The Divinity in Odd Numbers
There is a divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance or death. – William Shakespeare
At 11:11 PM on November 11, 2011, Aubrey Houser learned he had won $11 million from the state lottery of New York, which happened to be the eleventh state admitted to the union. Understandably, he was beside himself with joy. The only downside that Aubrey could see to his unexpected windfall was the lack of a significant other with whom to share it. Nonetheless, his happiness far outstripped his disappointment, because he believed the newly found fortune would help him attract a mate. The money would make it easier for him to overcome the magenta birthmark that covered most of his face.
While Aubrey was struck by the peculiarity of how the number eleven played so prominently in his winning the lottery, he was not altogether surprised that it did. For years, he had noticed with rising interest and curiosity that the number 11, especially in combination with itself, had been appearing with regularity. Most of the time it occurred while driving or when he just happened to glance at his watch. This prompted Aubrey to undertake a bit of research, and to his surprise he discovered a website called 11.11. It posited the view that frequent encounters with the numbers was not a random thing but rather communication from amiable spirits intent on making their existence known. The site did not elaborate as to why these fun-loving “Midwayers,” as it called them, wished to make contact, although it declared them “Celestial Helpers.” Exactly how they helped, however, remained unexplained to Aubrey’s satisfaction.
Although he did not buy the website’s premise, he did agree that the recurring manifestation of 11.11 was extraordinary and beyond mere coincidence. As he read on, his skepticism was challenged when another inexplicable incident in his life was cited. Apparently, it was not uncommon for members––of what the website called the “11.11 Progress Group”––to notice that street lights went out as they drove under them and for doorbells to ring for no apparent reason. For years, Aubrey had witnessed both and wondered why they had happened. Indeed, that they did occur made him feel strangely special––as if he’d been singled out by some unknown force. Why, he again did not know, and despite the website’s sanguine proclamations, he remained baffled and intrigued by the repeated patterns appearing in his life.
* * *
Once word got around about Aubrey’s good fortune, his social life improved dramatically. Friends, acquaintances––even strangers––went out of their way to include him in activities and introduce him to single women. He was not in the least put out by this, despite his sense that it was his money (and not him) they suddenly found so appealing. During a pool party at his former boss’s house––Aubrey had since quit his job as an athletic equipment representative––that he first set eyes on Celeste Keaton. Her sculpted and tanned body caused the blood in a particular area of his lower extremities to nearly boil over. He had only seen women as beautiful in the swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated, a magazine he’d subscribed to since landing his first job out of college.
Winning the lottery had instilled in him a confidence he had never imagined possible. So without the inner trembling that he usually experienced in the presence of an attractive member of the opposite sex, Aubrey approached the string bikini clad stranger and said the first thing that entered his mind.
“Would you like to go to Cancun for the weekend?”
“What?” she responded, more amused than bemused.
“Sorry. I guess that was a bit aggressive. Hi, my name is Aubrey. I couldn’t help but notice your . . . ah, you coming out of the pool,” he said, extending his hand.
“Oh, yeah, you used to work for Ted before you won the lottery. I’m Celeste, and I love Cancun.”
A week later, they checked into Suite 11 at the Le Meridien Cancun Resort and Spa for an extended stay. He had not requested that particular room number, and he was too distracted by the fire in his loins to even notice it. In the luxurious setting Aubrey proposed to Celeste while she modeled the new Victoria Secret negligee he had purchased for her. While he knew he was making an impetuous move, he felt he could afford to be reckless. She was his bliss and he intended to pursue her, come what may. Since scoring his fortune, he had enjoyed a feeling of wellbeing and a sense of invincibility.
Immediately after returning home, they were married and started their lives together in an upscale, gated community on the outskirts of Albany. At Celeste’s urging, Aubrey consulted a cosmetic surgeon about removing his birthmark. He knew it bothered his new wife, so he agreed to the treatment. As was a kid, he wanted nothing more than to have the embarrassing stain removed from his face. Over time, he’d come to accept it as part of who he was and regard it with relative indifference.
