1237 lines
53 KiB
Plaintext
1237 lines
53 KiB
Plaintext
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FICTION-ONLINE
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An Internet Literary Magazine
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Volume 7, Number 1
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January-February, 2000
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EDITOR'S NOTE:
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FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing
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electronically through e-mail and the Internet on a bimonthly basis.
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The contents include short stories, play scripts or excerpts, excerpts of
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novels or serialized novels, and poems. Some contributors to the
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magazine are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of
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Washington, DC, a group affiliated with Washington Independent
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Writers. However, the magazine is an independent entity and solicits
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and publishes material from the public.
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To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please e-
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mail a brief request to
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ngwazi@clark.net
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To submit manuscripts for consideration, please e-mail to the
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same address, with the ms in ASCII format, if possible included as part
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of the message itself, rather than as an attachment.
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Back issues of the magazine may be obtained by e-mail from
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the editor or by downloading from the website
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http://www.etext.org/Zines/ASCII/Fiction_Online
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The FICTION-ONLINE home page, including the latest issue,
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courtesy of the Writer's Center, Bethesda, Maryland, may be accessed
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at the following URL:
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http://www.writer.org/folmag/topfollm.htm
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE: The copyright for each piece of
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material published is retained by its author. Each subscriber is licensed
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to possess one electronic copy and to make one hard copy for personal
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reading use only. All other rights, including rights to copy or publish
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in whole or in part in any from or medium, to give readings or to stage
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performances or filmings or video recording, or for any other use not
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explicitly licensed, are reserved.
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William Ramsay, Editor
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=================================================
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CONTENTS
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Editor's Note
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Contributors
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"River Run, " a poem
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Tan-Jen
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"If It Cries," a short story
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Jenna Land
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"Negotiations," an excerpt (chapter 18) from the novel
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"Ay, Chucho!"
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William Ramsay
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"Oh?," part 2 of the play, "Shell Game"
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Otho Eskin
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===================================================
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CONTRIBUTORS
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OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international
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affairs, has published short stories and has had numerous plays read
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and produced in Washington, notably "Act of God." His play "Duet"
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has been produced at the Elizabethan Theater at the Folder Library in
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Washington. He is currently at work on a mystery novel set in high
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circles in Washington.
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JENNA LAND has an academic background in creative writing and is
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presently active in a literary agency in Washington.
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WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World
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energy problems. He is also a writer and playwright and his play,
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"Through the Wormhole," was read this fall as part of the Woolly
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Mammoth Theatre's Foreplay Series.
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TAN-JEN is an avid Georgetown (Washington, D.C.) gardener and
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student of Chinese literature. Her verses seek to capture in English the
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spirit and prosody of the classical Chinese lyric poems -- the ancestors
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of the Japanese haiku
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======================================================
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RIVER RUN
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(Winter, 1999)
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by Tan-Jen
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Blue haze deepens over the gorge
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Bare branches reach up toward the sky
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Along the trails etched in ancient rock
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Footfalls echo through millennia come and gone.
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Blue haze lifting -- river rushes on
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Naked branches gleam in morning light
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Last night's frost still lingers on the grass
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As this millennium slowly fades away.
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=============================================================
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IF IT CRIES
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by Jenna Land
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Two breasts swollen with milk. Hips rounded with the
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partnership of bone, fat, and flesh. A waist with a gentle curve,
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interrupted by thin lines of red which chronicle the change - the
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growth and then the shrinking of the pale ash white skin. A spine that
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holds it together, one straight line of vertebrae and strength. She turns
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sharply away from the mirror.
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All Marisa knows is that she's exhausted when they bring the
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baby in. A pink cotton bundle, and inside is her daughter. The baby's
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skin is spotted red, her fists are closed, her eyes are closed. The
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bundle sits on her chest, the nurse shows her how to crook her arm.
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And Steve is there, shamelessly sobbing with joy. He keeps
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whispering something about finally being a family. A family, he
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repeats. Again and again.
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"You're tired," he says finally, noticing Marisa's stillness. "We
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should let you sleep." She smiles, nods her head in assent, lets her
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eyelids close half way. The bundle is removed, the eyelids shut
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completely. And for a while there is nothing, until a gentle hand
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shakes her arm.
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"Oh, baby, baby!" says the voice that belongs to the woman in
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the red cocktail dress. "How are you feeling? How was it? Oh, she's
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just beautiful, Marisa. She looks just like you when you were first
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born, I tell you. An angel. An absolute vision. Come here, pet, let me
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hold you." Marisa's red curls are buried in the cocktail dress. Long
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fingers, manicured nails run through the mass of hair, petting,
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smoothing, soothing. "It's just so unreal. My baby has her own baby
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now."
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They all saw what happened the day the happy couple took
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their child home from the hospital. A huge affair, it was, with guests
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coming out of every corner of the stately split level house. Pink
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champagne, pink tablecloths, pink balloons and pink candles. A toast
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to the baby girl. Will the happy couple reveal the child's name? The
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husband beams, his eyes moisten with every glance at his daughter.
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The new mother sits in an upright chair with pink cushions supporting
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her, holding the child in her arms. She is staring at the bundle, and her
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face is unreadable. She does not seem to be regarding the child; she's
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just looking. She must be tired, they say. Poor thing. Just home from
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the hospital and she has to entertain. Post-partem depression, some
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say. She's a configuration of hormones, and probably doesn't know
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high from low right now. Give her some time, they say.
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Marisa lies awake in bed, waiting. Her eyes fixate on the
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ceiling fan. She watches one panel go around until she's dizzy, but still
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she cannot remove her eyes. She listens intently to the soft sounds of
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the manufactured wind-machine. Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptap. She lies
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elongated, flat, her toes pointed, her hands folded neatly on her
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stomach.
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From the next room, the sound of crying breaks the monotony
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of the fan's song. The baby's awake, wants to be fed. Steve is snoring
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beside her, caught up in a dream of poppy fields, evil witches and fairy
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godmothers. Gradually, Marisa's hands begin to gently rub her own
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belly. Soothing, circular motions, the light touch of her fingertips on
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flesh.
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The cries from the next room become louder, more persistent.
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Marisa rubs faster, the circles become smaller, more urgent. The fan
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seems to grow louder with its unceasing taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap.
