Normally, Marisol would've forged on ahead, straightening Maggie's hair with a twist of a brush and glittering green powder, but between the streamers and two rambunctious daughters not to mention a mostly absentee husband, she'd had enough.