10

Mycah didn’t untwist his wrist until we were 6 months into the future, in the middle of Roana's divorce hearing. “What about Yanna Alix?” I asked, more than a little perturbed at him for following the wrong story line. Roana had, apparently, been cleared by the police the very day Yanna went missing. He was on the other side of the country, having flown back to Ilex - the movie capital of the world - the night before. I felt like we were spinning our wheels instead of getting to the important bits and told my Guardian Angel as much. And do you know what he told me? He had the nerve to say that Yanna’s disappearance wasn’t important! Can you believe that? I couldn’t. So, I pushed him to show me what happened to her. I told him it was important to me. When that didn’t work I argued that if it wasn’t important, then it wouldn’t hurt for him to show me. That didn’t work, either. He wouldn’t show me no matter what I said. He kept saying he couldn’t, and it was out of his hands, but I had my doubts about what he could and couldn’t do. All of Time seemed to be at his fingertips and all I wanted was for one of those fingers to point in the direction of the suspect.

Anyway, his refusal grated on my paranoid side. That, and his resemblance to Roh, who I didn’t trust one lick. There was something going on here that I couldn’t put my finger on, and every new piece of evidence that supported its existence helped further fill the growing bubble of anxiety in me. That bubble was threatening to pop and take my manners with it - I was on the verge of giving Mycah a heaping piece of my mind. We needed to get to the real story quick, before I completely lost my…

“Patience, Ravenna.” He said, preemptively slicing off the piece of my mind I wanted to give him. “The story is coming to you. You just need to wait for it to unfold.”

“You’re really trying my…”

“Patience.” He said again, interrupting my complaint with the very word that was now trapped behind my teeth. How was I supposed to be patient when he kept closing the relief valve for the pressure that was building inside me? I had concerns! I needed answers! And I was tired of getting the runaround from him anytime I sought one of those answers!

And see, then I started thinking about Mirabel and the immortal being Jeezil who had destroyed her life. Was this Jeezil like Mycah and Roh? I asked myself. But “myself” wasn’t able to answer that question. Mycah could! I was sure of that. Did Yanna Alix have an imaginary friend, too? How could I know? I couldn’t. But I’m sure Mycah knew. Were Ismelda and I on the same path to destruction that Mirabel had walked? That definitely seemed to be the way things were shaking out.

I was eaten up with my doubts until I realized that if Mycah was up to no good, it would be stupid for him to show me what happened to other girls like me. Unless, of course, it was some sort of reverse psychology. Or, maybe he got off on it? Maybe his species reveled in the ruination of innocence? Maybe this was what they did for fun? How could I know for certain? I couldn’t. Mycah was steering this ship. I was just along for the ride. I couldn’t even get off of it, and that realization made me want – desperately – to get off of it.

How did I get myself into this in the first place? I asked myself, but “myself” couldn’t remember. It was as if someone had thrown a blanket over my memories that was slowly being pulled across my entire – pre-Mycah – past. It had to be Mycah’s doing. Who else could it be? My prince? No. Not him. He loved me with all his heart…and yet, he had introduced me to Mycah on the same day he had gifted me Epiphany. That memory, too, was fading, but it was not completely gone. Not yet. I struggled to hold on to it. To retain the details that were slowly washing away – sandblasted by Time and distance.

My prince was strong and confident with a radiance that outshone the sun itself. His clothes were of the purest white, and I wondered how he kept them so clean. I was never able to wear white. Not for long. Any white clothes I made for myself, or purchased with what little money I was able to collect, were quickly dulled through use. So, I stuck to darker colors – grays, blues, blacks. But not my prince. There was nothing dull about him. His white clothes, his golden sash. The thought of him made me wonder how he could love someone as dark as me.

I shook that doubt away. He loved me. That was that. That was the rock I could stand on when the whole world was spinning around me. He was my solid ground. It was the rest of the world I had doubts about, especially Mycah. I needed a plan. I was sure of that. If my so-called “Guardian Angel” was up to no good, then I needed a way to thwart him.

What would you do? I asked my prince across the long distance between us. As if by way of an answer, I realized the only option available to me was vigilance. I would have to keep a close eye on Mycah. The one thing I was sure of – other than my prince’s love and my need for a plan -  was that I didn’t really know my mentor at all.

“Why don’t you call me by my name?” Someone else’s voice asked, pulling my attention back to the courtroom Mycah had brought us to. “My legal name is Ro’I! I had it changed…”

“You changed it to get out of a contract!” Roana’s wife said, interrupting his plea to the judge. That judge insisted on calling him Mr. Ignah. A seemingly small thing that seemed to drag heavily on the great author’s nervous system. I could hear him grit his teeth every time his old identity was cast at him from the magistrate’s lips.

“Roana Ignacious Ignah is the name you were given at birth, is it not?” The judge asked, eying the author over the spectacles he used for reading the many documents that flooded a judge’s minutes.

“I had it legally chan…”

“Is this your driver’s license?” The judge asked, holding up a printed copy of Roana’s license. I could sense that the great author wanted to say “no” knowing he wouldn’t be telling a lie to the court. His actual license was in his pocket, not in the judge’s hand. He thought better of it, answering instead in the affirmative.

“Because this document – which you have acknowledged is your driver’s license – says your legal name is Roana Ignah!”

“I go by Ro’I.”

“I go by Your Honor, and I make the rules in this courtroom! It would be in your best interest to remember that, Mister Ignah!”

