Under the Spotlight

by Bree Verity

  She took it silently, her long hair scraped back into a pony tail, her protective glasses making her look even more adorable. The lecturers didn’t do anything. So eventually, I got up the nerve to tell those guys to shut up.

  What a day that was. I got a black eye for my trouble and was labeled a feminist - a filthy word. But I also got a smile from Candy, and a conversation with her that lunch break.

  “Why did you do it?”

  I was seated under a tree regretting my decision, my eye slowly puffing up, along with my lip. It was painful to open my mouth, so I had given up on eating my sandwich. I was smoking a cigarette, though. The smoke helped to settle my thoughts, to bring me back down to earth. I was just starting to berate myself for my misplaced chivalry when she came to sit beside me, knees up even though she was wearing a knee-high skirt. I caught a glimpse of white panties as she sat and felt a familiar twitch in my groin.

  But I only shrugged. “They shouldn’t treat you like that.”

  “I don’t need your protection.”

  “I know. But it doesn’t hurt to have a friend.”

  “Friend?” She squinted at me.

  “Yeah, friend.” I was blushing by now because she was staring at me. “You know, someone you hang out with and talk to, and who defends you when someone else decides to mess with you?”

  “I know what a friend is,” she replied with asperity. “I just didn’t expect to find any here.”

  I could understand. She was a woman interfering in a man’s world. Most of them resented her presence. Not me. I don’t know why. It wasn’t like I wanted women taking our jobs. I was certainly not a feminist - women had a place in the home, the same as men had their place out in the world. But she was so determined, and so good at what she did - it seemed only right that she should be allowed to do her best, same as all the rest of us.

  I shrugged again. “Not all of us are Neanderthals.”

  “No. Just most of you.”

  “You don’t make friends by insulting them, you know.”

  She chuckled, a throaty gurgle that made something in my belly flop around. I was seized with the desire to roll her onto the grass and cover her face in kisses. I didn’t, of course. That would hardly have been conducive to the friendship I was offering.

  “Okay,” she said, thrusting out her hand for me to shake. “Friends.”

  “Friends.” Our handshake looked prim, but in that moment, both of us knew. She gasped and looked down at our clasped hands, my heart beat an erratic tattoo as I felt the electricity buzz between us. It was love. Or lust that turned into love. I’m still not sure I believe in love at first touch.

  We were inseparable during university. Since we were studying the same course, we were pretty much in the same classes all day, and then in each other’s bed all night. We would smoke and drink and argue endlessly over the scientific and mathematical problems our professors set us, with our arguments almost always culminating in loud, vigorous and sometimes violent sex. She enjoyed the rough play, enough that our roommates at university complained - first to us and then to the authorities, who threatened to kick us out for our lewd behavior. We smiled and nodded and said we would be good, then totally ignored the cautions. Eventually they made the problem go away by assigning us a room together.

  She got the benefit of my pilfering as well - the sex was always amazing right after I’d stolen something. I never told her what I did, though. I couldn’t. She would be disappointed.

  Then Candy fell pregnant. I offered to marry her. She said no. She said she would get an abortion. I was terrified. I’d heard about the things they did to girls to get the baby out of there, and I pleaded with her not to do that. I didn’t want to lose her to some backyard butcher with a modified clothes hanger. But she was adamant. She didn’t want the baby. She wanted her career.

  At twenty years old, you never really think straight. I thought we could just continue how we were, juggling taking care of the baby and the rest of our university studies, then I’d go get a high-powered job and things would be perfect. Luckily, Candy was little more practical than I. She knew the baby would destroy every one of her dreams, and the greater part of mine as well. She got the abortion—one day when I was off doing something else with my friends—and that was that.

