Laura Cassidy’s Walk of Fame

by Alan McMonagle

  Gypsy Teresa motions Fleming to sit on the stool opposite her. Myself and Little Juan linger a ways off. Little Juan is curious, though, and he keeps tugging me closer.

  Minutes later Fleming returns, beaming as though all his best days have arrived in one swoop.

  ‘I’m going to be rich. I’m going to be famous. I’m going to be successful. She said I can go all the way – if that is what I decide to do. She said I have it within me to be a great man. Presidential. That’s the word she used.’

  ‘Did she say you could go to the moon?’ I ask, remembering a familiar conversation from the first time we met.

  ‘She didn’t say I could not go to the moon. Then I asked her does she read the palms of little boys. And so . . . little man . . . you’re up next. Come on, Laura. She said we could sit with him during the reading.’

  Juan is initially scared of the wrinkled woman and a little coaxing is necessary. As soon as he is ready to let her, she takes the little man’s hand, turns the palm upwards and starts to trace whatever line she seems drawn to. Little Juan is told he is going to be a sportsman and an entrepreneur. What sort of sportsman? Fleming wants to know and he is shushed. Little Juan is told he will see lots of places, break many hearts, that he must one day pay attention to a raven-haired girl named Carmela. ‘Do you hear that, little man? Watch out for the black beauty,’ Fleming says, and once again the gypsy woman hisses at him. Little Juan is told that, when the time is right, he will discover something important. Fleming nudges me, puts his mouth to my ear and wants to know do I think she is referring to Alonso. At which point Gypsy Teresa hisses a third time and starts speaking to Little Juan in Spanish.

  ‘Her turn,’ Fleming says when Little Juan is released, and points at me.

  ‘I’m not doing it,’ I say. ‘I know my future.’

  ‘Come on, we’ve all done it except you. Sit down and hear her out,’ says Fleming.

  Fleming hovers with little Juan. Gypsy Teresa makes no effort to begin, she even half-turns her back to me and folds her arms.

  ‘I think she wants us to pay now. I think she wants you to pay, Fleming,’ I say.

  Fleming does as he is bid and Gypsy Teresa relaxes again.

  ‘Now, clear off,’ I tell Fleming. ‘This is between me and Teresa here.’

  Fleming and Juan move off, and Gypsy Teresa takes my left hand. She regards it for a moment or two, shakes her head in bafflement, then takes my other hand. Again, she regards it for a moment or two, shakes her head. Then she takes both my hands together. Then she tells me she can see not one but two futures.

  ‘Would you like me to continue or stop?’ she says.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ I say before she says another word and I go look for my companions.

  A lollipop stand grabs Little Juan’s attention. A kaleidoscope of large, sugary discs presents itself, and the woman flogging them has come up with the brilliant idea of individualizing the lollipops with personality tags. Sour Puss. Drama Queen. Heartbreaker.

  There is a lengthy queue. Fleming offers to wait it out while the little fellow and myself sit at one of the bench tables near the lollipop stand. A woman with blueberry-streaked hair is sitting by herself, licking a Moody Blue. Little Juan points to her, whether at her despondent lollipop or her matching hairdo is hard to say.

  While Fleming queues I spot my favourite terrorist couple. This time, in addition to the Virginia Beach baseball caps, they are wearing matching Aran sweaters. They too have been bitten by the lollipop bug, though from where I am sitting, I cannot make out what theirs say. ‘Ah, so you found her,’ I am about to holler over at Mr Virginia Beach, but I have been further distracted by just about the last person I expected to see wandering through the circus grounds.

  Stephen Fallow.

  ‘Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute,’ I tell the little man, and I am out of the bench table and weaving my way through the various clusters of people in my eagerness to get to him.

  ‘Hello,’ I call out, making a grab for his shoulder. He is out of reach. ‘Stephen! Hello,’ I say, a little louder, just as he rounds a Punch and Judy stand. The same woman – Mia – is with him.

  I call out again. ‘Stephen! Stephen Fallow!’

  He half-pauses and looks back. I nudge people out of my way and give a little wave. He half-raises his own arm and turns away. ‘Hold on,’ I say, as he continues away from me.

