by Nancy Moser
She winced at the very idea.
Deidre opened the kitchen door, bracing herself for a hearty “I heard!” or “Congratulations!”
She did not expect a long face, nor for Sig to pull her into his arms and say, “I’m so sorry.”
She pushed herself away. “I thought you’d be happy.”
He closed the door, then stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “So did I. But when I saw the news and watched the look on Patti’s face as they read the verdict…”
“But her conviction assures your freedom.”
“I know.” He took hold of a cabinet handle above the kitchen desk and ran a thumb up and down its shape. “I should be thrilled. I don’t know why I’m not.”
A question had been burning within her all day. “Mary, one of the other jurors? She said she met you. Said you’d stopped by her garage sale and were doing some surgery on her son. What’s all that about?”
Sig let out a breath. “When you left me the list of jurors the other night I looked up the addresses of the ones who’d voted innocent: Bobby, Mary, Joe, Ann, and Letisha. I planned to stop by their houses one by one and talk to them.”
“About the trial?”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t thinking straight. I was desperate. I had no idea how I would go about it or what I would say if I had the chance. I found myself sending up odd prayers that God would help me—which, of course, made no sense at all. God was not going to help me send an innocent girl to prison. That I prayed anyway shows you the bizarre state of my thoughts. I was pulling the string of my sanity taut, and if I wasn’t careful—” He took a fresh breath. “I knew something had to give or I’d end up in a locked ward, babbling about hot tubs, blue bottles, and what-ifs.”
“Did you talk to anyone besides Mary?”
“I drove past the house of Joe Krasinski but found a huge dog yanking on his chain in the front yard enough of a barrier to make me drive on. It didn’t look like anyone was at home at Letisha Meyer’s house. I’d about given up hope when I drove in front of the home of Mary. She lives over on Coney Avenue? A cute Cape Cod bungalow on a street canopied with pin oaks.”
“I don’t care about the architecture, Sig. What did you say to her?”
“Nothing about the trial. I promise. Turns out she was having a garage sale. I pulled up in front and got out. I was really nervous and nearly chickened out, but the sight of a couple kids playing eased my nerves. Kids. I can relate to kids.”
“You must have said who you were. Mary told me she’d met my husband.”
“I did introduce myself, but not because of the trial. She had a son, Orlando, about four, who was playing with soon-to-be-sold castoffs. When he ran up to his mother he held his right hand oddly. It was turned in, deformed. My mind flashed with medical terms for his condition. But before I could say anything, he asked my name—you know how some kids do—and before I could think otherwise, I said, ‘Sigmund.’ Then the mother mentioned that she’d heard about another Sigmund recently, the husband of another woman on a jury. You know the rest. We talked about her son, and I told her I was a surgeon. You’ve been with me when I see a child in need. I offered my services to fix his hand.”
Deidre had witnessed Sig talking to total strangers and ending up with a new patient—usually gratis.
“I know it was wrong, Deidre. But some good came from it. His mother said our meeting was God’s doing.”
“You weren’t going there to do good.”
“But good came from it.” He hesitated. “And then an hour later Audrey called to say that you and Nelly had been in the store, and then I called you and invited you to her house.” He sighed deeply. “It was a very long day.”
Deidre hung her purse on the hook by the door. For the first time she noticed Sig was wearing suit pants, a white shirt, and a tie. His good suit. “Why are you so dressed up? You didn’t expect me to go out and celebrate, did you?”
“No, no,” he said. “But we do have the mayor’s award dinner tonight.”
She closed her eyes and sighed deeply. “Oh, Sig. No.”
“We have to go. I’m up for the award.”
Humanitarian of the Year.
“I know you may not feel up to it,” he said. “I don’t feel up to it. But I have to go. We have to go. We’re expected.”
It was true. The donation benefits this award could elicit were immense. And Sig had a good shot at winning. “I know it’s bad timing,” he said. Resigned, Deidre headed upstairs. “Give me fifteen minutes.”
