Part 22: FiFi

Previously in the Vines Inquiry— Frank and Harlow watched the film reel Frank found in his father’s desk: Big Rick ‘77. In it, Richard Vines (assisted by Rosalind, Lemony and Nia) performed a gory ritual that led to his death and immediate resurrection.

The film clicked through the final rotations, its tail tick, tock, tick, tocking on each go ‘round. It flailed until Frank hit the projector switch.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d sat there, but he was certain his jaw had been hanging open the whole time. An unconscious effigy. 

Too many things had shifted in his brain at once. His mind was an uneven pile of bricks, barely held together by small achievements, a few good friends and lots of acts of service. But now, it was like something had slid into place.

Knowledge, rank and foul familial knowledge, had burst in with sledgehammer force to knock away the fluffy, flimsy explanations. A deluge of things he’d earmarked—third-cousin’s birthdays, childhood phone numbers, the mailing address for PBS’ Zoom—were flushed away. These false importants, the drivel he’d made stand out so he couldn’t see the headstones his family used as a front stoop: it all got knocked loose.

Each brick of unusual happenstance fell in sequence, toppling everything above it until a precise wall of absolute mind-F-ery stood where Frank had once held shaky contentment. 

All the odd trips away. The strange guests at dinner. The way people cleared the sidewalk for his parents. The house! It fell together, stuck in place with quick-dry cement. It was all…

“What?” said Frank. A very good question.

Pitiful, frightened laughter stumbled out from behind his bottom teeth as he tried to name it. He imagined it felt like learning you’re colorblind. Frank sat back down, staring at nothing. After five minutes, Harlow got bored. Ten after that, Frank couldn’t ignore her anymore. 

“You are having too much fun.” 

“Welcome back,” she said. “How was baby’s lil breakdown?” 

“Long overdue? You are having too much fun after just watching a snuff film.”

“Is it still a snuff film if everyone lives?”

“You’re gonna break it.” 

She’d been fiddling around with the projector’s switches and learned how to fast forward and rewind.

“No, watch. Your mother picks her nose right before he does it.” Harlow donned a scary-good impression of Rosalind. “Francis, before your father rips his own throat out, would you mind if I dug for some solidified mucous. They’re artisanal heirlooms from the same made up place as my accent.” 

“My father just died on camera! Can’t you just say ‘Holy crap!’ with me?”

“Holy CRAP! Now, look. Right here, she definitely digs around.” 

“Harlow!” She jumped back from the projector and the film ran at double-speed before jamming at the end.

A ghost of the last image remained on the white pull-down screen; the horrible smug grin on Richard’s face as he looked at the camera. At whoever the film was intended for. Frank laid his head on the table, the fake wooden plastic sealing to his skin through a sheen of stress sweat.

“…please.” 

Harlow’s face sank with his. They both would have liked to blame it on the sun setting early, the twenty-four straight hours of snow; anything but what was actually sinking into their minds. 

“What have they done?” said Frank. Quiet, like someone might be listening. He felt like they were back in the Big House, in his father’s office. The projector room’s walls leaned in, the dark upper corners black holes pulling at the already wilting air. There was something concise about the room. The last period in a novel.

“I’m not sure. But they’ve crossed over from just being creepy.” 

“And I didn’t even know that!” said Frank. “Or I did and ignored it. No, it seemed normal. It was all I’d ever seen from them. Do you get it? I’m sorry I didn’t see it, but do you get it?” 

Harlow’s face was caught. Frank couldn’t blame her. And even if she had quieted all his fears, consoled his woes, he still would have felt dumb. Responsible. How many things had he let slide over the years? How many had he participated in? 

“They’re…they’re doing something. These rituals. Sacraments. My dad did one on the tape. My mom did another last night. They’re doing them for her. For Fay-naw-enn?” 

“Close?” said Harlow. For the record, Frank’s pronunciation was nowhere near right. “I told you to call her FiFi. It helps.” 

“A little casual for a god.”

“My professional opinion? We’re dealing with a demon here. A demon that’s trying to end the world. Girl should be happy her name isn’t something distinctly less wholesome. FiFi is a Pomeranian’s name. She’s lucky.” 

“We need more information.” Frank slapped his hand on the table, then rubbed the spot he’d hit to say ‘sorry.’ “I want more. They keep talking about the Inquiry and gods and Armageddon and questions and I want to know it all. We can’t play the game if we don’t know the rules.”

“Do we love comparing the world ending to a game?”

“You’ve obviously never played Scattergories with my family.” He stood, shoulders back and chest out. 

“Oh, I can deal with this,” she said. “Proud Frank. Frank with a plan.” 

“It’s barely here, but something is percolating.” 

“Reeling back my confidence.”

“I’ve got this! I just…need a sec.” 

“Francis, it’s a death cult. One-hundred percent. Seen it countless times.”

“Countless?”

“Okay, fine. Many. But still,” said Harlow. “I, too, always thought your family was just…Well, culty. They definitely had a culty vibe, but I thought it would be mostly the same as those people who get really into selling essential oils. Vulnerable, desperate people who eventually peter out.”

“Maybe that’s what’s happening here?” Frank’s words were tinged with a hope that he was simultaneously proud and embarrassed of. “Like, they bought the office-sized wire trap and have been trying to pay it off since.” 

By the look on Harlow’s face, she tried, really tried, to accept Frank’s hypothesis. To work her movie knowledge around the concept and find any foothold of possibility. 