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Still the cries continue, and the fear must be encountered, faced,
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confronted. Marisa raises herself out of bed slowly, hesitating at each
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break in the crying. But it never stops for long. She slips her feet into
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her slippers and fastens her robe. The baby's room is full of
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shadows, the Winnie-the-Pooh nightlight serving as an axis for the
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surrounding illuminations. The crib is the only piece of substantial
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furniture in the large room, and it looms unnaturally tall and white.
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Marisa tiptoes slowly until she is faced with the lofty white bars. Her
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dark eyes peer through to the crying from inside. Its face is red,
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discolored from the strain of crying and distorted in its unhappiness.
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The thin cotton pajamas which cover the small body are damp with
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perspiration. Tentatively, Marisa reaches in and picks it up. It cries
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louder. Marisa carries it into the living room, over to the rocking
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chair, and places it to her breast. With a little help, it finds what it's
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looking for. The small pink lips suck greedily as the milk joins it, a
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union of child and mother, need and supply, at the sore nipple. Marisa
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goes through the motions she knows so well from her friends' advice,
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her mother's experience, the many books she's read. Rock back and
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forth. Pat its back gently. Sing a lullaby. Let your instincts take over.
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Do what comes naturally. Do what comes naturally. Follow your
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instincts. Her instincts are telling her to go back to sleep, to go back
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to her own mother. To crawl into the fetal position and pull her
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blanket around her. But she wants to be a good mother. So she looks
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down into the face that is no longer crying, but that is sucking
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contentedly. Maybe if she talks to it. "Hello. Please don't cry.
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There's no reason to cry. Everything is going to be fine. Please don't
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cry." She stops rocking. Stops rubbing the small back. Stops looking
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down at the small face. Her eyes fix on the grandfather clock across
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the room. She watches the second hand tick, listens as it moves
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around the wide circle. Ticktickticktickticktick. She forces her
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eyes away from the clock. She returns her gaze to the bundle, her
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rocking and patting resume. She remembers a song her mother used
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to sing to her. "Hush little baby, don't say a word...mama's gonna buy
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you a mocking bird." The tones of the song sound obtrusive in the
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silent room. "And if that mocking bird don't sing...mama's gonna buy
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you a diamond ring..." The baby has stopped sucking, and is nestled
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closely against Marisa's breast, sleeping. She can feel the faint breath
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against her skin.
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This is it, they say.
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They all said there was something not quite right about Marisa
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Collins. No one could say for sure what it was, it was just something.
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A delayed reply to the simple question, "How are you?" The odd
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feeling they got when she touched them on the arm or the hand, like
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she couldn't feel them at all. The vacant and faraway look that often
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came into her dark eyes so that they assumed she was in another place.
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But just as they concluded she wasn't paying attention, she would say
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something intelligent and appropriate, showing she'd been listening all
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the while. It was odd, was ultimately all they could figure. And since
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the birth of the baby, it had become more so. On the surface, she
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seemed normal enough. Her figure had miraculously returned to its
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original, slim state, and she was put together immaculately, the picture
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of elegance. She remained active, doing all the things she'd done
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before, only with a baby attached to her hip. Charity board meetings,
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socialite lunches, weekly restorations at the health spa, the same
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routine as before. Maybe that was what was so weird. If it weren't for
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the tiny bundle infinitely attached by the baby-backpack, no one would
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guess Marisa had recently become a mother at all.
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The pink and white tent is a lone peak on a flat horizon. The
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surrounding fields are brown and full of weeds and parked cars.
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Clumps of two, three, and four people filter towards the tent's single
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opening, and among them is the happy family. The husband has his
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arm protectively around his wife, who in turn has a small child
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attached to her chest. They leave the dim twilight of the dry field for
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the light and activity that welcomes them past the opening of the tent.
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The noise is the first thing Marisa notices. Outside, the voices
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and car engines were unobtrusive, diluted by the open space and air.
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Inside is a mess of sound. Babies crying, people shouting, elephants
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roaring, music playing somewhere. Nothing is intelligible. Steven says
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something to her, she sees his mouth moving, but she can't understand
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him. The elephant roars again; she wants to cover her ears but
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remembers she's holding the baby.
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She tries to isolate the sounds and place them with the faces
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she sees. The usher in the striped uniform, the little boy tugging on his
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mother's sleeve, the crowding and pushing of hurried spectators.
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"Next please, next please. This way please, up these stairs please."
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"Mommy is there going to be a tightrope?" "Ouch!" "Oh, pardon me,
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didn't see you there, ma'am." "Daddy said we could have cotton
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candy." "Next please, next please. Put your ticket stub right here,
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please." "Where are our seats?" "Did you get the cotton candy?"
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"Seats 135 A and B. That's up pretty high." "Please stop whining and
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I'll get it for you." "Do you see the size of that elephant?" "Okay, you
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need to stop whining now." "Ouch! Watch where you're going,
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please." "Stop whining! Now!"
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Marisa sweats, feels the heat of over-occupancy, the heat of
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suffocation. She doesn't take Steven's hand, but follows him up out of
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the thick of the voices. Their seats are high, because that's what
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Steven prefers. "You can look down and see everything this way," he
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says. "Your view isn't obstructed by one large elephant, or one
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overanxious clown." He's been watching her, has seen her discomfort.
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"Do you want me to take the baby?"
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"No."
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It's time for the show to begin, announces the egregious master
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of ceremonies. He is an enormous man with a full black beard and a
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top hat. How did he get so big, Marisa wonders. She imagines the
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thick, flabby flesh under the obnoxious pink and red costume. It must
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feel like dough, like the sticky, pasty dough she makes. She's sure it
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looks that way too. Yellowish, clumpy, uneven. She can't pity him,
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though. People like him got that way somehow. But she does hope
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he has a wife. Someone as large as he is who doesn't care what he
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looks and feels like. She places her free hand on her own stomach.
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The skin is still loose from the pregnancy and feels cold as it fills in the
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gaps between her fingers. She pinches it, embeds her fingernails until
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she breaks the surface and feels a small wet drop. Suddenly, there is
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darkness. Complete and total blackness, so that Marisa cannot even
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see her hands, cannot see the child resting on her breast. An excited
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murmur fills the crowd of people, and grows louder with every second
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of continuing darkness. And then the spotlight flips on, quickly,
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shocking the black with its insistent brightness. It is focused high on a
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wooden platform that holds a small girl. She is wearing pink tights, a
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pink dress, pink slippers. Her thick red hair is pulled back, fastened
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with ribbons. Orange freckles cover her cheeks. Maybe she's six,
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maybe she's twelve, it's hard for Marisa to say.
