No matter which ball she was attending, Mrs. Ada Strickland always felt like its belle. That was the pleasure of frequent hosting—every guest had, at some point, an obligation to give her their greetings and goodbyes, and she considered herself somewhat of an artist in her ability to extend each instance into a full-fledged conversation lasting up to an hour in length. Even better was the opportunity for a speech in the middle of the evening: she’d wait for the first guest to attempt a departure, then insist they had only to wait a few more minutes until they were free to leave before tapping another guest’s silverware against her own half-filled champagne glass. When the din of the conversation had settled and she had the spotlight, she’d laud her praises on one or two of the guests, usually contemporary artists of whom she was an important patron and whose work the party was ostensibly arranged to honor then, during whatever series of toasts she’d set into action, she’d receive praises about her speech in turn, as well as one or two compliments apropos her jewelry and dress.
That was the best part, though she’d never admit it—she was far too vain to admit her own vanity outright, even if she was proud of its status as an open secret. She knew for a fact that it was rumored she never wore the same thing twice, and her only disappointment lay in it remaining a mere rumor. It was a testament both to her sway as a figure of the elite art world as well as her knowledge of and confidence in her role that she was the contemporary bellwether of aging with grace, abhorring anyone who blew money on fraudulences like botox and liposuction.
When her husband had passed over a decade ago, she had kept the honorific of “Mrs.”, feeling that a change to anything else would have garnered her diminished respect among people on the fringes of her various social circles. After marrying into copious wealth in her mid-twenties, Ada had spent thirty years honing a fabricated socialite persona and then her personality to fit it. A lie, she felt, was only something she didn’t believe was true, and if she could forget her young adulthood of playing hooky and breaking laws—the ones that were, even now, faux pas to break, anyways—she could make it have never happened at all. She was now an Us, and, to her as well as to most of her confrères, that could only be true if she’d never been a Them.
It was because of this powerful and long-sustained former ruse that she felt no pang of guilt or shred of doubt at her new trendsetting fashion decision. She had been itching for some weeks for the type of splendorous evening at which she could show it off, and tonight was going to be far from an exception in meeting her standards. The maids and caterers were just then busying themselves with preparing the final details: they’d cleared the oak dining room table into one of the walk-in closets in order to accommodate the guests on the first story of the central London loft flat, replaced all the light bulbs in the dining room’s aquamarine chandelier to ensure they shone at their maximum capacity, and were preparing courses upon courses of food—both abundant and variant enough to satiate the world’s most avaricious gourmands—the aromas of which were already wafting out of the kitchen from their places on china platters. Hand-cut glass flutes begged for champagne in serried ranks on marble counters, and everything, from the picture frames to the hardwood floors, gleamed. All Ada Strickland had to do now was put on the centerpiece of the night and wait.
After the initial crescendo of the evening had begun to simmer in anticipation, in the time after the fashionably late had finished filing in but before the unfashionably early had departed, Ada tapped her glass with her friend Hans Robertson’s hor d’oeuvres fork, cleared her throat, and said, “I’d like to propose at least one toast, so please, everyone, make sure your glass is half full at minimum.”
“Is it alright if it’s half empty?” called a man from a far corner of the room, whose full beard she remembered, if not his name. The room tittered its approval of his joke.
“Not tonight,” Ada said, smiling at him and then the rest in attendance. She raised her glass higher. “Tonight, we have only time for optimism, thanks to the unparalleled human rights work of our esteemed guest and my dear friend, Ralph Wallace. To him.” At this, the group of people turned to face a lanky silver-haired man in a tuxedo and clapped into their glasses. He smiled and raised his glass to them in return. “As well as to the equally harrowing work of his wife in making sure he doesn’t miss too many meals or lose too much sleep.” The bronze woman on his arm took her turn for a smile. “His new shelter in Whitechapel that serves the homeless minpeople of London, opening on the first, is the first of its kind in the world. With over one thousand beds available, it will be able to serve not only the current estimated population of abandoned or otherwise homeless mins and womins in London, but will hopefully be able to serve the population even as it grows in the coming years.” More applause. “Though, of course, we hope it doesn’t.”