  For the next couple of moments I lose sight of him. Then I spot him – them – moving away from circus stalls and heading towards the green area near the water’s edge where groups of youngsters sit around in circles, sharing bottles and cans. The scent of hash wafts through the air. Guitar music. My director and Mia continue towards the water, eventually pausing at the edge of the quay. I start towards them, just as my phone goes off, and, glancing down at it, I see Fleming’s name flash up. Then I feel myself catching someone’s legs and down I go.

  ‘Watch it,’ I hear someone say, a young lad, with tattoos where he should have hair and a helix of studs in either ear.

  ‘You watch it,’ I reply.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘Hey, yourself.’

  ‘OK, sister,’ he says. ‘Let’s start again.’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking.’

  ‘Live and let live.’

  ‘Not a bad philosophy.’

  I pick myself up off the ground. I turn to where I had last seen Stephen Fallow. There’s no sign of him. I follow the line of the quay, all the way as far as the Spanish Arch. Yes. There he is.

  My phone chimes through a couple of messages from Fleming.

  Where are ye?

  I’m standing here with three lollipops.

  I message back as I hurry along the quay.

  Just give him his lollipop. Back in five.

  Seconds later my phone goes off.

  ‘Fleming?’

  ‘Laura? Please say he’s with you. Because he is not here.’

  ‘He’s not with me.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Laura! Where are you?’

  ‘I spotted Stephen. I want to ask him about the audition.’

  ‘Jesus, Laura!’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m still at this bloody lollipop stand.’

  ‘Is he not there too? I left him at the bench. I told him to stay put. I was only going to be a minute.’

  ‘He’s four years old, Laura. Of course he’s not going to stay put.’

  ‘Aren’t you the expert?’

  ‘Laura! This is serious. We need to find him. Pronto.’

  ‘Well, he can’t have gotten too far. He must be there somewhere. Maybe he went back to the shooting gallery.’

  ‘Right. Meet me there in five minutes.’

  He hangs up. I look towards the Spanish Arch. Stephen and Mia are sitting on the nearby steps. As I start over towards them my phone goes again.

  ‘Fleming! I’m coming. OK.’

  ‘Laura?’

  Flip. It’s not Fleming. Flip.

  Flip. Feck. Flip. Feck. Feck.

  ‘Oh, hi Jennifer.’

  ‘Hi. Is everything OK?’

  ‘Sure, sure.’

  ‘You sound a bit flustered.’

  ‘No. No. I thought you were somebody else.’

  ‘How are you getting on with Juan?’

  ‘Great. We’re out at the circus. We’re having a grand time of it.’

  ‘The circus. Sounds great. Put him on for a sec, will you?’

  I hold the phone away from my face and wince. And now Fleming is trying to get through again. By the Arch, I see Stephen and Mia enjoy a long smooch.

  ‘He’s busy, Jennifer. Fleming is letting him have a go at the shooting gallery. Can I call you back in a few minutes?’

  ‘OK, but . . .’

  I hang up and connect Fleming.

  ‘Where are you!’

  ‘I’m on my way. Any sign of him?’

  ‘No, Laura! There isn’t. And I am getting very worried.’


  He hangs up. Stephen has managed to separate himself from Mia and has sauntered over to the edge of the quay. By now, I have reached the Arch, just as a busload of terrorists is descending upon it. I make a beeline for my director. He turns as I approach.

  ‘Hello, Stephen.’

  ‘Hello again . . . Laura.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you have any news? I still haven’t heard.’

  ‘Actually, I do have some news for you.’

  ‘Really? You do?’

  ‘I’m glad I bumped into you, Laura. I have something I want to say to you. A suggestion, if you like.’

  ‘A suggestion. About the part, you mean? About how to play Blanche?’

  This is it. I knew it. My heart is picking up speed. Wait ’til Fleming hears. Wait ’til mother and Jennifer hear. Wait ’til . . .

  ‘The way I see it – the way several of us see it, actually – is that you are – how shall I put it – a tad loud.’

  ‘Loud?’

  ‘A tad harsh even.’

  ‘Harsh?’