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Because they are so high, they are almost even with the girl,
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and Marisa stares intently at the vision in pink, perched alone on the
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solitary platform. The girl curtseys, and a small wooden bar swings
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her way, attached by wire string to the roof of the tent. Her small,
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freckled hands grip the wood, and her small pink body leaves the
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lonely platform. She swings through the air, her tiny body is
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weightless and free. Marisa's eyes close, but she can still see the little
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girl. Spinning, twirling, flying. Then Marisa sees her own hair tied
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back in ribbons, her own feet covered by the delicate slippers. Maybe
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she's six, maybe she's twelve. She sits on the wooden bar and holds
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the string in her hands, her own giant swing set, her own body flying
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back and forth.
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A few days later Marisa is driving to the health spa. She hardly
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slept. The child cried all night and the ceiling fan was so loud. She
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needs to have Steven fix it. Take it down, maybe. Or maybe she'll do
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it herself. Her eyes feel the burn of her sleep deprivation. They're
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probably red, she knows. She looks at her reflection in the rear view
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mirror and is caught there. Her hair is all over the place, frizzy and
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uncontrolled. Her eyes are swollen, the pupils large, the veins spastic
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against the surrounding white. They reach everywhere, these veins in
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her eyes. They have their own road map, their own chaotic order.
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She glances away in time to notice she's run through a red light. She
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turns on the radio.
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A classical music station plays. The song is nice, makes her
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feel calm. It's mainly flutes, but then some horns join in. And then
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some more horns. And then some more. She can't hear the melody
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anymore, it's just noise and it's so loud. She hits the power button, but
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still the lights are on, and music blares. "Stop it!" The instruments
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grow louder and louder and her ears ring. The sound from the
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speakers overtakes the car, she shakes from the noise. "Stop it!" She
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drives faster. She needs to get to the health spa and turn off the car.
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Two more blocks. Her hands clutch the steering wheel, her eyes focus
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on the blacktop ahead of her. One more block.
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She turns the car roughly into the lot, throws it in park and
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falls out of the drivers' seat. She tries to run across the parking lot, but
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her legs won't carry her that quickly and her ears still ring from the
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noise. Slow down, she tells herself. It's okay. It's going to be fine.
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By the time she enters the lobby, she is calmer. She smiles at
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the receptionist.
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"It's nice to see you, Mrs. Collins," says the woman behind the
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desk. "Sandy's almost ready for you, just have a seat and relax."
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Marisa does as she's told. She allows her weight to drop in the soft
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couch, closes her eyes and appreciates the silence.
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"Mrs. Collins? There's a phone call for you. It's your
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husband." Marisa raises her head sleepily from the table, the masseuse
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ceases kneading. Her muscles are loose and languid as she approaches
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the phone.
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"Hello? Steven?"
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"Oh, thank God! When you didn't show up at your mother's,
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we were so worried. I told her it was fine. I said you probably just
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took the baby in with you. You should have called your mother,
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though. She's been panicking like only she can. Marisa?" There is
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no reply. The phone is hanging where she dropped it, swinging back
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and forth, Steve's voice lost on the empty room.
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The baby would have died if it hadn't been for the hot dog
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vendor, they all said. He was the one who saw it in the car and called
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the police. It was ninety degrees outside, around one hundred and ten
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degrees in the car with the window shut. No window was cracked, no
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air was circulating. They all understood. There's a lot to think
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about, a lot of details and sometimes it's easy to forget. Sometimes
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you leave for a specific destination, and drive for an hour because
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you've forgotten where you're going. Such things happened to the
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best of them. And if the baby was asleep in the back, quiet as a mouse
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and hidden by the seat, it was even more feasible. Tragic, but feasible.
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No, not a single person doubted, at least openly, that it was an
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accident.
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She is stone throughout the questioning. She sits erect, spine
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straight and seemingly unbendable, head held high. For a brief
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moment, her eyes meet Steven's as he sits across from her at the police
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station. He is searching her.
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The man from social services chews his pen. Marisa wonders
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what will happen when he chews through the plastic, and all the ink
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gushes into his mouth. The thick goop will cover his lips. It'll drip
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down onto his chin and cover that row of swollen red pimples.
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Marisa runs her hand over her face, feels her eyebrows,
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eyelashes, lips. She opens her eyes and looks at Steven. He's still
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searching. She folds her hands together on her lap. She is stone again.
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They won't give the child back right away, and she can tell
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Steven is upset with her. He looks at her funny the whole way home.
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Every stoplight he looks away from the road and stares at her. But he
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doesn't say anything. He just looks and looks. He cooks dinner while
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she lies on the couch. She smiles as she inhales the spicy aroma. She's
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starved.
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"Smells delicious, Steven," she says. "You know, the
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masseuse did a great job today. I still feel relaxed. Like jelly. You
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should really get one sometime. They do wonders." He doesn't
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respond to her. She hates it when he's upset with her. "How was
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work today, darling? Did anything happen with that case you're
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working on?" He still doesn't say anything, but comes around to sit in
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the chair across from her. He looks at her in such a funny way.
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Later that night, she can't sleep. The fan is quiet, it's not that.
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She just can't sleep. She walks to the living room and sits in the
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rocking chair. She's pleased with the way her white cotton nightgown
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looks against the dark wood. Like a princess. She rocks back and
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forth, and feels her feet leave the ground, touch the ground, leave the
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ground. The chair is old, but she loves the noises it makes. Creaking
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each time she rocks back and groaning each time she rocks front. She
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smiles and closes her eyes. Soon, the chair's gentle rocking soothes
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her to sleep.
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========================================================================
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NEGOTIATIONS
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by William Ramsay
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(Note: this is chapter 18 of the novel "Ay, Chucho!")
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The Torres bohio was a modern variant on a Cuban peasant hut
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-- adobe walls, glass in the windows, a television antenna, but with the
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roof thatched with palm fronds in a style that was already old when
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Columbus passed through the nearby Bay of Nipe in 1492. The old
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woman lived apart from her neighbors, up a dirt road off the highway.
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Pierre, two of the others -- Sisi and Ernesto - - and I arrived in our
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1958 Ford pickup truck with its GM hood and Chrysler engine just as
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the sun was going down. As we got down, I asked Pierre, "Now we
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aren't going to hurt the old lady, are we?"
