Size Zero

3-1

3“The police are on their way,” Brother George whispered to the abbot as the monks gathered outside the chapel. “They said not to worry. It’s probably just a prank. Animal bones or something. I put the box in the workshop for when the police get here.”

The abbot’s eyes drifted away slowly. He wasn’t convinced.

The bells rang out a glorious tune, and the chapel doors burst open. It was vespers, the prayer of the shadows.

A monk hugged his harp, pulling at the strings as if he were spinning gold. The melody twinkled around the small chapel, the last remains of sunset beaming through the stained glass windows.

The monks prayed together five times a day, from dawn to dusk, each prayer in tune with the rising and falling of the sun. Vespers happened when the last bit of daylight touched the Earth, the last chance for the monks to meet the day rather than hide in the night.

It was usually Brother George’s favorite prayer. Now, sweat pooled beneath his collar. Margaux LeClaire’s incessant voice rang through his ears. And he couldn’t stop thinking about washing the blood off his hands.

The monks processed down the aisle between the pews like delicate black swans. Their habits swayed to the sound of the harp, mimicking the rhythms of the Earth. It was a runway walk of a different kind. Each step had a purpose. Each pause in the march toward the chapel’s nave held a contemplative silence. The farther the monks entered into the small chapel, the more their eyes gave away their peace.

Brother George followed behind the black habits, eyes locked on the brothers who bowed to God. It was only when he saw the little boy, Billy, standing alone in the pews, that he felt at home again. Billy watched in awe, standing straight and stiff, saluting the monks like they were military men.

Brother George bowed to the abbot and to God and took his seat in the wings of the chapel’s nave. The monks sat across from him, prepared to sing the psalms. They looked to the cross or to the light that came through the wooden beams of the ceiling.

When the abbot sat, the monks turned to Psalm 109. They sang, “A prince from the day of your birth on the holy mountains; from the womb before the dawn, I begot you.”

Their voices joined together into melody. One breath, the same words, in monotone, yet the lyrics flowed light and airy.

Brother George looked out toward the pews, curious about Billy. He sat alone, his shaking hands gripped the printed pink paper as he hid his face behind it. It was intimidating to sit among the monks, to feel small in the presence of the confident chants.

Brother George still felt small.

When Billy stood to leave the chapel, Brother George waved him over.

Billy scurried down the aisle, clumsily stumbling over a floorboard.

“The Master standing at your right hand will shatter kings in the day of his wrath,” the monks sang with a lilting glee.

Brother George pointed to the lines in the psalm so Billy could follow along.

“This is like magic. It sounds so pretty,” Billy whispered into his ear. “But I feel scared… I don’t know why.”

Brother George sang the next line alone. He sang it with a solemn, lower tone than the others. “He, the judge of the nations, will heap high the bodies; heads will be shattered far and wide.”

Billy gasped and avoided Brother George’s gaze. “Why would you say that?” he whispered.

“God punishes the wicked. It’s His judgment.”

Billy’s hand quickly covered his face, pretending to rub his forehead. “Can I tell you a secret?”

The monks stared at Billy with angry scowls, upset over the whispering. Brother George pretended not to hear him.

“I don’t think I believe in God,” Billy whispered. “So, I’m definitely going to hell.” Billy huffed and again hid his face in his elbows.

Brother George patted his back. “I’m probably going to hell too. So don’t feel bad.”

“But you’re a monk.”

Before Brother George could respond, he was called upon to give the incense and thurible, a golden incense burner suspended from chains, to the abbot. He chose the incense and burned it, dispersing sweet-smelling smoke into the air. The wispy smolder danced toward the ceiling where the sun shone, twirling like silk, like the breath of the monks.

It was the scent of the chapel that brought Brother George to St. Joseph’s Abbey. It was a perfume that clung to the weathered woods. It mixed melted sugar with the musky scent of rose petals, melting candles with worshippers’ Chanel No. 5 and Visage perfumes to make a distinctly comforting scent.

But that peace was quickly shattered by a loud knock. The monks ignored it, as Abbot Joseph continued to swing the incense around the room. But the knocks came louder, like bullets shelling the wood.

The chapel door burst open. Four cameramen and three reporters walked inside. They barreled forward with gelled hair and tired, caffeine-addled eyes. All of the peace and magic of the moment was sucked into their camera lenses.

The reporters shouted over each other:

“Cecil! Cecil, are you a suspect in the murder investigation?”

“How much did you enjoy making the skin coat?”

“Is murder genetic in your family?”

Brother George stood from the pews. “Get out.”

The harpist continued to play. He nervously softened his melody beneath the commotion.

“An online Chatter poll shows forty-two percent of responders think LeClaire Model Management is hiding that you’re a serial killer. Would you like to comment?”

Brother George clutched his Bible and rushed down the aisle to drive the reporters outside. He was absorbed into the mob. When he pushed past them, they knocked him in the face with camera lenses. Lights flashed so brightly he couldn’t see anything but white and the shadowy red outline of the veins in his eyes pulsing before him.

He was pushed outside and knocked onto his knees. The quiet hum of the wind had gone. Geese flew away from the flashing lights and cackling voices. The sun faded behind the trees. And all Brother George had left was the rocky ground that scraped his knees.

“It’s the tenth anniversary of Annabelle Leigh’s disappearance,” a reporter said. “Did you make the skin coat? Kill again to celebrate?”

Brother George felt light-headed. Reporters surrounded him with vicious, glazed-over eyes. They wanted to consume him. There was no lonelier feeling than being trapped by reporters, seeing your own terrified eyes shining back at you in the camera lens crosshairs.