  Did I resent her for doing it? Sometimes. It was my baby as much as it was hers. And no matter how many times she told me it wasn’t even a baby yet, it didn’t even have a brain, I still felt guilty that we had created this little life and then not let it live. Candy insisted it was her body and her choice, but I still felt guilty. Cradling her as she screamed through severe stomach cramps, I felt guilty. Holding her as she cried out the hormonal changes, I felt guilty. And then, when she recovered sufficiently, and we had our first tentative sex, I felt guilty.

  To combat my guilt, I increased the amount of stealing I did. I know, it makes no sense, since afterward I would be left feeling guiltier than ever. But it made sense at the time. I brought home useless things - boxes of tissues, odd kitchen appliances, baby clothes… all of which were shoved in the back of a cupboard.

  We graduated. Candy got better marks than me. Yet I got a job straight out of university, and she struggled for months. In the end she took on a typist’s job in a pool at an engineering firm. She hated it. Hated that she had worked so hard only to be thwarted by the men at the top who couldn’t believe such a tiny, lovely woman could possibly have all that knowledge in her pretty little head. Thwarted by their belief that as soon as she married, she would leave to look after her husband and children. It drove her crazy, all the assumptions.

  I continued to steal things - stationery from work, other people’s equipment… I can’t have been fun to live with - I spent all my time either on a salivating high, thinking about taking something, or in the constant state of arousal following the deed, or in the throes of guilt for being the evil, wicked, hell-bound fiend that I was.

  In 1968, when we were twenty-five, we got married. I like to think that she loved me enough that she was prepared to give up her career to support mine, but I know it wasn’t that. She couldn’t bear working as a typist, in a pool of gossiping, backbiting women. Marriage was a good way out of that environment for her. Not exactly the greatest basis for marriage, but we had been together for eight or nine years by then, and marriage was expected. I encouraged her to get out of the house, to find things to do other than just be a housewife. She was never cut out for that. But the opportunities available to women were all the same kinds of things - knitting groups, charities, they just weren’t for her.

  Then she discovered community theater.

  Dear lord, she turned into a different person. Cheerful all the time, excited by life, eager to learn her lines, and get in front of that audience. For the next ten years, she buried herself in it. Costumes, sets, props, acting, directing, writing, singing (even though she had a dreadful voice, lord love her), she did it all. Even took some classes in on-stage fighting. She would help with the administration of the club as well - suddenly her typing skills were well regarded as she typed up the monthly newsletter, ran it through the mimeograph machine, and then posted it out to all members.

  These past ten years, when she has been involved with theater, have been some of the darkest of my life. Toward the beginning of her involvement, I stayed away as much as possible, only attending a show when she was in it. I would sit in the darkened audience and marvel at this person who I knew, but who, in those moments on stage, I didn’t know at all.

  I started to get to know the other theater people and I was eventually suckered in to do some work on the sets. I’m not sure why - chemical engineers are hardly well known for being able to wield a hammer or screwdriver. Still, even my pathetic efforts were rewarded with much thanks, so I was happy to help - the only problem being all the things laying around that I could easily steal.

  I stole props and timber and costumes and makeup - much of the stuff I stole I took back - it was e
asy to put things back when everyone was distracted by what was happening on stage. There started to be jokes of a theater ghost. I laughed along, my heart aching that it was me causing the headaches for these people, who had become my friends.

  But the straw that broke the camels back happened only a few weeks ago.

  They were looking for an old, lace handkerchief for a show they were doing, a really fancy, old-fashioned looking one - the script called for a ‘wisp of lace’. They put out a call, and an old lady came back with what really was a wisp of lace - very delicate, very finely crocheted lace. It was perfect for the show. She was hesitant to lend it - family heirloom that it was. Candy worked her charm on the lady, promising that it would be taken good care of, and that it would be returned to her the instant the show finished. That she would get a big thank you in the program, and her name be mentioned. The old lady agreed to lend it to the theater for the duration of the show.

  That handkerchief became an obsession with me. I wanted it. I had to have it. Every time I came into the theater, it was there, almost throbbing at me, a haze of light around it. Candy joked that I stared at it so much, she thought I was going to eat it.