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He laughed. "Anarchism does not war on the innocent -- and
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neither does a gentleman, Comrade."
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Neither disclaimer made me feel much better about this whole
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affair.
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As we walked up the muddy path overgrown with long grass, the
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gray door patched with mismatched planks opened and a dark face
|
|
appeared. She had almost coal-black cheeks riddled with scar-like
|
|
lines, but dark eyes as brilliant as Aldebaran on a cloudless night.
|
|
Pierre eased his full waistline through the narrow door, seizing the
|
|
woman's knobby, curled-up fingers to shake her hand, bobbing his
|
|
head up and down as he talked about the documentary film that, he
|
|
said, he and I were going to do on Fidel Castro. As he pointed at me,
|
|
she stared.
|
|
"Ah," she said, "do you know the Comandante?"
|
|
I admitted that I did.
|
|
She smiled, closing her eyes for a moment. "Cuba is not what it
|
|
used to be." She glanced at the color print of the Virgin on the wall.
|
|
There was a framed, yellowed elementary school diploma beside it.
|
|
"Like when you worked for the Castro family over near Biran?"
|
|
said Pierre.
|
|
She frowned. "Yes," she said, "back in the thirties and forties."
|
|
Pierre walked over to the wall behind Senora Torres and stood
|
|
looking at a picture of St. Barbara at her martyrdom. As I continued
|
|
talking with the woman, he removed first a handkerchief and then a
|
|
bottle of chloroform from the sack-like pockets of the khaki shirt that
|
|
ballooned like a half-collapsed tent over his torso.
|
|
"Does he visit here often?"
|
|
"Yes, every year." Pierre, mouth pursed, concentrating,
|
|
approached her stealthily from the rear.
|
|
"Does he still come down?"
|
|
"He comes down to hunt sometimes. Doves."
|
|
I'd never heard of Fidel hunting. Pierre was juggling the
|
|
chloroform bottle. She smiled. "He stays at the old cabin near the
|
|
junction to Biran. Then he sometimes drops by here to say hello."
|
|
"Oh?" I said. Pierre's hands were just below her neck now. It
|
|
was like watching a bear looming over a fox terrier.
|
|
She nodded. "Sometimes he brings his wife too."
|
|
"His wife!" shouted Pierre.
|
|
"Fidel married?" I said.
|
|
The dark eyes stared at me as if they were trying to understand
|
|
an obscure joke. "Not Fidel, how silly -- Raul, of course."
|
|
"Raul!" said Pierre, dropping his hands and coming around and
|
|
facing her, pouting like Sydney Greenstreet in the "Maltese Falcon."
|
|
"Doesn't Fidel ever visit you here?" He was standing with the
|
|
chloroform bottle in plain sight.
|
|
She stared at the bottle. "Fidel hasn't been down since Delia
|
|
died."
|
|
Pierre's hands dropped and he began to pace back and forth. He
|
|
was speechless for a change, and I asked the questions. It turned out
|
|
that we were not talking to Delia Torres, but to her sister Sofia. Delia
|
|
had been the nanny for Ramon and the older children, including Fidel
|
|
-- but then she had retired and Sofia had taken over for Raul and for
|
|
the younger sisters. Poor Delia, she had died just last month, kidney
|
|
failure. I looked at Pierre, he looked at me.
|
|
"And this film that you're making, are the Comandante and his
|
|
family going to be in it?"
|
|
"No, well yes, I suppose," I said. I was having trouble
|
|
concentrating.
|
|
"That may be difficult," said Pierre in a chilly voice. "They're all
|
|
so busy."
|
|
Her eyes lit up. "Raul is so close, it seems a shame."
|
|
"Raul Castro is here now?" said Pierre.
|
|
"Oh no."
|
|
"No?"
|
|
"Not here. At the old hunting cabin, with just a few of his staff.
|
|
He was over yesterday -- brought me a Polish ham. Poor baby, he
|
|
works so hard."
|
|
So that's how our scheme came to center on, not
|
|
Fidel Castro, but his brother Raul, Defense Minister, Army General,
|
|
avid aviator, and Chief of Staff of the Fuerza Aerea Revolucionaria.
|
|
At the hunting cabin, we found one bodyguard in the kitchen,
|
|
cooking. Pierre nodded at me and handed me the chloroform. I
|
|
looked at it as if it would bite me. Then he and Sisi grabbed the
|
|
bodyguard, Pierre said "Now! Chucho," and, hands shaking, I
|
|
wrestled the chloroformed pad onto the man's face as his head
|
|
twitched and bobbed in Sisi's armlock. We tied up in two bathrobe
|
|
belts and locked him in a closet. Pierre caught the other bodyguard
|
|
napping in a rocking chair, Sisi cold-cocked him and left him tied up
|
|
and stashed in an old sugarcane storage shed. Ernesto chloroformed
|
|
Raul from behind as he was writing a letter at an old pine table. I held
|
|
his head as we carried him back with us to the trailhead for our camp
|
|
in the Cristal. He was even slighter than he appeared on speaker's
|
|
platforms next to his large brother -- his anesthetized face looked
|
|
calm and serious, his wispy mustache looked like a woman's eyebrow.
|
|
From the trailhead, Sisi and Ernesto and I carried Raul the rest of the
|
|
way in a stretcher while Pierre went to Mayari to call Jerry in Alamar
|
|
to relay our ransom demands.
|
|
We settled down to wait.
|
|
Settled down with a hopping-mad Raul Castro. His small,
|
|
dimpled chin waggling, he cursed us in Spanish, English, and the
|
|
French that they say he had learned from Che Guevara. Struggling
|
|
with his tied wrists to get to his feet, he worked his head around,
|
|
bucking like a buzzsaw, and spit at Pierre. Pierre wiped the tiny
|
|
speck of spittle from his shirt, picked up a piece of old tire, and
|
|
brandished it in Raul's face. Raul growled. Pierre gave him a light
|
|
bop. Raul looked at him, said "Shit," and plunked himself down
|
|
again, collapsing on the ground. The evening was misty and the line
|
|
of the Bay of Nipe was invisible. Raul spit out something in French.
|
|
"Not 'worms,' Comrade. We fight for true liberty," said Pierre
|
|
also in French -- as he told me later, I don't know the language. Then,
|
|
changing back to Spanish: "The freedom not to be dominated by
|
|
capitalism or communism -- or anything else in between."
