Page 38 - WTP Vol. X #5

The Mask of Red Death (continued from preceding page)
I should bring out my good camera, was maybe the last normal thing Grandad said to you, hugging you or maybe you hugged him.
Then suddenly you were following Mom past the spookily emptied shelves of the Arlington Center CVS, over-buying toilet paper and tampons. Really it was my fault, Mom told you, sobbing, when the doctors determined that Grandad didn’t have the flu or pneu- monia but Covid.
My fault, Mom insisted, using her no-arguments tone. Because she’d let you go on the stupid Spring Break weekend; because she’d urged you to go to the family birthday bash, which meant after Grandad got diag- nosed we all (April Fools!) had to take the test. I was the one who came out Positive. But asymptomatic, the doctor told me like I’d won some prize.
It’s no one’s goddamn fault, Grandad shouted later. You and Mom pressed your heads together to see him in his hospital bed, on Mom’s phone, on FaceTime: Grandad fuzzy like he was already a ghost, but his voice deep and sure as ever, cutting off your choked- up attempt to apologize again.
Nothing and no one could have stopped it. Except,
ghostly Grandad added as a final jibe at Mom, his Damn Republican daughter, your damn President.
But wasn’t it really Your damn daughter? Namely: you?
~
FLASHFORWARD to June. Graduation Day, so-called. You panted behind your mask as you cycled up toward Arlington Center and Arlington High School, keeping that black mask on despite its smother-
ing stale-tasting cloth. You liked being hidden, your strawberry blonde hair—once your pride—un- washed and ponytailed under the helmet you’d promised Grandad you’d always wear, back when he bought you the bright yellow bike for your 16th birthday.
You’re glad now—ages later—that the helmet plus mask hide you. The masqued-up dudes at Prince Prospero’s end-of-the-world bash, they each died frozen in some final posture of fear and despair, or however Poe put it. Basically they all dropped dead in their tracks, trying to run away. Only there’s no fleeing some shit. That’s the point of the story, right? Prince Prospero and his big-ass castle, each room
a different funky color; Prince P. thinking he and 31
his BFFs are safe in there, partying hard at their Masqued Ball. Their own what-the-hell Plague Party.
Which must’ve been as crazy-crowded as the Spring Break parties—really only two—you all crashed that weekend, your then-BFFs and you. Uninvited, like the rude red-hooded dude who crashes Prince P’s party. Red because in the Red Death, the victims cough up ‘scarlet’ blood. Scarlet blotches bloom all over their faces like a mask that never comes off. Unlike creepy sneaky Covid, which can hide, unseen: your skin glowing and tan, after Orlando.
Mom crashed a party or two in her wild days, which was one reason why she let you go to Florida. She’d wanted you to follow her high-heeled footsteps and go to UMass Amherst, aka Zoo Mass, which your then-golden-girl mom rocked her way through back when Animal House was a big joke and people got to party their brains out and nothing bad happened. Because that was before Party Girls like you turned out to be—surprise!—Death.
Then, in April and May of 2020, everyone tries to hide in their homes and Shelter in Place, all that crap. But in the end, in Poe’s story, no one—not even Prince Prospero—escapes. You really like how fast Poe made everyone die at his The End.
Could you do that too? you wondered as you biked into Arlington Center and saw them up ahead. Gath- ered together on the street corners along Mass Ave leading up to Arlington High, where in a normal year the graduates would gather on the Football Field. Instead, clusters of ‘friends and family’ stood on each corner, some dressed up, some not; some masked, most not. Some holding goofy oversized CONGRATS GRADUATE!! balloons.
Many held cellphones at the ready, poised to shoot. All faced the street. No one turned as you glided your bike to a stop in the Bike Lane. Then wheeled your bike to the back of a smallish crowd bunched to- gether by Not Your Average Joe’s, where you used to gather after games.
“Not your average graduation,” a Dad said loudly to scattered laughs. “Drive-by diplomas!”
“They’re coming,“ a Mom-voice (luckily none you recognized) called out.
You froze, keeping well behind the crowd, bowing your heavy helmeted head. Actually freaking praying no one saw you, recognized you. You kept one hand