  ‘And I – all of us at Khaos – were wondering how you would feel about playing another part.’

  ‘Another part?’

  ‘Yes. We – that is to say, my colleagues and I – realize that – how shall I put it? – you have been away from the stage for a time. And perhaps now is not . . .’

  Oh, I get it. He wants me to play the sister. He wants me to play Stella.

  ‘Gosh, I don’t know. I had my sights set on the Blanche part. I’ve been going over the play with only that part in mind.’

  ‘Well, there are other parts . . . if you are willing to consider.’

  ‘I know, I know. You think it’s too soon for me to return as a leading lady. And if I am honest about it I suppose Stella isn’t quite the lame duck she is sometimes portrayed as.’

  ‘Actually, we’ve already cast the Stella part . . .’

  Fleming’s name flashes up on my phone again. I put it in my pocket.

  ‘But, now that I begin to think about it, I can see how I may be suited to the role of Stella. In so many ways it’s every bit as big a part as the other. Just as significant – in ways more significant, if regarded from a certain perspective.’

  ‘Laura! Did you hear what I just said? Stella has been cast.’

  ‘It goes without saying that it would be good to reclaim the play as a story of two sisters . . . And then there is that undercurrent at the end with Stella and Stanley . . . after what has happened to Blanche . . . you know, that suggestion of collusion between them . . . sinister, almost . . . Yes! Yes, I think I could be persuaded to go along with your suggestion. In time, I may even come to see it as an inspired call. I knew you were a good choice to direct. I knew it the moment . . .’

  ‘Laura! The part is Eunice.’

  ‘. . . I saw you . . . Eunice? Who is Eunice?’

  ‘The neighbour. She lives upstairs from Stella. It’s a small part I know, and I know you might think it’s not a part you’d . . .’

  ‘Eunice! You want me to play Eunice the neighbour from upstairs!’

  Some terrorists by the Arch turn around to look. Across the harbour, I see figures walking along Nimmo’s Pier and I wonder vaguely might Little Juan be one of them. Inside my pocket I can feel my phone vibrating. Stephen is talking again.

  ‘Take it or leave it, Laura. It’s all I have for you. And let me know soon, will you? There are others who would appreciate the opportunity.’

  ‘Tell you what. I’ll let you know right now, shall I? You can take Eunice the neighbour from upstairs and shove her where the sun doesn’t shine.’

  He walks away, towards the awaiting Mia, who has turned up again, bearing a pair of ice creams. I watch them walk off together, hand in hand, while a sizeable tour group drifts this way and gradually engulfs me.

  Take it or leave it!

  Loud and harsh!

  Eunice! He wants me to play somebody called Eunice. How many lines does she have? About enough to be drowned out by anyone with a mild cough.

  How can he ask me to play somebody called Eunice?

  For the benefit of his audience, a tour guide has started into a story about the Spanish Arch and the shipwrecked sailors belonging to the Armada and where their final resting place can be found. I look through the crowd, so as to catch a glimpse of Stephen and Mia. And at last it hits me who our town’s newest hotshot director has found to be his Blanche DuBois. She has only been hanging off his arm pretty much all day every day. ‘Motherfucker!’ I scream, as I stand there among the gathered crowd, unable to move. ‘Motherfucker! Motherfucker! MOTHERFUCKER!’

  My phone goes again.

  ‘Laura! Get here and get here fast.’

  I squeeze a way out through the tour group, cut down by the side of the museum and hurry back to the circus.

  There is no sign of Juan at the shooting gallery. I continue through the throngs, past the Punch and Judy stand, passing the stilt-walkers and three-card-trick men, I even spot the fortune teller again, make yourself useful then, where is the little fellow?

  By the time I reach the lollipop stand the only people I can make out are Mr and Mrs Virginia Beach, wedged into a bench table, happily licking their Home Is Where the Heart Is lollipops. Then I spot Fleming. Frantic, scanning the area all around him.

  ‘Jesus, Laura! Have you seen him?’

  ‘No, have you?’

  ‘Jesus, Laura! I’d hardly be asking you if I had, would I?’

  ‘He can’t be far away.’

  ‘He could be anywhere! Look at all these people. Someone could have nabbed him. Jesus, Laura!’