|
|
"The paredon for you," said Raul, straining against the bonds on
|
|
his wrist and making a pained face. Despite his slight physique, his
|
|
energy made him appear less wimpy in person than on TV.
|
|
"The sole real contribution of the famous Cuban Revolution to
|
|
our vocabulary," said Pierre. "The wall where the Revolution's
|
|
children go to be devoured."
|
|
Raul smiled as if he were enjoying sucking on a lemon. "You
|
|
won't get out of this one alive, fatty."
|
|
"If we don't, neither do you," said Pierre. And I for one had no
|
|
doubt that Pierre meant what he said. At that point we heard the
|
|
sounds of a helicopter and took cover under the trees, one of the men
|
|
dragging a protesting Raul after him. The helicopter passed us, more
|
|
than a mile away. But later that night, when everybody else was
|
|
asleep, I asked Pierre about what we would do if worse came to
|
|
worse.
|
|
"Fidel knows me," he said. "When I fought against him in the
|
|
Sierra Escambray, I was just a kid, fourteen. If I'd been older, they
|
|
would have shot me along with Morgan."
|
|
"You went to jail?"
|
|
"Yes, on the Isle of Pines. Re-educated." He snorted. "Fidel
|
|
talked once to us prisoners. I warned him not to let me go, that I'd
|
|
destroy him if I got the chance." Pierre frowned. "I wonder if he
|
|
remembers."
|
|
"He couldn't have taken you seriously."
|
|
"He was too busy worrying about the Playa Giron prisoners to
|
|
pay much attention to wild kids like me." He looked down at himself.
|
|
"I was awfully skinny in those days -- a tall stick, that's what I was, a
|
|
regular stick." We had a very small fire, its blaze shielded by a screen
|
|
of pine fronds to prevent giving away our position. "If Fidel
|
|
remembers, that's good."
|
|
"Why?"
|
|
"He won't want to leave his brother and successor in my hands."
|
|
Pierre's eyes shone with a peaceful but menacing glow, the spirit of
|
|
Nechaev contemplating an act of revolutionary terror. I knew that I
|
|
would do anything to avoid being the prisoner of someone with those
|
|
eyes.
|
|
There were more trips, first down to a phone in Moa. Pierre
|
|
came back from that one looking kind of sour, but later, sitting
|
|
around the glowing stubs of pine logs left from the dinner fire,
|
|
knocking off his second tot of rum, he smiled and told me that they
|
|
were coming around. The next day he went down early in the
|
|
morning to use another phone at Sagua de Tamano and came back at
|
|
midday with a look like Kropotkin's after his daily tin plate full of
|
|
condensed milk. Fidel had decided that the Revueltoses and fifty k
|
|
weren't worth taking a chance on his little brother's life. He was
|
|
willing to exchange -- my father and mother and Pillo for his brother.
|
|
I couldn't believe that the whole nightmare might be beginning to
|
|
dissipate. Suddenly it was like the thinning of a mist -- like one of the
|
|
pea- soup fogs that sock in the Fort Lauderdale Airport some winter
|
|
mornings, just when it's my turn to take the Cessna up. At first you
|
|
hardly see any change, you think you're imagining that the grayness is
|
|
becoming brighter, then abruptly you can clearly see the base of a
|
|
hangar that was only a fuzzy shadow before. And so on, until the
|
|
mist is like a shredded spider web being pulled apart by some gigantic
|
|
bug.
|
|
My parents out of Cuba. With Pillo part of the package. And
|
|
with access to the safety deposit box in New York -- the end of my
|
|
troubles with Mr. Gomez, with the wholesalers, with the Internal
|
|
Revenue Service.
|
|
And me out of Cuba too. That was one of the conditions Pierre
|
|
had attached, a safe-conduct for himself and me. Jerry had gotten
|
|
word to us that Eddy hadn't been arrested, and I considered including
|
|
him in the deal, but I thought better of even mentioning his name --
|
|
after all, he did have a family in Cuba.
|
|
Now we had to worry about arranging the details. First of all, we
|
|
needed someone, not in Cuba, to negotiate for us. Pierre had friends
|
|
in San Salvador, others in the States. But our best bet was to let
|
|
Amelia find a reliable agent to handle the on-site negotiations for our
|
|
side.
|
|
And a place. Obviously not in Cuba. I mean, logistically it
|
|
would be easiest to get it done right there -- but we needed to be sure
|
|
we would be able to get away afterward. I went into Mayari to the
|
|
post office and talked to Amelia about it on the phone.
|
|
"We need an idea," I said. "I can't talk long." I had spotted an
|
|
old woman with a CDR armband and the beginnings of a fine
|
|
mustache leaning against a wall, talking with two other women.
|
|
"I'm only doing this for Elena. Understand that, Mr. Revueltos."
|
|
"You don't understand, Amelia, how it was with Valeska."
|
|
"I'll talk to this Pineda."
|
|
"I'm really sorry. It wasn't what you think."
|
|
"Maybe the U.N. in New York -- or Mexico City or Caracas
|
|
would be more neutral."
|
|
I couldn't stand the chilliness in her voice. "Come on, Amelia."
|
|
"You'll be informed." A pause, the line crackled. "And you're
|
|
still a shit, Chucho."
|
|
The click in my ear felt like the blade of a guillotine clunking into
|
|
the block.
|
|
The next afternoon, during siesta, I was waked up suddenly by
|
|
somebody shaking me. Pierre said, "Come on, we have company."
|
|
The camp had been moved again, a few kilometers along to the
|
|
next ridge, and only pieces of the sky could be seen through the jungle
|
|
of pine trees. A man was standing by the Coleman stove. He turned,
|
|
and it was Mr. Marcus, dressed in a stained long-sleeved yellow shirt
|
|
and blue trousers and wearing an Australian-style hat with one brim
|
|
turned back. Half of his shirt tail, streaked with grime, hung down in
|
|
back. Some things didn't change.
|
|
"Mr. Marcus," I said.
|
|
He looked around at the two or three men nearby and made a
|
|
face like a sad chimpanzee. He wiggled his head, shifted his eyes and
|
|
walked with a faintly prancing gait, like an arrogant orangutan, over
|
|
to the two boards that marked our makeshift privy. Pierre followed
|
|
him and I followed Pierre. Marcus peered into the hole between the
|
|
boards as if looking for communist agents. "It has to be El Salvador,"
|
|
he said.