It reminded him of the first time he was mauled by the press.

October 23rd, 2009. Two weeks after Annabelle Leigh disappeared outside of his home.

It was the first time Cecil learned that he was evil.

Fourteen-year-old Cecil LeClaire wore his usual school uniform—an Armani suit jacket two sizes too big. He had read on the internet that people make posters when a friend goes missing. What he didn’t know was that he was not “people.”

So he stepped inside a dingy Manhattan FedEx and plugged his USB into the printer. Missing person posters shot out, Annabelle Leigh’s grin fading and reemerging in each new image, like an animation bringing her back to life. Missing Girl. Disappeared Oct 23. Have You Seen Her? A portrait below featured Annabelle’s Shirley Temple curls and adorable wink.

Tears welled up in Cecil’s eyes. He noticed the two middle-aged cashiers staring, and he wiped his cheeks.

“That’s Cecil LeClaire,” one of them whispered. “Holy shit.”

“What’s he gonna do?” the other whispered. “Hand out fliers on the street? They’ll maul him.”

“We should call TMZ. They’d love this.”

Cecil scooped up his fliers and approached a homeless man bundled up in sleeping bags and cardboard, hands trembling, smelling of urine and vomit. He put a one-hundred-dollar bill in the man’s paper cup.

“Are you okay, sir?” Cecil asked. “Can I get you a sandwich? A glass of water?”

The man held the cup shakily. “No.”

“Um, sir. My…my best friend disappeared. And the policewoman told me that people hand out missing posters to bring their loved ones back. And…and I really love her. So…” He held up a poster and pointed to her photo. “This is her. Her name’s Annabelle. Can you please keep a lookout?”

The man grasped the poster, eyes blinking rapidly, face turning green. A flash of recognition, but then he vomited an alcoholic stew all over the poster, and it sank to the ground.

Cecil hugged his posters closer to his chest.

“Leave one with us,” the cashier called to him. “We’ll post it in the window.”

“Thank you.” He solemnly placed a stack of posters in front of her.

The cashier whispered, “Poor kid. He doesn’t have a clue.”

Cecil stepped back into his chauffeured Escalade, which drove him straight toward the black heart of Manhattan, the crowded hell where real New Yorkers rarely dared to venture.

Times Square.

The Escalade parked outside the Visage flagship store. The brand’s famous watch cogs and silver wires ran like veins over the windows. White beetles decorated windowpanes. The entire building façade was caked in real metallic blue butterfly wings.

A line of people stood outside the store for hours just for a look inside. The Visage devotees wore T-shirts featuring the Visage icon, a Libra symbol. The setting sun on the horizon.

Cecil stood by the store, worriedly clutching his posters. Hot dogs and garbage roasted beneath the sun. Honking cars, groaning homeless, and the relentless rumble of eight million chattering tourists. People shoving, rubbing against each other like sardines on crowded streets. All while Gap and sss advertised on giant, glittery billboards above.

He was an ant in the concrete jungle, shyly holding out a poster.

“Sorry, I’m from out of town,” the man said, shoving Cecil’s hand back.

“But…that’s fine. You might see her. Just in case, please. Please just take it.”

He tried again, but the man shook his head and kept walking, checking his subway map to avoid his eyes.

“Missing! Missing girl. My best friend’s missing,” Cecil shouted, drowned out by the stand owner screaming, “Hot dogs. Hot dogs, come an’ get ’em.”

A conspicuous billboard hung above him—his godmother, the founder of Visage, adorned in a stingray-skin gown. Perdonna was signed in delicate red cursive over her bare legs.

Missing posters littered the sidewalk as people discarded them, feet stomping over Annabelle’s face.

A girl leaned over from the Visage line, wrapped her arm around Cecil, and smiled, flashing her disposable camera at them. He handed her a poster, and she took a photo of that too.

Pedestrians pointed at him. Cameras flashed like tiny stars.

“Help me! Please. My friend’s missing. Why are you taking pictures of me?”

People stopped to watch, a crowd forming around him. Paparazzi swooped in from behind.

“Brah, check your silver cabinets,” a stranger jeered. “You totally dismembered that girl.”

He tried to ignore it. “Her name is Annabelle Leigh,” Cecil said. “She likes the Plaza Hotel…so she might be there.”

The people laughed. Some clapped at the absurdity.

A reporter shoved a microphone in his face. “It’s been almost two weeks. Time to look for a body, Mr. LeClaire?”

Cecil hadn’t left his house in the two weeks she had been missing.

“Were you f*****g her?” someone asked. “Was Annabelle Leigh your girlfriend? Were you sleeping with the chauffeur’s daughter?”

“She disappeared outside your house, dumbass. How did you not see it?”

A large camera came so close to Cecil’s face that his nose smudged the scope with oil and sweat. It flashed bright white into his eyes. The people in the crowd seemed to laugh in slow motion, faces disgustingly contorting.

Cecil fell to the ground, holding his arms over his head to shield himself from the blows.

Armed security guards pushed through the mob and shoved the reporters and tourists away. The tall men formed a circle around Cecil.

“Perdonna! Perdonna! Oh my God, it’s Tazia Perdonna,” people shrieked. The line outside Visage went wild, crying at the sheer sight of her.

Security ushered Cecil into a Mercedes-Maybach. Perdonna joined after signing autographs, her eyes carefully watching Cecil as he gave a despondent stare out of the car window.

“Bellino, what were you thinking? Times Square?” she asked, pulling him close and kissing his head.