“I thought the law was the rule in courtrooms, Your Honor?” Roana said, flatly – accentuating the gravity of the jab with his dull tone. The judge decided not to wander down that tangent with Roana, choosing instead to steer the case on a track that didn’t end in a twenty-minute argument about the rights of judges – under the law – to control every aspect of their courtroom. That tangent - it was clear to me from the judge’s thoughts – would end with Roana spending twenty-four hours in jail for contempt of court. I wondered – as did the judge – if that might not be the best outcome for the great author. Roana’s contempt for this court was plain for all to see, as was the judge’s desire to make him pay for it.

“That’ll be enough of that, Mr. Ignah!”

“Enough of what, Your Honor?”

“Not another word!”

“Then how can I defend myself?”

“Zip it, Mr. Ignah! When it’s your turn to speak, I will let you know!” Roana did as he was instructed, sensing he had twanged the magistrate’s last nerve. It was one thing to play someone like a fiddle. It was something completely different to pluck them the way a child would a rubber band. Roana imagined himself to be the former. His intention was to play the judge and the court like a finely tuned instrument, not orchestrate a stint in the county lockup for himself.

“Now. As I said before, a motion for divorce has been filed by Mrs. Marva Jean Ignah against her husband, Roana Ignacious Ignah. There are no children, so custody is not at issue. Do you have a current asset list, Mrs. Davis?”

“We have an estimate, Your Honor.” Jean Ignah’s lawyer said. “It is our belief that Mr. Ignah has assets in addition to those his wife is aware of.”

“Is that true, Mr. Ignah?”

“I can’t say, Your Honor.”

“You can’t say?”

“No Sir. I’m not aware of what she’s aware of.”

“You didn’t receive an asset list?”

“I may have. I mean, I got reams of documents from my wife’s attorney. I haven’t been able to go through them all.”

“That’s what lawyers are for Mr. Ignah.”

“I don’t think I need a lawyer for this, Your Honor.”

“You need something. The first thing that I can see you need is to start taking this case seriously!”

“I am taking it seriously, Your Honor…”

“Are you, Mr. Ignah? I don’t think you are.”

“I have a lot of other obligations…”

“Your other obligations are not the concern of this court.”

“If I fail to meet those obligations, they will become the concern of some other court. I have contracts…”

“You have a duty to preparedness, so far as this court is concerned. That means you had better come in here prepared from now on, or there will be heel to pay. Do you understand?”

“I’m doing the best I can, Your Honor.”

“And I’m telling you that your best is not good enough!” There was a moment of silence as Roana and the judge stared each other down. It was the great author who broke eye contact first – wisely. The magistrate then tuned back to Mrs. Davis and asked, “What evidence do you have that he’s hiding something?”

“His income seems to far exceed his assets, Your Honor.” She said, then spent the next ten minutes explaining what that meant in excruciating detail. The entire time I was obsessed with the idea that these were valuable minutes that could be used uncovering the mystery of the disappearance of Yanna Alix. Mycah did nothing to alleviate my discomfort, instead forcing me to bear witness to every droll second.

“I spend a lot of money promoting myself.” Roana said, when the judge asked him to answer the charges Mrs. Davis was laying at his feet.

“You mean you party a lot!” Jean Ignah said, garnering an unfavorable look from the judge. He didn’t tell her to shut up and wait her turn, though, which seemed to irk her husband.

“What you call “parties” are actually off-the-books business meetings.”

“It’s a chance for you and your friends to fondle young girls!”

“I have never cheated on you, Jean.”

“Then where does all that money go?”

“It goes to building my business!”

“You mean our business!”

“I was already a successful writer when I met you!”

“Successful!?! You had one lousy book that no one wanted to read!”

“It was a best-seller!”

“It was your worst seller! Without me you were a hack!”

“Oh, I see! You want everyone to think that you had something to do with my fame, instead of just being a trophy from it!”

“That’s all you think I am? A trophy wife!?!”

“If the glass slipper fits…” For a moment I thought Jean Ignah might cross the thin aisle between them and slug her husband. Her lawyer seemed to think it was a possibility, too, as she turned sideways and faced her enraged client to block any attempt by her to move in Roana’s direction. The judge simply watched the back and forth from his high bench. This was not a criminal trial where outbursts of this kind would not be tolerated. This was a Civil court. The rules were different. So was the leniency shown to litigants. Lying in a criminal case could wind you up in the hoosegow. Whereas, within these hallowed halls it was expected. No one told the truth in divorce proceedings, unless they were forced by evidence to do so.

“I taste better out of the frying pan.” Ro’I told his best friend – Mitchell Henderson – when they met for drinks after an exhausting day at court.

“I have no idea what that means.” Mitchell said, for the umpteenth thousandth time over the course of their relationship -  giving voice to the smokescreen that Roana’s words had enveloped us in.

“Some people are good in the fire – the heat of the moment.” Roana explained. “They roast their opponents with snappy comebacks. But me…my words need more…seasoning to be palatable. I have to prepare them and refine them, or they leave a bad taste in the mouths of those who ingest them.

“I thought you held your own today.”

“I feel fried.”

“You pushed the judge a bit, but you backed off at the right moment. And she…well, she came off looking hysterical.”

“Yeah, but I think that actually helped her case.”

“How do you figure?”

“She looks like she has more to lose.”

“She does. She’s losing you!”

“No, that’s not what I mean…”

“Then say what you mean.”

“I mean, it looks like she was more heavily invested in our relationship than I was. Like, she believed in us, while I was just playing her – using her for her looks.”

“The glass slipper remark didn’t help that image.”

“No, it did not.” There was a moment of silence between them as each shopped for the next morsels they would share.