|
|
"El Salvador!" I said.
|
|
"In FMLN-controlled territory."
|
|
"Ridiculous, isn't it?" said Pierre to me.
|
|
Marcus smiled, showing lots of teeth -- I had decided they were
|
|
dentures. "Don't worry, they won't get around us. We'll have them
|
|
covered. Government forces nearby. Helicopters at the ready,
|
|
everything, we'll give it to them right up the ass if they try to pull
|
|
anything."
|
|
Pierre nodded. "This deal isn't our idea, the Cubans wouldn't
|
|
listen to us -- and they insist on negotiating directly with your agent."
|
|
"Our agent? Who?"
|
|
"Amelia Santos," said Mr. Marcus.
|
|
Pierre nodded forcefully. "They trust her -- as much as they trust
|
|
any gusano."
|
|
Amelia. The sunlight scattering through a wisp on clouds to the
|
|
southwest over the Sierra Maestra reminded me of Florida and the
|
|
beach at Boca Raton. And Amelia in her cherry-colored bathing suit.
|
|
Marcus made a face. "She's got balls, that one. We demanded
|
|
neutral territory, the Cubans insisted on somewhere in-country, and
|
|
she came up with the compromise."
|
|
Pierre pulled on a twig of pine needles. I could smell the resinous
|
|
odor of the needles mixed in with the stink of the privy. As Marcus
|
|
went on to explain the details, Pierre made a face at me. He might
|
|
well grimace. It all sounded dangerously complicated. My father and
|
|
mother -- and Pillo -- would be delivered to the rendezvous in one
|
|
plane, and Raul Castro in another. The exchange would be effected
|
|
under a temporary truce between the government and FMLN forces in
|
|
the area near Sosuntepeque, in the northeast part of the El Salvador.
|
|
Amelia would represent us, the Cubans would supply an FMLN cadre
|
|
as their agent.
|
|
"And with this location," said Marcus, our side doesn't have to
|
|
worry about Raul's getting away without delivering the goods."
|
|
I tried to think of my parents as "goods." "We," said Marcus,
|
|
"can bomb the hell out of the area and put five thousand men in to
|
|
find Raul if he tries to escape." He tapped his fingers together, as if
|
|
he were sitting in a conference room in Washington. "Of course we
|
|
all would rather get this done without bloodshed." Pierre looked
|
|
slightly disappointed on hearing the phrase "without bloodshed."
|
|
Raul would be taken out of Cuba on a small plane -- supplied by
|
|
Marcus - - with Pierre along with an automatic weapon to discourage
|
|
recapture attempts by the government. Airspace clearance would be
|
|
arranged with Havana and with Honduras and El Salvador.
|
|
"As for you," said Marcus pointing at me, "the Cubans will look
|
|
the other way as 'Felipe Elizalde' flies to El Salvador to arrange things
|
|
with the FMLN contact there. Your agent should be there in San
|
|
Salvador soon, maybe she's there already. She'll make contact with
|
|
the FMLN agent."
|
|
It felt good to think of Amelia in there, doing her thing,
|
|
organizing this tricky exchange plan. She was a good woman to have
|
|
on your side -- even if she still did think that I was a shit. "But who's
|
|
the FMLN agent?" I said.
|
|
"Oh," said Marcus, "Fidel told your agent he knew just the
|
|
person." Marcus smiled at me as if he had caught me cheating at
|
|
cards. "An old friend of yours -- Dr. Josefa Sanchez-Schulz."
|
|
=================================================================
|
|
|
|
OH?
|
|
|
|
by Otho Eskin
|
|
|
|
(This is the second part of the comedy "Shell Game")
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHARACTERS:
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL A 70-year old bellhop.
|
|
|
|
HENRY YURT A professional thief and con man who likes to dress
|
|
as a woman. As a man, Henry is thoroughly masculine. As a
|
|
woman (Heidi)YURT is feminine and attractive and obsessed
|
|
with clothes, shopping and make-up.
|
|
|
|
HORATIO TREADWELL. A swinish US Senator.
|
|
|
|
CORLISS SHAW. Treadwell's submissive and abused special
|
|
assistant. Corliss is a closet gay.
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA BIRDSONG A beautiful, very sweet, blond, somewhat
|
|
dim, chorus girl - in her early twenties. Her appearance and her
|
|
wardrobe strangely resembles Heidi's.
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM McKOOL Head of a large crime syndicate.
|
|
|
|
CYBIL Senator Treadwell's wife.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
PLACE
|
|
|
|
Two adjoining suites at Shangri La-West, a very exclusive, very
|
|
expensive resort.
|
|
|
|
TIME
|
|
|
|
The present
|
|
|
|
ACT 1 (continued)
|
|
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
You're certainly fortunate to get this room without a reservation, Mr.
|
|
McKool. The Empress Suite is usually reserved months in advance.
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
Make me happy, Pops. Shut up!
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
Yes, sir.
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
(To HIRSCHEL)
|
|
Put my luggage in the bedroom.
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
Yes, sir.
|
|
|
|
(HIRSCHEL takes the luggage into the bedroom. In the
|
|
Honeymoon Suite TREADWELL picks up the phone.)
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Room service! I want a chilled bottle of Champagne sent to my room.
|
|
Immediately. Make that two bottles. And a bag of your best quality
|
|
tortilla chips.
|
|
|
|
(TREADWELL hangs up. In the Empress Suite,
|
|
HIRSCHEL returns and heads for the front door.)
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
(To HIRSCHEL)
|
|
Correct me if I'm wrong but I don't recall saying you could leave.
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
Yes, sir. No, sir.
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
First I want you should inform my colleagues who are staying in
|
|
rooms 709 and 711 that I have arrived and they should stay where they
|
|
are until they hear from me.
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
Yes, sir.
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
Two I'm looking for a young lady. Name of Birdsong. Zenobia
|
|
Birdsong. Ever heard of her?
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
I..I'm.. not sure...
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
Think harder, boy. She's blond. Used to work in my club in Vegas.
|
|
Left a couple of days ago. Unnerstand what I mean? She come here
|
|
looking for a job. I am eager to talk with her. I want her here in this
|
|
suite in fifteen minutes.
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
What if I can't find her...?
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
Do you know who I am?
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
Yes, sir. You're Boom-Boom McKool. I've read about you many times
|
|
in the papers. Like when all those witnesses during the grand jury
|
|
investigation disappeared...