“Now, I’m not one to point out the symbolism behind my attire too often; usually, I prefer to let it speak for itself. Tonight, however, I’d like to take a moment address the min, or, more specifically, the womins in the room.” She pointed at her earrings and necklace. They were cylinders made of filigreed sterling silver, three inches in height, with small pink diamonds crusting their edges. Inside of each of them sat a small naked woman between four and five inches tall when standing. The womins in Ada’s earrings were both cream white blondes bordering on an unhealthily thin weight proportional to their size; the one in her necklace shared their complexion but was bordering on an unhealthy proportional weight in the opposite direction. This womin seemed, to anyone who would have looked closely, to be less comfortable in her position than her compatriots; the chain of the necklace was slack and the pendant rested directly on Mrs. Strickland’s ample cleavage, which was directly exposed in her sequined oyster dress. More than with the fact of her location, she appeared uncomfortable with the attention she was receiving as the centerpiece of Mrs. Strickland’s outfit, and it was a testament to her inability to physically shrink further that she didn’t disappear completely. She couldn’t see the womins in the earrings from her vantage; Mrs. Strickland’s neck and chin blocked them from view, and, feeling as naked as she was, she huddled into a ball and averted her gaze away from the crowd’s prying eyes and towards her knees. A few guests had noticed her distress, but any concern they showed manifested in the form of a whispered grin to their spouse followed by a louder chuckle.
“These womins all agreed to be part of tonight’s events, hoping to be part of the effort to fundraise for the shelter.” The crowd applauded their honor, bravery, or whatever admirable trait in the womins they felt they were expected to recognize. “Although it’s already fully constructed and ongoing costs for supplies border on negligible, the cost of maintaining the facility itself, as well as keeping a full staff payrolled, does not. My goal in hosting this fundraiser tonight is to ensure that The Ralph Wallace Shelter for Minpeople can remain financially afloat for a decade, at least.” These last two words she emphasized. “This problem doesn’t seem to be going away any time soon,” she said, “and although anecdotal cases of the occasional celebrity who catches the bug have entered the public eye, the average person remains unaware of the extent this pandemic. Someday, we’ll hopefully have a cure or vaccine, but until then, I believe we all have reasonable fears that it will only spread. The first step is to make people aware.”
“We all know that this disease is associated with groups of people often considered invisible at best and unsavory at worst. But aren’t all who find themselves in this vulnerable state deserving of our help, regardless of whatever other stigmas surround them? Besides,” and here Ada tossed up her hands in affected exasperation, knocking her left earring in the process, leaving its terrified captive to cling with equal effort to her stomach and the cage, “they’re not the only ones affected. Are we going to sit by and let what happened in America with minutiosis happen here? Let it fester out from the inner cities into the suburbs, and only then give it our attention? When it’s ravaged our entire country?” She paused for effect. “I hope not. Your children are not immune to this disease.” Then she grinned. “Then again, maybe you’d prefer they catch it so you can keep them at home indefinitely.” She laughed along with the crowd.
If the womins in Ada’s earrings could have glanced at each other during this section of the speech, they would have. As it was, their view was eye level with Mrs. Strickland’s mouth, its movements magnified twelvefold. The womin in the left earring kept her composure, but the one in the right couldn’t help but shudder at the glib remark.
“In the meantime, however, the people who have already been affected need immediate and direct support. That’s where all of you come in.” Again, Ada paused, but smiled this time. “Anyone who donates over two thousand pounds tonight will earn a rented minanimous necklace, as we’re calling them, for an evening; two more and you’ll get a pair of earrings. Five thousand for an evening with a full set like I’ve got. Hopefully you’ll use that opportunity to raise awareness of more than just yourself while out on the town.” Ada winked at a spot between two women in the crowd, both of whom blushed. “I might add, as well, that womins and mins of all races and weights have agreed to engage in this opportunity for publicity, so don’t worry you won’t find anything to match your dress.” The womin in the necklace glanced up at the crowd for a moment, before thinking better of it and closing her eyes. “And for those of you so gravely concerned—yes, we are compensating them individually for their efforts as well.”
