Just Pru

by Anne Pfeffer

  It was coming to me. The sly green glances. The sarcasm. The assumption that the world was a gift box of goodies just for him.

  I knew exactly who Blake reminded me of. From the fifteen-week series Wit and Deception, Count Randall Blackstone, a scalawag of noble birth, in relentless pursuit of the elegant Fredericka de la Neige. My alter ego.

  Like many women before her, she almost fell for Count Blackstone’s silver-tongued lies. But, in the end, she was too clever. Fredericka beat him at his own game, broke his heart, and married the wise and good Duke of Gillington.

  I’d watched Wit and Deception three times, entranced by Blackstone’s and Fredericka’s relationship. Together they sparkled, excelling in verbal sparring and witty wordplay. I’d spent hours in my room practicing clever rejoinders and trying to channel Fredericka.

  Ellen’s glance fell on Adam and me. “You guys have met Adam, the production’s financial advisor. And this is Pru.” She pointed a warning finger at Blake. “She’s my friend. She’s had a rough couple of days, so spare her the usual bullshit, okay?”

  She’s my friend. A warm feeling flowed through me. I’d never heard that said before—at least not about me.

  Blake didn’t even glance in Adam’s direction. A wicked look came over his face. He stood, took my hand and, with a flourish, bowed over it. “Ah, Prudence, is it? Is the lady as cautious as her name suggests, or does her soul burn with a wild and fiery passion?”

  Amazingly, a retort came to me. I dare say, bold sir, that you will never know. It was exactly the sort of sassy response that Fredericka would have made.

  I was no Fredericka. I stared at Blake, frozen, unable to speak.

  Meanwhile, Adam had waited long enough. “For God’s sake, Ellen, are you going to tell us what happened to you?” He stood scowling in the archway between the living and dining rooms, his arms folded on his chest and his feet apart.

  Ellen made a disgusted face. “I fell off a ladder adjusting some lights.”

  “I told you to let the guys do it,” Becca said.

  “I was perfectly capable of doing it myself. In fact, I did. The problem was, the ladder slipped, and I broke my leg and ankle.” She returned to her iPad schedule. “We lost so much time today.” She looked up. “Pru, you’ll have to start driving me.”

  “Huh?” Hyperventilation immediately set in. The evening was going rapidly downhill. I had blown my chance to be witty with Blake, and now Ellen wanted me to drive her around?

  “I’ll drive you!” Adam blurted.

  Ellen shook her head. “I’ve gotta haul stuff. Your car’s too nice. And too small.”

  I had to get out of this somehow. “Adam can drive my car.”

  “No. He can’t.” Ellen shot me a look that was one part meaningful, two parts pleading. Then, for the first time, she focused on the box of chocolates. Blake had reduced the top layer to a jumble of wrappers and upside down morsels, most of which he had touched. “Where’d this come from?”

  “Me,” Adam said. “They were clean when I got them. I mean, not that I bought them or anything…. They came into my office. I thought, for your people down at the theater….”

  “So the chocolates were for us,” Blake pointed out gleefully.

  Adam appeared to be just barely restraining himself from pummeling Blake.

  “Alright, guys, it’s late,” Ellen said. She got them out the door, then leaned on her crutches, dark circles under her eyes. “I have to go to bed. But here.” She tossed me an envelope from her bag. “Since I had your keychain, I picked up your mail.”

  Predictably, it was from Mom and Dad. I put it on the coffee table. I was exhausted, too. I thought back to the fire that had destroyed my home and turned my life upside-down, unable to believe it had been just twenty-four hours.

  No way could I deal with my parents’ letter right now. Or drive Ellen tomorrow morning. Adam would have to do it. I just couldn’t.

  I would beg them both for mercy.

  I didn’t even brush my teeth. As I crawled into my sleeping bag, I thought back to Wit and Deception. It was strange. I knew that Count Blackstone was supposed to be a bad guy. But deep down, I’d always thought he was really cool. If I’d been Fredericka, it would have been hard for me to choose between him and the wise and good Duke of Gillington.