***
Abigail dropped her purse and keys on the floor, kicked off her shoes, fell onto the couch, and put her feet on the coffee table. A stack of magazines toppled to the floor.
She let them lie. If her entire coffee table collapsed, she would have let it lie.
It all came down to this one sad fact: condemning someone to prison was the pits. And being the jury foreman, being the one to hand the bailiff the verdict? Double pits. Big pits. Deep pits.
She noticed her Annie script on the other end of the coffee table, halfway covered over by an American Theatre magazine. She hadn’t even opened it since the read-through yesterday. Yes, she’d been busy, but everyone was busy. People had jobs and family to take up the hours of their day. In the end, that didn’t matter. Lines had to be learned. Songs practiced.
It was daunting. She closed her eyes. Maybe if she relaxed for just a minute.
***
Abigail hated being late. It was totally unprofessional. Sure, divas were late, stars were late, but at the moment she was neither and had learned that such rudeness didn’t earn brownie points from either the director or the rest of the cast.
She’d always prided herself on being punctual—until she’d fallen asleep on the couch and awakened only because Hayley pounded on her door. That she’d also made Hayley late was not good form.
Actually, being awake in essence was not the same as being awake in actuality. Abigail felt drugged, sluggish, and not at the top of her game. Going into the auditorium and seeing everyone else laughing, chatting, dancing, and singing with vibrant enthusiasm only made her more tired.
I’m too old for this.
She joined a group of women on stage as they sang through one of the chorus songs. “Sorry,” she mouthed to the choral director. She took a place next to Margaret Timmons. Margaret smiled at her and held the music so Abigail could share until she got her own score open. Abigail began to sing, muffed a few notes—since she was sight-reading—but recovered quickly. Yet as the measures progressed, she found herself doing something she had never done.
She lip-synched, held back, and listened.
Next to her, Margaret had a lovely voice, full of character yet able to blend. It was evident she was truly a team player, not concerned with showing off and drawing attention to herself, but intent on doing whatever it took to make the play the best it could be.
What about you?
Abigail stopped singing completely, causing Margaret and the choral director to look in her direction. To cover herself, she coughed a few times and excused herself, pretending to need a drink of water.
But as she headed offstage, she came upon Tony, the director.
“Abigail. How’s it going?”
It was a loaded question. “Can I talk with you a moment?” With his nod, Abigail found herself taking Tony’s arm and leading him into the wings behind one of the side curtains.
“What’s up?” he asked.
She wasn’t sure but didn’t wait to figure it out. “I would like you to give the Miss Hannigan part to Margaret Timmons.”
Tony’s shocked expression matched her own surprise. Had she really said that? Why had she said that?
“Is there a problem with rehearsals or—?”
“No, no,” Abigail said. “It’s not you at all. Or the facility. Or any of the cast or crew.” She took a breath and allowed the truth to come out. “It’s me. I’m too old for the part, Tony. We both know that.”
“No, no.”
She raised a hand, stopping his words. “And what’s best for the show is that Margaret take the part.”
He studied her eyes, and she cringed at the knowledge that he was seeing a veritable river delta of lines around them.
“If you’re sure,” he said.
He hadn’t argued with her—which was telling and a bit humiliating. But it reinforced her decision. “I’m sure.”
Sandy, Tony’s assistant, peeked around the edge of the curtain, her face confused at seeing the odd tête-â-tête. But she quickly recovered and said, “Excuse me, Tony, but the orphans are waiting.”
“Go,” Abigail said, giving him leave.
He kissed her cheek. “We’ll miss you. And if you ever want to be in any show, in any capacity, call.”
And he was gone. And she was done.
Curtain down. Fade to black.
***
Abigail did not stick around to see Margaret’s reaction to the news that she now had the part. Her largesse only went so far.