“What about the men?” a heckler called. “What do we get for five thousand?”
“If you don’t have a woman controlling your checkbook,” Ada said, “God help you.” Again, she laughed with the crowd. The womin on her chest trembled with the jostling. “Fortunately, we have ties with metallic inlays, a new design from our lovely French friends Théo and Inès Laurent. They unfortunately couldn’t make it tonight in order to receive our first-hand compliments on their designs, but their talents are no less than divine intervention.”
“Now,” she said, “I’d like to raise my glass, once more, finally—I know I’ve bored most of you to tears with my dithering, but it comes from a good place, I promise—to Ralph and Marie Wallace, for their tireless work in helping our city’s marginalized populations.” She raised her glass as well as her chins, and the womins in her earrings each had to take a moment to adjust to the swinging of their cages. “To you,” she said, “and to them.” She sipped her glass. The rest in attendance followed suit, most of them draining theirs. Then, having had her fill of the evening’s spotlight, Ada pointed it over to the Wallaces. “Now let’s get another glass in everyone’s hand and a speech from Ralph!” she said.
No more than five minutes after Ralph Wallace had finished his equally charming sermon expounding the mission underlying the night’s festivities, the married couple whose leaving Ada had delayed by insisting they stay for the toast approached her to say their farewells. They were both dressed to the nines, one point less than the majority in attendance.
“Oh, Alice! There you are!” Ada said.
“We’re actually just on our way out now,” Alice Anderson said. She was a stout brunette in her mid-forties. Unlike most of the women at the gala who still had private preoccupations with maintaining their trimness, her weight rivaled both Ada’s and her husband’s and, unlike Ada, she’d never had a claim to being thin to start.
“You’re sure you don’t want to stay for the main course?” Ada said.
“Well, I’d love to,” Alice said, “but I’m our driver tonight and Edgar’s already had enough to drink that he’s no fun to be around while sober. We’re headed home so I can be no fun too.”
Ada smiled. “Perfectly understandable. I don’t suppose I could finesse a parting donation from you? Five thousand will cover the salary of an employee for almost three months, and I know you don’t care at all,” she winked at Alice, “but you get to partake in this season’s fashion statement. I think an Asian min in gold would really match your complexion.”
Alice beamed from the compliment, but deferred to her husband, Edgar. “What do you think?”
“I think those earrings aren’t half as beautiful as the womins inside them,” said the hirsute man. He leaned in close to the right earring, his eye less than two inches from the petrified womin inside. The champagne on his breath filled her nostrils as she stared at the small gap in his front teeth. “And what about that lucky womin on your chest?” he said, turning his eyes to her. “You’re gorgeous, my dear. How would you like an evening on my wife instead? I know I certainly find it comfortable on her!” He laughed, and the womin, like the one in the earring, turned away from him. Alice tugged on his dinner jacket sleeve as surreptitiously as she could and he regained his composure. “But none hold a candle to you, of course.” He reached for Ada’s hand and kissed it.
“You see my problem,” Alice said. “If he makes a fool of himself tonight, I’m implicated by the virtue of this dreadful thing.” She held up her hand and displayed a diamond ring.
“I see,” Ada said. A wry smile remained on her face. “I suppose you’re the one who ought to be making the financial decisions right now then.”
Alice thought it over. “Well, I don’t see what harm two thousand pounds to a good cause does,” she said, once more turning to her husband, “do you? Edgar?”
Edgar was beginning to reach his finger out to prod at the bauble, but snapped back into sensibility once more upon being addressed. “For a good cause,” he mumbled. “Why not?” From the pocket of his tuxedo, he pulled out his checkbook.
The evening progressed like any other, except that Ada granted herself one of the larger slices from the centerpiece cake and an extra glass or two of champagne. Fundraisers, compounded with hosting them and surpassing her goal by a wide margin, as she had tonight, gave more allowance for indulgence than other, more directly celebratory events. No, they hadn’t managed to fundraise enough to sustain the shelter for more than two years, but even that was a feat. You did something good; you got to be a little bad.