* * *
Less than a year into their marriage, Aubrey’s birthmark was gone, but despite that, things began to fall apart. What had begun as minor squabbles centering on Celeste’s extravagant spending habits became heated arguments. At first, Aubrey ignored his wife’s compulsive buying, but when it involved major purchases, such as a five-carat diamond necklace priced at a half-million dollars, he could not help but take notice. When he did ask her to return the diamond, she retaliated by withholding sex from him. This increased the tension between them, and when he discovered she had kept the diamond and had even purchased a matching bracelet, he went nuclear and struck her.
“You little bastard, I’ll sue you for divorce and take everything you have,” she screamed, groping her burning cheek.
“Give me those diamonds!” yelled Aubrey, tearing them from her neck and wrist.
Celeste retaliated by kneeing him in his groin, dropping him to his knees. When she attempted to seize the gems from his clutched hand, he knocked her to the floor, causing her to strike her head against the bed frame. As she attempted to break his hold, Aubrey grabbed a pair of scissors from a bed stand and began stabbing her. After a series of vicious blows, he released her limp body and staggered to his feet.
“Oh, God,” he moaned, as he sat on the bed above her bleeding corpse. “What have I done? Celeste, what have I done?”
Aubrey stared at the lifeless woman he thought would round out his existence and make everything perfect. Now came the dawning that everything was about to take a dark turn. For over an hour he contemplated his next move and decided to take action that might keep him from spending the rest of his days in a prison cell. His plan involved waiting until dark and dumping her body in a nearby landfill. When Aubrey glimpsed the time after depositing Celeste’s corpse in the trunk of his Lexus LX 10 it was 11:12 P.M. From that point on, he would not encounter 11.11, even when he attempted to spy the digits by careful calculations or just stare at the clock before and after 11.11. The minutes would jump from 11:10 to 11:12 prompting Aubrey to whimper forlornly. His connection with the magical digits was gone to his profound chagrin.
What Aubrey had come to accept as benevolent spirits had abandoned him after the murder of his wife, and his existence grew desolate. His fortune soon disappeared through a series of foolish investments, forcing him to sell everything. Soon he was both spiritually and materially bankrupt.
* * *
Aubrey had moved to a small, furnished apartment in a low-income section of Albany, when he was first approached by the police investigating the disappearance of his wife after her mother had filed a missing person’s report. Only two months had passed since he had taken her life, and during that time he had all but erased her from his thoughts. If he thought of her at all, it was with anger for his ruin.
“She left when we started having money troubles. As you can see, they were pretty bad,” explained Aubrey, pointing at his surroundings.
“Did she leave any message?” inquired the detective.
“No message. Just packed her stuff and left while I was on a business trip,” answered Aubrey, with a nonchalance that surprised him.
“And you haven’t heard from her since?”
“Not a word, and I say good riddance. She was a money-grubbing bitch,” answered Aubrey, still retaining his cool demeanor.
“Well, we’ll be in touch, Mr. Houser. If you hear from her, please give us a call,” said the detective, handing Aubrey his card.
Just days later, Celeste’s decomposing body was discovered, and a forensic examination determined she had died from eleven stab wounds. This brought the authorities back to Aubrey’s residence, though he was not there.
Late that night the Albany police responded to a report of a jumper from a downtown high rise. Aubrey’s body was found under a darkened street lamp. The same detective that had questioned Aubrey was the first officer at the scene. He and his partner turned the body over to identify the victim, and it was then that the detective realized who the deceased was.
“Guess this might answer the question about who killed Celeste Aubrey,” he muttered to his colleague,
“Check this out,” said his partner, nodding toward the corpse.
Two magenta lines slowly appeared on the dead man’s cheeks.
“Whoa! Looks like he’s got a one on both sides of his face,” he observed, as the marks grew brighter.
“That’s strange as hell––an eleven tattooed on his mug,” commented the detective, checking his watch. “Where’s the frigging meat wagon? I’m off at midnight, and it’s already . . . eleven after eleven.
“Damn, where does the time go?” replied his partner.