After pulling Hayley aside and telling her what was going on, after assuring Hayley that Abigail would still be her coach and that her mother would be back to pick her up when rehearsal ended, Abigail fled the building. Her last glimpse showed Tony pulling Margaret aside.
As the doors of the community theater clanged shut behind her, the source of Abigail’s shiver extended beyond the cool autumn air. What had she done? She had never quit a production. Why now?
Because she was old. Because she was tired.
Because it was someone else’s turn.
That was the key. Abigail had spent her entire life vying for center stage in every situation. Put her on a committee, she vied to be chairman. Let her sing in a group, she expected a solo. Take a group picture? Front row was always good.
And if you put me on a jury you’d better make me foreman.
She got in her car but didn’t start the engine. “Why do I do that?”
Because she was a performer. Because she liked attention. Because she did have leadership talent. Because she had nothing else in her life.
No one else.
Pooh. It did no good to get into that again. She’d made her choices. And a husband and family weren’t two of them. It did no good to have regrets. Everybody suffered those. It was a waste of time to dwell.
I am who I am.
The thought coincided with Patti’s words on the stand. Simple, sincere, unpretentious Patti. And at this particular moment in Abigail’s life, this straightforward statement was as eloquent as the greatest monologue, written by the wisest playwright, for the most esteemed character.
If Patti was who she was, who was Abigail? Could she make the same statement about her own life?
Suddenly the interior of the car gained clarity as if in a spotlight. All the accoutrements of the old car she’d sat in hundreds, if not thousands, of times seemed clearer, more vivid. Real.
Abigail grabbed the steering wheel and gained an odd strength from the sturdy feel of it. She purposely moved in her seat, feeling cushion against hip and back. She smelled the remnants of a fast food bag, crumpled on the floor on the passenger side. All this was real. It wasn’t anything special. It wasn’t brilliant. It wasn’t noteworthy.
But it was real. It had purpose right now.
Which is more than I have.
She leaned her head against her hands, closing her eyes. This time, there was no risk of sleep. And yet in spite of her turmoil, she had an inkling that what she’d just done was the right thing. And a good thing.
At least for Margaret Timmons.
***
“And the award for Humanitarian of the Year goes to...Dr Sigmund T. Kelly.”
Applause and a few cheers.
To Sig’s credit he looked genuinely surprised, and his speech revealed an uncharacteristic humility. He almost looked embarrassed, as if the award were too much. As if it were undeserved.
When Sig finished his extremely short acceptance speech and made his way back to their table, the mayor’s wife said to Deidre, “You should be very proud.”
She was.
But then, when Sig reached the table, he didn’t sit down. He leaned toward her ear and said, “I’d like to go now.”
“We can’t go,” Deidre whispered. “You won.”
Sig shrugged. He actually shrugged. “Please,” he said.
He pulled out her chair and with as little fanfare as possible, they left.
Sig, not creating fanfare? Not sticking around to bow to the kudos and praise?
Something wasn’t right.
***
“But what’s wrong with you?” Deidre asked for the third time as she paced between their bed and the window.
“I just couldn’t stay there and accept congratulations for being a humanitarian.” He sat slumped in the overstuffed chair.
“Since when?” she asked.
“You know very well since when.”
“But that’s over. Patti’s going to jail. You have to let it go, Sig. You have important work to do at the foundation.”
“I don’t know.” He shook his head.
He didn’t know? What didn’t he know?
Deidre sat on the ottoman at his feet. “I just spent hours and hours, days and days at a trial, using my influence to make it come out to your advantage, for the advantage of the foundation.” She knew she was exaggerating. The guilty verdict hadn’t been a struggle, but Sig didn’t need to know that.
Sig rubbed the space between his eyes. “And I appreciate all you did.”
“No, you don’t. Not if you leave events early, not if you don’t nurture the foundation’s benefactors.”
“I’m sorry.” To put a period on the moment, Sig leaned forward, kissed her cheek, said, “I’ll try to do better,” and left to get ready for bed.