Once all the guests had cleared out, Ada left the dining room to the cleaners and ascended the staircase of her penthouse flat to her bedroom, leaning most of her weight on the banister in her stupor. Ralph and Marie had given her their heartfelt thanks, and had each even spent a few minutes chatting, as best they could over the banquet’s din, with the womins adorning her ears, asking them how comfortable they were and whether or not they wanted a chance to try the food while it was still hot. The womins had both decided to forgo having their supper at the same time as the rest of the guests, preferring to stay in the earrings. An eavesdropper had teased that it was a sign of how much they’d already grown to love Ada, and she’d had no thought to question that assessment. Who didn’t?
She pressed the nob for the lights in her room, then quickly turned it to dim them, shading her eyes with her hand. She wheezed with the effort of her drunken walk up the stairs, her mouth open to suck in air. She wasn’t as young or thin as she used to be. In front of a large tri-fold mirror, she appraised herself for a few minutes. The womins in her jewelry weren’t more beautiful than her, were they? That was the problem, she thought, with wearing another person as a fashion accessory—anyone who cared enough to look was bound to compare you with them. There was a fine line of making sure they looked almost as good as you, but not quite.
Ada looked at her face, sanguine even in the mood lighting of her bedroom. She tucked a strand of hair that had come loose behind her left ear, and it tickled into the earring with the womin, who moved as far away from its touch as she could before pushing it back out. Ada giggled at her effort, and continued to giggle as she looked at the reflection of her chest in the mirror and saw that the pendant around her neck had slipped three quarters of its way into her bosom. When she realized that her laughing was only shaking the poor trapped womin, she couldn’t help but begin an unkempt guffaw, resting her hands on her thighs to support herself as she doubled over. In the mirror, she could see the womins in her earrings clinging to the curling bars surrounding them as their cages swung, but the womin in her necklace had turned horizontal with the shift, still wedged in Ada’s chest.
“Oh my goodness, you poor thing!” she said after the two minutes she took to halfway regain her composure. “I’m so sorry! That must have been why people were snickering towards the end.” She pulled on the necklace’s chain, then let forth another burst of laughter when she realized it was going to need a stronger tug than the one she’d given to get the womin out. “And here I thought they were just enjoying their wine!” She tucked her left hand between her breasts and spread them. The womin in the pendant fell down another two inches, now completely submerged in Mrs. Strickland’s fat. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” Ada said, her chest still heaving with her giggles. She reached in with her right hand, and pulled the necklace out. “I’ve got you.”
She took her earrings off and placed the silver cylinders on the top of her dresser, between her hairbrush and a box covered with salmon fabric and pearls. “Did you all enjoy your nights?” she said as she lifted the latches on their cages. Each of them began to step out in order to stretch their legs. They both nodded, but the one still in the necklace seemed less certain of how to answer. It didn’t matter though; Ada was no longer paying to attention to them. She returned to the mirror where she continued to preen herself for a few minutes before she opened the door to her bedroom again and called down the stairs: “Layla, can you please come get my necklace and dress and then take care of the womins?”
“Yes, ma’am,” a woman’s voice called back. The oak stairs creaked as she walked up to the master bedroom. Layla, a thin woman too haggard to appear her age of thirty-three, held in her arms a rectangular wooden platter about the size of a cutting board that had thick edges raised ten centimeters high. She unhooked Mrs. Strickland’s necklace, placed it on the platter, and began to approach the womins on the dresser, but Mrs. Strickland stopped her.
“My dress first, dear.”
“Of course, ma’am,” Layla said. “You look lovely, by the way.” She held the platform in one hand and frowned with concentration as she unzipped the dress in the dim light with the other, then turned away as Mrs. Strickland began to remove her clothing. She emptied the necklace of the womin and placed it alongside the earrings on the dresser. The two womins walked onto the wooden carrier and began conversing among themselves, leaving the other one out of their conversation. Layla watched as the womin who’d been in the necklace stared past her at Mrs. Strickland’s back, which was now naked except for the white lingerie that cut into her thick flesh. “Anything else, ma’am?”