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
Then you know that I have many virtues, as my friends and associates
|
|
will attest. Unfortunately, patience is not one of them. Unnerstand my
|
|
meaning? You got fourteen minutes left. If she's not here by then, I
|
|
will personally break both your legs.
|
|
|
|
HIRSCHEL
|
|
Both?
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
You got a problem with that?
|
|
|
|
(HIRSCHEL hurries out the door. BOOM-BOOM dials
|
|
the phone)
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
Smitty! I just checked in at Shangri-La. What you got for me?
|
|
|
|
(As BOOM-BOOM is speaking, YURT slips from behind
|
|
the curtains and tiptoes toward the cosmetics case, which
|
|
lies just outside BOOM-BOOM's line of sight. BOOM-
|
|
BOOM's back is to YURT.)
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
(On the phone)
|
|
Who? You say Henry Yurt? that piece of despicable shit.
|
|
|
|
(YURT freezes.)
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
Sure I know him...A gonif. Used to be a jewel thief around Atlantic
|
|
City way back when. The one likes to dress up like a girl? Seen him
|
|
around the clubs in Vegas. Been working at the Kitty-Kat Room as a
|
|
bartender last couple months. My club! Tony used to go there.
|
|
Probably was mouthing off about the delivery and this prick overheard
|
|
him. This person was one of my employees! One of my own people!
|
|
And he took my money? Correct me if I'm wrong but isn't it company
|
|
policy, any employee makes off with corporate funds, he ends up at
|
|
the bottom of the river in cement Reeboks?
|
|
|
|
(BOOM-BOOM is becoming increasingly agitated. YURT
|
|
silently retraces his steps toward the balcony.)
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
(Continued)
|
|
What's that?... The wise guys from Jersey already know about Yurt?
|
|
... They think I put him up to this? ...Make me happy. Have the boys
|
|
locate this miscreant and get the money back.... I would like to hear
|
|
that his body has been found in the desert of Southern California. And
|
|
Nevada. And New Mexico. Have I made myself clear? ... And be sure
|
|
you first cancel his medical benefits.
|
|
|
|
|
|
(BOOM-BOOM slams down the phone and goes into the
|
|
bedroom. In the Honeymoon Suite, there is a knock at the
|
|
door and CORLISS and ZENOBIA enter. ZENOBIA
|
|
carries the cosmetics case.)
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
(To TREADWELL)
|
|
Sir, this is Miss Zenobia Birdsong.
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Come in and make yourself comfortable, honey. Have a drink.
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
No thank you. I'm on duty. I have an audition this afternoon.
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
(Solicitously)
|
|
Perhaps a glass of milk, Miss Birdsong? Some fruit juice?
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
Thank you very...
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Beat it, Shaw!
|
|
|
|
(CORLISS shows extreme reluctance to leave ZENOBIA
|
|
alone with TREADWELL.)
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
Perhaps it might be better if I stayed. You recall what happened last
|
|
time. The trouble with the State Attorney General because of that
|
|
unfortunate incident at the Convent of the Sisters of the Sacred...
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Miss Birdsong and I want to be alone. Right, sweetie? Now get out of
|
|
here!
|
|
|
|
(CORLISS hesitates)
|
|
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
You hear me? Get outta here! (To ZENOBIA) You have any idea
|
|
how hard it is to get good help these days? (To CORLISS) Beat it,
|
|
birdbrain!
|
|
|
|
CORLISS
|
|
Yes, sir.
|
|
|
|
(CORLISS reluctantly exits.)
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Nothing to drink? We need to create a mood here. Perhaps I can find
|
|
something suitable on TV. Let's hope they have modern, made-for-
|
|
video material. I hate those old elitist films where people sometimes
|
|
had clothes on.
|
|
|
|
(TREADWELL examines the channel listings on the hotel
|
|
TV guide.)
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
(Squinting)
|
|
Have we met?
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
In Las Vegas, last week. What about "Road House Harlots"? No?
|
|
"Jurassic Hussies"?
|
|
|
|
(ZENOBIA puts down the cosmetics case, takes a pair of
|
|
glasses from her purse, puts them on and squints again at
|
|
TREADWELL. While this is going on, YURT, in the
|
|
Empress Suite, carefully steps out from behind the curtains
|
|
and moves stealthily toward the cosmetics case.)
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
I remember you...
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
What about "The Bitches of Madison County"?
|
|
|
|
(YURT has almost reached the cosmetics case.)
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
(From the bedroom)
|
|
What the hell!
|
|
|
|
(YURT freezes.)
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
You suggested something improper last week at the Ding-A-Ling
|
|
Club.
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
You must have misconstrued my actions.
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
I don't think so.
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Sit down. We won't be disturbed..
|
|
|
|
(YURT moves cautiously toward the cosmetics case. There
|
|
is a sound from the bedroom and YURT rushes to hide
|
|
again behind the curtains just as BOOM-BOOM enters and
|
|
goes to the phone.)
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
I told you last week in Las Vegas, I'm not that kind of girl.
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Yeah, right.
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
I'm an artist.
|
|
|
|
(TREADWELL tries to press a drink into ZENOBIA's hand.
|
|
SHE puts it down.)
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Whatever. Just relax, honey.
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
I got to go now. I can't be late for my audition. It's my big chance.
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
(On the phone)
|
|
Hello! Front desk?
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
I'll tell you something in confidence, girlie. I'm very tight with the
|
|
management here. We're like that.
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
Really?
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
If you want, I could put in a good word for you.
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
You'd do that for me?
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
This is Mr. McKool in the Empress Suite. ...Somethin's fishy here.
|
|
There are clothes in my closet. Girl clothes.
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Why don't you show me your audition piece? I'm a great judge of
|
|
talent.
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
(Doubtfully)
|
|
I don't know.
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Maybe some strip action.
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
Oh no! I tap dance
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
Don't tell me that's impossible! My closet's full some broad's clothes.
|
|
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
(Disappointed)
|
|
Well, let's see what you can do.
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
You sure you wouldn't mind?
|
|
|
|
(TREADWELL relaxes on the couch, glass in hand.)
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
You send that old geezer up here and get rid of these things.
|
|
Unnerstand?
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Go right ahead, Honey. Show me what you got.
|
|
|
|
(BOOM-BOOM returns to the bedroom. ZENOBIA places
|
|
her cosmetics case on the floor, strikes a pose and does a
|
|
brief tap dance number very badly. TREADWELL
|
|
interrupts, clapping loudly.)