  Chapter Eight

  From Pru’s Journal:

  The trouble with making left turns is, you have to wait such a long time to find the perfect opening in traffic. Last time I tried it, the driver behind me freaked out after five or six minutes, and getting out of the car to reason with him didn’t help. Since then, I’ve only driven to places I can reach by making right turns.

  **

  “Pru, we’re leaving in a half hour.” Ellen prodded my sleeping bag with the rubber tip of her crutch.

  I opened an eye. Already I knew I was in for one of those Bad Days, the kind of day when even lying in bed required too much, when all sensation hurt and you just prayed for consciousness to end. An army of imaginary ants swarmed my body. I gasped for breath. “I said you could use my car. I never said I’d drive you anywhere.” My voice got all high and whiny, but I couldn’t help it.

  “I need you!” Her frosted blue toenails were just inches from my face.

  “Can Adam do it?”

  “He went to work.”

  I burrowed into my sleeping bag. “I’m really sorry. I’m not well.”

  Ellen made an annoyed tsk with her tongue. “Thanks a lot, Pru.”

  I heard her crutches move slowly away. A minute later, words floated by me… “Don’t have a ride…. Would you mind picking me up? ….thanks…..”

  Shivering, feeling nauseated and dizzy, I staggered out to the bathroom and hurled, kneeling over the toilet for a long time. Couldn’t she see I was sick? I’d been sick all my life.

  I crawled back into the sleeping bag and lay there half-asleep. After a while, the doorbell rang. Becca’s voice, then Ellen’s. “You’re a life saver! I know it’s out of your way.”

  The door closed, then silence.

  A hard object dug into my hip. A plastic ball with a jingle bell inside it. I eventually got my head up out of the sleeping bag. “Chuck,” I called, knowing he wouldn’t come. I pulled back into my cocoon and slept.

  When I woke up, I was better. Every part of me didn’t sting and itch and want to sink into a state of black oblivion. I went in search of Chuck and found him under Ellen’s bed. “Here, Chuck-chuck,” I called, lying on my stomach and reaching out a hand. He crouched Buddha-like, next to Mimi the kitten. His cold gaze seemed to say, I heard how you bailed out on Ellen.

  Bits and pieces of her voice drifted through my head.

  Pru has a cat—she needs to be with me.

  Take this, it’ll help you sleep.

  Pru’s my friend.

  I rolled onto my back and stared at Ellen’s bedroom ceiling. Painted on a royal blue background were stars, planets with colored rings, comets with long tails, the moon in several phases, and even an out-of-place sun. In the center were the words, “For whatever you have tamed, you are responsible.”

  Had Ellen painted this? I’d have to ask her. If she was still speaking to me, that is.

  Ellen’s voice again. I need you.

  With everything that she had done for me, you’d think I could lift a finger to help her in return. But what could I do now? She’d already gotten a ride to the theater.

  I could call her and offer to pick her up this evening. But that meant I’d have to drive my car. And that had been hard enough even before the universe took Dr. Abbot away.

  I had to face it. I would never be of much use to anyone. I was too sick.

  Correction. I was too lame.

  I was worthless, the scum of the earth.

  I was a wart, a pustule on the posterior of humanity.

  I wandered out to the living room, where my parents’ unopened letter caught my eye. They would understand. I could hear my mother. Prudence just
can’t do as much as other people.

  I tore open the envelope, which contained a clipping from the paper. Common choking hazards, the headline read. Attached was a note from Mom: See what I mean about those large cashews? Perhaps an alternative snack, sweetheart, something soft, like pudding? Love, Your mother

  I wadded up the article and dropped it in the kitchen trash.

  ##

  Noon found me camped on Ellen’s sofa watching Pumpkins for Peter, the story of two sisters who grew a garden of magic pumpkins for a terminally ill boy and restored him to health. The poignant story always made me sob, which always made me hungry.

  I eyed the box of chocolates on the coffee table. Just out of curiosity, I lifted off the lid. The bottom layer was pristine and untouched. Ellen could easily still serve it to people. By contrast, Blake had effectively destroyed the top layer by pawing through it. No way would Ellen want to give those chocolates to anyone. Or even eat them herself.