***
Becky nuzzled against Bobby’s shoulder. He pulled the blanket higher over her arm. “I’m sorry if Cass and I blindsided you with the website,” she said.
That’s exactly what they’d done. “It’s okay,” he told her, even though he wasn’t sure it was.
He felt her let out a breath she’d been holding. “I’m so excited to see what happens next. Aren’t you?”
Excited was not the word he’d use to describe his feelings. Fear, panic, doubt? Those were the emotions that flew through his mind.
“I believe in you, Bobby. I believe in your talent.”
At least somebody did.
***
Ken unlocked the door of his apartment and led the woman inside. “This is the place.”
She took a slow stroll through the entry, her fingers brushing the edge of a plant on the phone stand, before turning to face the photo of St. Andrews in Scotland.
“You golf?” she asked.
He was stunned by her question. Hadn’t he told her that at the bar? Certainly he’d told her that. Being a golfer, a golf pro, was part of his pickup story line. “I played the circuit.”
She stopped her meandering, her eyebrows raised. “Really.”
He felt a rush. Now he would tell her who he was and the famous people he knew, and it would make what was certainly going to be a good evening great. “Want to see my trophies?”
She chuckled. “At least you didn’t say etchings.”
He led her to a display case, opening the glass doors wide. He pulled one out.
Instead of taking the trophy, she merely nodded at it. Then she pointed to the year. “You were a golfer in 1989. What are you now?”
“I give lessons at the golf club. I could give you a good deal.”
“I don’t get to golf much. I’m too busy.” She walked away from the trophies, unbuttoning the cuffs of her blouse.
Well then. A down-to-business kind of woman. Ken put the trophy back. “And what do you do again?”
“I’m the CFO of Stanford Industries.” She removed her watch.
“But that’s out of Albuquerque, isn
’t it?”
“Yes, it is. I’m impressed you know that.”
He shut the door of the cabinet with a solid click. “I didn’t know they had an office here.”
“They don’t. I told you I was just in town for a meeting.”
Had she? He wasn’t thinking too straight this evening.
She flicked off her heels and approached him. “Enough talk, Kyle. Let’s get down to some real business.”
Kyle?
“It’s Ken.”
She shrugged and started to unbutton his shirt. “Whatever.”
Suddenly, Ken grabbed her wrists. “Don’t.”
Looking at her so close he saw a myriad of lines around her eyes that the subdued lights of the bar hadn’t revealed. She’d tried to cover them with makeup, but it didn’t work, creating instead a creepy, creepy look. A look of someone trying too hard.
Join the club.
He let go of her wrists and stepped away. “I’m sorry. I’ve changed my mind.”
She laughed but came toward him again. “That’s a woman’s line.”
Ken sidestepped her advance and moved to the door, which he opened. “Perhaps another time.”
She stood there, staring at him a moment. But just a moment. That was all the regret his withdrawal elicited. Then she slipped her heels back on, took her watch and purse, and strolled past him into the hall. He braced himself for a parting barb.
He wasn’t disappointed. “Just as well. Has-beens can be such a bore.”
So be it.
***
The voices of two women plagued Ken that night. One a successful CFO, and the other a meek dishwasher, convicted of murder.
“Has-beens can be such a bore” met with “ I am who I am. I don’t pretend to be anything more.”
One set of words had been heard just moments before, while the other had obviously been sitting in his mind, dormant, since Patti had taken the stand last Thursday. He’d never thought of her words before. Why now? Why had the businesswoman from Albuquerque made him think of Patti? The two women could not have been more different.
Ken picked up the remote for the TV but ended up tossing it down. He couldn’t stand the inane banter of television right now. He couldn’t let those words interfere with the words of the two women.
He strolled to the trophy case, opened it, and removed the trophy he’d shown the CFO—the one that had condemned him to has-been-hood by its ancient date.