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Terrific, Honey! Really terrific! (Pats the sofa next to him.) Come on
|
|
over here and sit down. Relax.
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
I told you before, I think you're a disgusting, sex-crazed brute.
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
I can live with that.
|
|
|
|
(YURT cautiously puts his head out from behind the
|
|
curtain and surveys the scene.)
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
I've got to get to the audition. This is my chance of a lifetime.
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Miss Birdsong, I don't think you quite realize just who I am. I'm a
|
|
member of the most august and revered body on earth.
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
You're a member of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir?
|
|
|
|
(YURT cautiously moves toward the cosmetics case. There
|
|
is a loud banging on the door to the corridor outside of the
|
|
Honeymoon Suite.)
|
|
|
|
CYBIL
|
|
(From Off Stage)
|
|
Horatio! Open this door. It's Cybil. Open this door at once!
|
|
|
|
(TREADWELL leaps from the couch.)
|
|
|
|
CYBIL
|
|
(Continued)
|
|
Open this godamm door! Now!
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
What's going on?
|
|
|
|
CYBIL
|
|
I know you're in there, creep. Open this door!
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
Who's Cybil?
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
She's... she's.. my secretary.
|
|
|
|
CYBIL
|
|
I've got a gun and if you don't open the door at once I'll shoot my way
|
|
in.
|
|
|
|
(TREADWELL grabs ZENOBIA and pushes her
|
|
toward the common door between the two suites.)
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
Your secretary?
|
|
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
She's here to take dictation.
|
|
|
|
(YURT has reached the cosmetics case and is about to
|
|
pick it up.)
|
|
|
|
CYBIL
|
|
Open the door now or you're dead!
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
She must be very devoted to her work.
|
|
|
|
(TREADWELL unlocks the common door. YURT,
|
|
hearing the sound at the door rushes back to the
|
|
balcony. Just as YURT disappears behind the curtains,
|
|
TREADWELL pushes ZENOBIA out of the
|
|
Honeymoon Suite into the Empress Suite and slams the
|
|
common door shut, locking the door but leaving the
|
|
key in the lock. Zenobia's cosmetics case remains in the
|
|
Honeymoon Suite. Simultaneously, BOOM-BOOM
|
|
steps out of the bedroom and stops stunned to
|
|
see ZENOBIA standing in his living room. Surprised,
|
|
ZENOBIA lets out an astonished squeak.)
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
Eeek!
|
|
|
|
(The door to Honeymoon Suite leading to the corridor
|
|
bursts open and CYBIL rushes in, gun in hand. CYBIL
|
|
crouches, pointing the gun at TREADWELL.)
|
|
|
|
CYBIL
|
|
OK, dickhead, where is she?
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
Why, Cybil! What a pleasant surprise.
|
|
|
|
(CYBIL still crouching and holding the gun on
|
|
TREADWELL glances warily around the room.)
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
Why, ..eh .. Miss... Miss Birdsong. What are you doing here?
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
(Breathless)
|
|
I have no idea.
|
|
|
|
CYBIL
|
|
Save the sweet talk, Horatio. You're dead meat. Where is she?
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
(Innocently)
|
|
She? Who are you talking about she?
|
|
|
|
CYBIL
|
|
(Screaming)
|
|
The girl! The one you've been screwing.
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
(To BOOM-BOOM)
|
|
Who are you?
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
My name is McKool. Boom-Boom McKool. Maybe you heard of me?
|
|
|
|
|
|
(ZENOBIA shakes her head. She quickly takes off her
|
|
glasses and puts them into her purse.)
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
You gave me quite a fright. I almost swallowed my gum.
|
|
|
|
CYBIL
|
|
(Continued)
|
|
I've had it, Horatio. Twenty years you've been cheating on me. It's
|
|
time for revenge! Sweet revenge. Blood-soaked revenge!
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
You seem overwrought, Cybil. Bad flight coming out?
|
|
|
|
|
|
(CYBIL, still holding the gun on TREADWELL,
|
|
moves quickly around the suite, then goes into the
|
|
bedroom.)
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
We've never met but I know you very well.
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
You do?
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
I've seen you perform at the Ding-A-Ling Club. I go every night you're
|
|
on.
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
(Flattered)
|
|
Oh, really?
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
I'm a great admirer of yours, Miss Birdsong. I followed your career
|
|
ever since you arrived in Vegas.
|
|
|
|
(CYBIL returns and slumps into a chair.)
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
I told you there was no one here, Cybil. Now why don't you give me
|
|
that gun, like a good girl.
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
'Course I was only in the line and then only when one of the
|
|
regulars got sick.
|
|
|
|
(TREADWELL gingerly reaches for the gun. Hissing,
|
|
CYBIL pulls away and glares at TREADWELL with
|
|
fury. TREADWELL steps back, frightened.)
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
That's OK, Cybil. You can keep gun if it makes you happy.
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
You were terrific in the line, Miss Birdsong.
|
|
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
I don't know what could have made you think I was seeing someone
|
|
else, Cybil.
|
|
|
|
CYBIL
|
|
I've had a private detective following you. He tells me you were seen
|
|
in Las Vegas last week with some blonde named... named.. Zenobia.
|
|
Do you deny it?
|
|
|
|
ZENOBIA
|
|
Did you see me in the Beauty and the Beast Act?
|
|
|
|
BOOM-BOOM
|
|
It was one of the most moving experiences of my life.
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
It's all a misunderstanding. I was in Vegas on a fact-finding mission.
|
|
|
|
CYBIL
|
|
You told me you were here at Shangri La at a trade conference.
|
|
|
|
(TREADWELL begins to move slowly, cautiously, toward the
|
|
front door.)
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
I am. I am. There's an international conference on pickle quotas going
|
|
on right here at the hotel.
|
|
|
|
CYBIL
|
|
No one at the front desk knows anything about a pickle conference.
|
|
|
|
TREADWELL
|
|
It's very hush-hush. You know how international affairs are. (Looks at
|
|
his watch.) My goodness, would you look at the time. I'm late for the
|
|
brine committee.
|
|
|
|
(TREADWELL exits hurriedly. CYBIL resumes her search of
|
|
the suite.)
|
|
|
|
|
|
END OF PART TWO
|
|
|
|
======================================================================
|
|
======================================================================
|