  I examined a round one that looked like coconut. Pity to throw these things away, particularly since Blake’s hygiene seemed to be acceptable. I took an experimental nibble. It was coconut, my favorite. I didn’t detect any trace of spoilage or bacteria.

  Down the hatch. It was delicious. I studied the top layer again. Three or four pieces would never be missed.

  I ate seven. The seventh had tasted almost as wonderful as the first.

  The problem now was, you could tell someone had been dipping into the chocolates, big time. In fact, the point of no return had been reached. Only a drastic course of action was left.

  I polished off the rest of the first layer, then rehearsed my story. I had dutifully thrown away the chocolates that Blake had irreparably soiled. I didn’t feel guilty, because I knew I’d eaten stuff no one else wanted. Still, I didn’t have to advertise that fact.

  It was Tuesday, which meant my mother would be at her weekly lunch and bridge game. Time to strategically leave a message. “Hi, Mom and Dad. Sorry I missed you again. Everything’s fine here, although I still haven’t had time to get a cell phone.” I heaved a sigh. “Busy, busy, busy! I’ll call again tomorrow!”

  I knew this approach wouldn’t last forever. I might be able to eke out one more day before the rents insisted on an actual conversation. I would deal with it tomorrow.

  I took another nap, then woke up at one thirty wondering again how Ellen was doing at the theater. Would she have to beg someone to take her home? Why did this have to be my problem?

  What would Dr. Abbot have said? I pictured myself telling him the whole dumb story, including the part about the chocolates. One great thing about him was, he never made you feel lame or stupid, even if you clearly were by any possible objective set of criteria.

  He probably would have said, Do you agree with your mother? Are you capable of less than other people?

  Well, I’ve always done less.

  Why?

  Because it’s so hard for me to do the simplest things. Much harder for me than for most people.

  Is that how you decide what you are and are not going to do? By how easy or hard it is?

  I could picture him sitting in his office, his hands on the desk, his eyes kind and calm. Dr. Abbott even looked the part of the therapist, down to the small, wire-rimmed glasses and neatly trimmed goatee.

  If it’s difficult, why not make a plan? Exactly how would you accomplish your goal?

  Speaking of goals, I’d forgotten to set any for today. No wonder I was drifting around like this. I made up my mind. My goal for today was to pick Ellen up at the theater.

  It was two o’clock. Ellen would finish working at ten. I had eight hours to pull off a drive that would take a normal person forty-five minutes.

  If I factored in two hours for getting lost, two for counting aloud and throwing up, and one for entertaining doubts about my self-worth, I still had three hours to cover unforeseen emergencies.

  I would leave now.

  “I’m coming, Ellen!” The words burst out of me in a dry croak. I called her for directions and staggered out the door in my Carrie clothes. Good thing I lived in LA, where jeans and a tee-shirt were all most people wore anyway.

  **

  Two hours later I found myself approaching Beverly Hills, the halfway point on my route. I was feeling optimistic, proceeding at a maximum cruising speed of twenty miles an hour and punching the brakes every time a car or pedestrian loomed anywhere near me. Meaning every ten seconds. I had cleverly brought along a Hefty Bag so that, if I needed to, I could hurl without leaving the car.

  Trouble announced itself in the form of a red light on the dashboard. I squinted at it. I was low on gas.

  I would continue in the direction of the theater and keep an eye out for a gas station. Bicyclists and skateboarders whizzing by me, I toiled along Santa Monica Boulevard. Dimly, I heard the blare of car horns behind me. A car passed me at high speed, its driver red-faced and screaming. It seemed unhealthy to get so worked up.

  On my left were mansions with manicured lawns, on my right, logo-riddled storefronts. No gas stations. The city of Beverly Hills obviously confined its less glamorous facilities to the dark, hidden corners of town.

  I continued to drive along. Because I was looking for something, I was forced to slow down, now averaging about twelve miles per hour. Because I didn’t know which side the station would be on when I found it, I hedged my bets by driving in the left lane. People on my right whizzed by in a steady stream, many of them honking and gesturing at me. I waved back.

  A mile went by. Then… there it was! A gas station, on the right.