Ada appraised her figure in the mirror, lifting her sagging breasts and stomach with her hands, then letting them flop down. “Give those three a special treat, will you, dear? They did well for us tonight. Maybe a thin slice of cake to split between them?” She sighed, content with the night’s turnout, then unfastened her bra before going into her walk-in closet to put on her nighty. “Ralph’s shelter is going to turn out superb. I’m sure of it.”
The three tiny womins sat down in a corner of the board and leaned against the wall, bracing themselves against the jostling of Layla’s walk back down the stairs. Layla gazed at the plump one, who was dancing in place and waving her arms. “What do you want, then?” she asked. The womin paused, quivering and tense; placed her hands on her crotch; and relaxed as she soiled herself. Layla frowned down at her. The thin womins, who’d already been sitting in a different corner, moved further away from her. “I know Mrs. Strickland doesn’t give you breaks neither,” Layla said. “Doesn’t give you the right to piss whenever you want like that. Who do you think has to wash your things, hm? Are you going to clean up your mess?” The womin who wet herself had begun to sob. Upon Layla’s taunting, she sat down without bothering to move from the puddle underneath her. “Get up, you cow,” Layla hissed. “Now I know you’re just trying to wind me up.” She had stopped walking when they’d reached the foot of the stairs. The womin curled into a fetal ball and wrapped her arms around her legs, tears streaming down her face. “Filthy bloody animals. Come on, let’s get you lot to the sink before you two take her example and wet yourselves as well. Then we can get your clothes back on and then your supper.”
While Anne and Louise, the womins who had been in Mrs. Strickland’s left and right earrings respectively, squatted to relieve themselves in the sink, Layla stared at them. “That’s much better innit? Don’t see how you lot haven’t figured out some sort of sign language to ask for what you need yet. I heard all that tosh about how anyone can get it, but I don’t believe a word.” Then, once she’d scooped them up in her hands out of the sink and onto the kitchen counter, she said, “For your treat, if I can find it, I’ll let you take a peek at who’s made reservations to wear any of you. That sound better than cake?” She walked away from the counter to find the sheet of paper on which their fates were written.
The womins would have wanted both the gift of prescience and the cake, but they didn’t complain when Layla returned with the list, cut herself their slice, and ate it above them, spraying crumbs as she read the names of a handful of the guests and chewed at the same time. All of the reservations that had been made for any of the three of them that night had been for Margaret, the woman who’d been in the necklace. There were four separate occasions for her lined up in the next month.
Margaret didn’t hear Layla’s announcement. She was staring into space, muttering something repetitive to herself and rocking back and forth. When Layla looked away from the list to leer down, she prodded Margaret’s side with her little finger to get her to stop. “What do you think you’re doing there?” she asked. Margaret quieted the movements of her mouth and body, but didn’t appear to reenter reality, still gazing at her surroundings without seeing them. Anne whispered something to Louise, both of them glancing at her.
Layla, uninterested in investigating the incident further, turned back to the cake. “Oh, apparently the Hoovers have requested a full set of black women,” she smirked. “Those poor things have no idea what they’ve signed up for. Mrs. Hoover always leaves such a mess when she’s here, the pig.” She took another bite of the cake. Margaret, still halfway hazy, now saw the vanilla crumbs cascading from the gigantic maid’s mouth and grabbed those that fell on the platform nearest her. After wordlessly offering to split them with the other women and being declined, she began to eat them by herself, stifling her pain with their sweetness. The food at the shelter was nowhere near this good. For a moment, she was grateful.
None of them would bring Layla’s thieving up with Mrs. Strickland. They were uncertain they’d have the opportunity anyways; they’d heard that Ada Strickland never wore the same thing twice, and they imagined that included minpeople. Besides, it was only some cake.
In the end, who really cared?