  ‘Fleming, could you please stop saying that?’

  My phone goes again.

  ‘Hi, sis,’ I say. ‘You want to speak to Juan, right? Hang on, here he is.’ And without another word I hand the phone to Fleming. He glares at me the way I imagine his brothers glare at him. Then he is all smiles and teeth and is instantly into a things-couldn’t-be-rosier chat with Jennifer. At some point I think I hear the word pizza, and Fleming grins and nods at whatever is being said to him. All is well with Juan, he assures Jennifer in his best-friend voice and hands me back the phone.

  ‘This is not funny,’ Fleming says, watching me mimic his best-buds face.

  *

  Two hours later we still haven’t found him. It’s long past teatime. Light is fading, clouds have moved in, the rain is coming down and mother has messaged to say that Jennifer’s bus is nearly in, we might want to think about taking Juan home, oh, and why am I not answering her calls? I’m on my way along the pier on the off chance he’s come out here, though I really hope he hasn’t. Fleming has been pretty much everywhere else, including a discreet visit as far as the house on another off chance Juan has been trying to find his way home – he hasn’t. Fleming has now just caught up with me along the pier.

  ‘Well?’

  I shake my head. He covers his face with both hands, sinks to his knees, and starts rocking back and forth. A couple of passers-by pause and ask me is he all right. I roll my eyes, assure them that all is well.

  ‘We’ll have to go to the cops.’

  ‘Fleming. That we will not be doing.’

  ‘Laura. We have to find him.’

  ‘And we will – only without the boys in blue.’

  ‘There’s one over there. I’m going to have a word.’

  ‘Fleming!’

  24

  I am in my room trying to figure out how to go about persuading Stephen to reconsider the casting. I’ll do another audition. Pick a scene, I’ll tell him, any scene, I’ll do it, and there and then offer him my paperback copy of the play. I won’t be loud. I won’t be harsh. I’ll do it exactly how he wants it done. I’ll understudy the parts of both Blanche and Stella. I’ll commit the entire play to memory and perform it for him start to finish if he wants me to. Anything he wants. Anybody, so long as it’s not Eunice the neighbour from upstairs. I’m pacing around my room, running through my mind all th
ese possibilities and more – What would Lana and Barbara have done? What say you, Gloria? Veronica? Any advice you might like to impart? – when Jennifer walks in and closes the door behind her.

  For a moment or two she leans against the door, until I have stopped pacing, stopped muttering to myself, and she is certain she can enter properly into the room and say without interruption what it is she is here to say.

  ‘Laura, what happened today?’

  ‘Come again?’

  She crosses the room and sits into my chair.

  ‘Juan has a scratch on his arm. When I asked him about it he told me it was a secret. So I asked him why it was a secret and he said because no one knows about the scratch. Not even you or Fleming. And when I asked him how is it that neither you nor Fleming know he said, because they weren’t there when it happened.’

  She pauses and looks over at me. Clearly it is now my turn to respond. And by not immediately plunging in to discharge the getting-heavier-by-the-second silence, I can tell I have made a mistake. A big mistake.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, what?’

  ‘So, would you like to tell me what happened today?’

  ‘He wasn’t missing for long.’

  ‘Missing! Why would he have been missing, Laura?’

  ‘Missing is the wrong word. Exploring. That’s probably a better way to describe it.’

  ‘Did you let him out of your sight? Did you? It’s my own fault. I shouldn’t have trusted you with him. I should have known.’

  ‘You always do,’ I say.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Laura! Wake up, will you? Anything could have happened.’

  ‘It’s only a scratch. To tell you the truth I didn’t even notice it.’

  Right there, Laura. Mistake number two. Keep it up.

  ‘You didn’t even notice . . . And his shirt was torn. I don’t suppose you noticed that either!’

  ‘If you look closely,’ I say, putting on my calmest voice, ‘you’ll find six things that weren’t there this time yesterday.’

  ‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this. And to think I was rooting for you with that stupid audition.’

  ‘What audition?’

  Mother has appeared. She’s standing in the frame of the doorway, having quietly opened the door. Jennifer looks at her.