  Hoping to pull over, I put on my right turn signal. The cars on that side ignored me, whipping on past. Why wasn’t someone letting me in? The gas station got closer—I was right beside it.

  I did the only thing I could. I slowed to a stop. The cars behind me, forced to stop as well, laid into their horns. It seemed unconstructive to me, as I clearly already knew they were there.

  The cars in the right lane continued to stream by, ignoring my waving and signaling. I couldn’t sit here forever. Behind me, a huge pickup truck idled forward, almost hitting my bumper. Its driver, a leathery guy in a cowboy hat, looked like he was about to come through the windshield at me. Behind him, a long line of people honked and yelled.

  I put the car in park, got out, and walked around to the other side. I smiled and waved to the driver in the right lane, a man with a gray suit, a white shirt, and a very red face. His eyeballs were popping out of his head. He blasted his horn, but had no choice but to stop, since I was standing in front of him. Don’t move, I mouthed to him.

  I ran back and pulled into the gas station. Cars behind me rushed past with honks and curses, but I was focused on my goal. I drew up to a pump marked Self-service only.

  A station attendant, who had watched me enter and now saw me reach for the gas pump, raced up. “Let me do that for you,” he exclaimed.

  “Thank you!” Gratefully, I got back in my car. Who said people weren’t nice in the big city?

  Forty-five minutes later, I arrived finally in front of an industrial-looking brick building in Hollywood. “It’s falling apart,” Ellen had said. “That’s the only reason I was able to get it for my theater company.”

  She had her own theater company. Sure enough, a sign above the door said Ellen Price Productions. A simple poster of a black fist against a gray background announced, The Prisoner, written and directed by Ellen Price, starring Blake Williams and Becca Tremaine.

  The only available parking spot was a small one on the street between two SUVs. I would have to parallel park. Sweating and hauling on the steering wheel, I backed my car straight up over the curb and onto the sidewalk. “Shoot!”

  Remain calm. I pulled forward and hit the car in front of me. I backed up again. This time, I somehow maneuvered it properly into the parking spot, a mere two feet from the curb.

  I did it. Following Dr. Abbott’s advice, I gave myself a minute to savor my victory.
>
  Inside, Ellen pulled me into a tight hug. “You’re the best, Pru. C’mon, I’ll show you around!” She crutched off, me trailing behind.

  Becca materialized at Ellen’s elbow in little shorts and a t-shirt that said “It’s for the play.” Her hair was tied back in a heavy braid. Walking behind her, I felt like a brontosaurus.

  “I need to talk to you again!” She clutched at Ellen’s sleeve.

  “You will, darling. But, but be a helper now and make Pru feel welcome.” Ellen smiled sweetly.

  Becca looked around to see who Ellen was talking about, then gave me a beautiful smile. “Hi, I’m Becca.”

  She obviously didn’t remember meeting me yesterday. I didn’t say anything, not wanting to embarrass her. I forgot things too, sometimes. “I’m Pru.”

  We entered a large open warehouse space furnished with a raised wooden platform at one end. A curtain, currently pulled to the side, divided the platform from the rest of the room.

  Ellen pointed. “That’s our stage,” she said proudly. “We’ll put chairs on risers in this area, where the audience will sit.”

  “And look!” She pulled me over to peek into a tiny bathroom. “A functioning toilet! As of last week. Before that, we had to visit the taco stand across the street.”

  “This is incredible,” I said through gritted teeth. Every sound around me – the laughter, the voices, the traffic outside – grated on me like broken glass.

  I had held it together for too long. As sweat gathered along my hairline, I felt my mind begin a downward slide. I began to count silently…. seven… fourteen …. twenty-one….

  “Let’s see, you’re five hours early,” Ellen said. “Do you want to wait here or go off for a while?

  “Excuse me.” I ran for the bathroom and sat huddled on the toilet seat, my arms around my knees, rocking back and forth.

  I guessed I would wait here.

  **

  When I finally dragged myself out of the bathroom an hour later, they were in mid-rehearsal. Every molecule of air in the theater was charged with electricity. A shiver ran through me.