  I tried to stay away from the theater, but I had obligations - walls had to be built and painted, sets prepared. I tried to forget the handkerchief, but it was always there, a temptation that I couldn’t resist.

  So, I took it. And hid it with the rest of my ill-gotten gains.

  We ransacked the theater to try to find it when it couldn’t be found. Candy was frantic - she had promised the old lady she would look after it and return it to her in person. I, of course, joined in the search, knowing full well it wouldn’t be found. The guilt lay heavily on me, as I watched Candy sobbing, entreating everyone to look harder, to return it if they’d taken it, no questions would be asked. She just needed it back.

  I can’t give it to her. It would only start an avalanche that I can’t control - if I give her one thing, I’d have to show her my entire stash, my thirty-year collection. Her disappointment will be more than I can bear.

  I don’t know how to stop myself. With this last theft, I’ve hurt the one I love the most, and while I am guilty, I have no intention of fixing things with her. That makes me an unbelievably bad person, the villain in this piece.

  I can only think of one way to stop myself. And that’s by ending my life.

  Know that I am sane, and calm as I do this - it’s actually a great relief to be able to finally end this. Without having seen Candy’s tears, without the knowledge that I can’t fix it any other way, I don’t think I would have had the strength to do so. But I can’t hurt her again. Even though I know I would if the circumstances allowed. Which is why I must do this. It’s a roundabout kind of argument, but it makes sense to me.

  I hope everyone I’ve stolen from can find it in their hearts to forgive me - all the way from my cousin, through all the shopkeepers I’ve pilfered from over the years, friends, co-workers, and my theater companions, and most of all, Candy. I love you, Candice Turner. You’ve always been the light of my life.

  Edwin Turner

  12 March 1980

  Chapter Twelve

  Penny couldn’t stop her tears from falling. Poor Edwin! Why on earth had he never sought help for his problem?

  Penny wondered if you could even get treatment for it? Now, possibly, with all the drugs and things they used to stop different things happening in your brain, but in the 60’s? The 80’s? She wasn’t sure.

  Poor Edwin. What a way to live. Thinking you are an evil person, when you have a mental issue. Thinking no one could help you overcome your weakness, when it was possible, maybe even probable that you could, if you would talk about it, and see if help was available. She wondered what Edwin’s life would have been like if he’d spoken to Candy about his problem, if he’d let her in, let her help.

  With a start, Penny realised she could relate. It wasn’t something she wanted to acknowledge, her feelings about her abortion, the same way as Edwin obviously didn’t want to tell anyone about his kleptomania. She wondered for a moment what it would feel like to let someone know, to bring those feelings up to the surface and share them. She certainly didn’t want to be crushed by her own guilt, the way Edwin was, until he couldn’t take it anymore.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by Jane, who bustled into the auditorium, bags and keys akimbo.

  “Hi Pen. You’re here early. Did you find the table?”

  Penny nodded. “I did, but it was right up the back. I still haven't quite dug far enough to get it out. But I did find this.”

  She handed the sheaf of papers to Jane, who glanced at them and frowned. “What is this?” With a sheepish smile, she confessed, “I can’t really read it without my glasses.” Penny had to smile. Jane was one of those women who didn’t seem to age - but even the most youthful appearing of people found that their eyesight betrayed them sooner or later.

  “It’s a letter, or a confession maybe? From Edwin Turner.”

  “Rubbish.” Jane didn’t mince words. She dug her glasses out of her handbag and, placing them on the bridge of her nose, started to read. Penny watched her for a few moments, but she knew the letter would take Jane a couple of minutes to read, so she delved back into the furniture room, dragging the cigarette table out at the same time as Jane finished reading the letter.