“I know we both want that to be true. Partially because it’s a holiday and partially because your family worshipping a demon is obviously a hard pill to swallow…”

“But?” said Frank.

“But, babe; all signs point to demon. A demon that’s coming soon-slash-now.” 

Frank thought of the ceremony last night. The terrifying revelries that immediately followed. And perhaps the most damning evidence, that they’d invited him back home. But why now? What was different? 

 “Why couldn’t we just be Christian?” he pouted. “They’re still waiting for their demon to come back.”

“Not a demon,” said Harlow. 

“Fine. Vampire sky daddy. Why does mine have to come now? Just when they’re inviting me back? We haven’t even gotten to play Scrabble or anything together.”

“I thought it was Scattergories? Also, maybe you’re back because…you know…” 

“They want to mend fences, yeah.” 

“Or they want to impale you on the fence so that your blood can feed the ground from which the demon hath risen.” She busied herself with an earring, eager not to look Frank in the eye. 

“Hath?” 

“This isn’t my first rodeo! Yes, solely through entertainment-based research, but to act like I don’t know at least a little of what’s up is foolish. Your family worships a demon, apparently named FiFi. Now, you’ve just got to decide what to do with all that.”

Frank stared back at the stuck projector screen. The joy on his father’s face. No, the pride. He could imagine that admiration in real life; Richard nodding to him from across the room. 

“Well, what’s the demon do?” said Frank. 

“Francis. It’s a demon!”

“What if he’s a nice one? Or she!” 

“Glad to know this is where your feminism sits.” 

“Like, what if she’s just misunderstood, or got a bad rap? And she’s actually here to help us get rid of the greenhouse effect and teach everyone the secret to making sourdough.” 

“Sourdough is really the next big thing that’s needs fixing after greenhouse gasses,” said Harlow. 

“I’m trying to keep a light mood!” 

“The mood when we’re talking about actual demons? This is real for them, Frank. My bet—my informed bet—is that they want to hash it out before it all ends. You know. Spill some family beans… Talk about how your dad has already died once…” Her grimace didn’t sell it well. 

“There’s no way. Hell could freeze over and my parents would rather sit with icicles up their butts than talk about feelings.”

“So my idea is more preposterous than your father ripping out his own throat, on camera, during the Carter administration?” 

“Yes!” Frank shook his head back and forth, a Dodo bird realizing its fate. “Completely yes. The last real conversation my parents and I had was when I told them I was going to college off-island and they asked me if I’d be allowed to stay on campus over the summer.” Harlow whistled. “I need more. I need to know why they’d want me here. How I fit into it all. What they’d kill themselves for!” 

Harlow and Frank both looked around the room. His father stared from the frozen film. Who’s next? The answer came at once. Like they’d both remembered the lyrics to a song from their teen years, just as the crescendo came in the front seat of Harlow’s car. 

“Not what they’d kill themselves for,” she said. 

“Who,” said Frank. “All hail.” 

Harlow went back to fix the reel in the projector while Frank did his best not to reel in general. 

“They want her,” he said. “FiFi. They’re doing all this. All these sacraments for the…pieces. They said ‘pieces.’ That they need seven. My dad was sewing his throat…” 

“We’re already way too comfortable saying things like that,” said Harlow as she fiddled with the projector’s controls. “But it tracks. Seven pieces. Demon gets a foothold in our world. Bam! Pulls herself through and suddenly everyone is nice to Stella.” 

“Wut?” said Frank. 

“You said she published a paper with them, right? Plus she went out with Dick for forever. He had to know.” 

Frank’s face cracked in two, the precise mind-F wall collapsing on top of him. 

“No way,” he spat. “He would have told me. Harlow, he would have told me! And I’m glad he’s not here to see them like this. Granted, he probably would have figured it out sooner.” 

“Frank, be nice.” He scrunched his brow, confused. “To yourself! Look at us. Mystery? Solved. Demon? Understood.”

He managed a small grin. “It does make all the sense. With the snow and the weirdness. The hand decapitation. There were lungs on the Big House’s back patio this afternoon that we thought were deer but now I’m not so sure!”

Harlow glared at him over the stalling machine. The film was caught playing and rewinding the same few seconds. 

“Were you planning on sharing that with the class, or just waiting for Patio Lungs to come up organically?” she said. “Wait, YOU’RE NOT SURE???” 

The door to the projector room swung open, dispelling the cinema shadows with champagne light from the library. 

“Choo-choo,” said Blevin the librarian. “Coffee train. I’ve got three Peppermint MoCarlisles with your names on them. Well, two are for you. One’s for me! I thought I could help you with…Oh.” 

Harlow and Frank stood frozen, staring at the bear in a vest smiling in the doorway. Frank had to admit… No. Wasn’t the time.

They tried smiling back, hoping that Blevin hadn’t heard what they were talking about. Wondering when exactly the words ‘Patio Lungs’ had left Harlow’s mouth. These concerns were quickly extinguished as Frank followed Blevin’s gaze towards the projector screen where the film had gotten caught in the antique version of a gif.

Jumping forward and back—likely due to someone’s abuse of the projector controls—all three of them were entranced by Rick Vines tearing out his own throat over and over. 

Frank looked for something heavy. Not kill-a-librarian heavy…just give him a long, unscheduled nap heavy. 

Blevin’s face released its smile, leaving nothing behind. The curtain hadn’t dropped on the play; the scene had ended and the set was struck.

Pure, fathomless vacancy. 

“So, that’s how it works,” he said.