  Jane’s eyebrows were raised, and she seemed a little bit pale. “Wow.” She looked down at the letter. “It has to be a fake, don’t you think?”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a bit too creepily familiar. Someone stealing things and then returning them? A handkerchief that seems to be the same as the one we keep losing?” Jane laughed uncertainly. “A kleptomaniac poltergeist. Now I’ve heard everything.”

  Penny shook her head. “But I found it under a loose board in the floor. If someone planted it, they went to a hell of a lot of trouble to do it.”

  “Well, people have been known to go to lots of trouble if they think the payoff will be good enough.”

  “But it was under the floor. In the furniture room. The dusty, gross furniture room.”

  This time it was Jane who shook her head. “Well, ghost or not, we have a show that needs to pull itself together. Will I give this to Fran?” Fran was the president of the theater group.

  Penny nodded. “I can’t think of who else it should go to. Fran might be able to get someone to authenticate it or something.”

  “Or she’ll file it somewhere and forget about it,” muttered Jane. “That's what I hope she does.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t really want any proof that there’s a ghost here. That would creep me out.”

  “Fair enough. Well, I guess I’ll go out to the green room and set things up.”

  “Say hello to Edwin for me!”

  Penny threw the grinning Jane a withering look as she walked away.

  There were two ways to access the green room - via the stairs in front of the stage, or around the side of the building. Penny went up the stairs and behind the closed curtains.

  The stage was always dark. Usually, the short journey across and out through the wings to the green room didn’t bother Penny, but today, it seemed like it took ages to get from the darkened stage to the much brighter backstage area. She crept across the stage, holding her breath, conscious of every creak in the floorboards, every breath of air that crossed the stage. When she arrived in the green room and flicked on the light switch, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Hi Edwin,” she whispered.

  “Who?”

  Penny screamed. She jumped and turned at the same time, ready to karate kick whichever vengeful spirit she came across.

  But it was only Chris, who raised one eyebrow at her antics. “Are you alright?”

  “Fine.” She let out a pent-up breath. “I thought you were the ghost.”

  Chris laughed, then when Penny didn’t join in, he said, “Seriously?”

  Be
fore he could say anything further, Marc poked his head around the side of the wings. “Hey guys.” He walked over to Penny, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her. “Hey gorgeous.” She looked up into his face and smiled, feeling better already.

  “Gorgeous but nutty as a fruitcake,” snorted Chris. “She’s seen the ghost!”

  “I am not,” she retorted. At Marc’s questioning glance, she shook her head in exasperation. “I’ll tell you later. It's a whole big story, and we don’t have time now.”

  Ten minutes later, the props table was organized, the set was in place and the kettle was boiling for a cup of tea. Marc tapped Penny on the shoulder. “What’s this about the ghost?”

  “Shh,” chided Penny, looking around at the bunch of people who had magically appeared over the last ten minutes, and who now bustled around, getting themselves ready for the rehearsal. “I don’t want to freak anyone out.”

  “There’s no such thing as ghosts, you know, Pen?” he said.

  “I’m not so sure,” she whispered back.

  “What?”

  “I found Edwin Turner’s confession. Under the floorboards in the furniture room.” She could see that Marc thought she was a fruit loop. “Seriously. I tripped over a board that had come loose, and there it was.”

  “It has to be someone’s idea of a joke.”

  “Well, it seemed pretty convincing to me.” She poured the boiling water over her teabag, turning her shoulder on Marc, a little annoyed that he didn’t believe her. After all, it wasn’t like she was known for making stuff up. She just didn’t have that good an imagination.

  “Ten minutes!” she heard through her headset and relayed the message to everyone in the green room, where the bustle seemed to increase exponentially. “We’ll have to talk about this later,” she said, brushing past him to get to her stage manager’s podium.

  He followed her into the darkness of the wings. “Pen. Wait.”

  “What?”

  “It's just that I can’t believe there is a ghost, that’s all. Don’t get narky at me for that. It's a perfectly normal reaction when someone starts telling spook stories.”