“That may well be.” She slowly opens the metal case again and takes out more papers. The autopsy report. The photos must be beneath it. “I’m not just here about what happened on the last night of James’ life. I’m here to find out what you’re feeling right now.”
“I told you already.”
Where the hell is Nina? Why hasn’t she swooped in to protect me from the prying eyes and anxious hands of another grown-up?
Esme gives me the once-over, starting at my Bean boots.
“That outfit you’re wearing…interesting choice,” Esme says with the phony nonchalance. She taps her pen on the metal clipboard. “That sweater’s awfully baggy. Where’d you get it?”
“No. It’s…” I look down, expecting to find the preppie creation Claude put me in and instead see the baggy, navy-blue cashmere that I gave James when he left Dayton. I must’ve changed on the ride back from Craig’s place. Everything is a blur, now.
“It belonged to my brother.”
“And the jeans?” Her eyes are fixed on the cuffs that I had to roll up a couple…well, more than a couple of times. She studies the form. I know what she’s found. James de Menich—height, 6’3; weight, 184 pounds, all of it muscle.
Remember what James looked like when you got back, Cease? That frightened boy had morphed into a man. Just about the handsomest man in New York City…sounds like something a lovesick sister would say, but it’s not. He was beautiful. He turned heads when he walked down Fifth Avenue, and I’m not just talking tourists here.
“So. Is it a crime to wear my brother’s clothes?”
“Cease. We think you’ve lost focus on who you are.”
“You think I’ve…what? What a stupid, fucking line. Did Francis give you that line?” Esme buries her head in the paperwork.
“You think I’m crazy? Well, part of being an actor means playing other people. I know who I am.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy, Cease.” Esme pushes the metal clipboard off the place mat, folds her hands congenially. “I understand you’ve been communicating with your fans online—”
“Yeah. So what?”
“Well. You have to be careful. Sometimes fans misrepresent themselves. Tell you that they’re someone else…” Esme sounds as if she’s reading questions on a form, a form that rates crazy people. “Maybe people who don’t exist? Or lived a long time ago? People you’ve been…I mean, a person, let’s say the character you were called to play—”
“Nina!” I cry, in a childlike voice of hurt that lies on the other side of betrayal; I never believed in Santa Claus, but I do believe this girl writing me online has power beyond my deepest imagination. I wait a moment until Nina re-enters the room. “You told me saints exist. We rely on them…” My chest shakes. She hurries over, stands behind me.
“Miss Esmerelda. I don’t think Cease is ready to meet with the detective until I have a chance to talk to…until I can make sense of this.” Nina looks to the front door.
“I understand.” Esme slowly pushes her card across the table. “Call me anytime to talk, Miss de Menich. Detective Brown knows that he’s to contact you personally with his questions.” Esme picks up her metal case and her bag.
“From now on, no one speaks to her about this matter without me being present,” Nina says.
I hear Nina’s voice in the hallway through the open door. “Bradstreet,” she says. “I wish to speak with Warren Bradstreet.” He’s not an actor. He’s not a friend of the family. He’s a lawyer who specializes in criminal law. She returns to her place behind me and we look across the dining room table at the empty place my brother used to occupy…waiting, through the quiet of traffic muffled through new-fallen snow, and a stopped grandfather clock I forgot to wind.
“Do you think I’m crazy, Aunt Nina?”
“No. I think you’re tired and confused. I was a fool to think this show would help you.” My mouth drops open as if I want to shout, but what comes out is a childlike pleading that sounds like it’s coming from the bottom of a pool.
“On the last night of his life, we got into a fight. I’d come back from my first audition for the role of Jeanne, and when I told him about my character he laughed and said I’d become famous playing a virgin. I told him no one became famous in this business playing a virgin…”
I try to rise. My shoulders convulse. She holds me up by the armpits.
“I killed him.”
“No. You didn’t kill him. Your brother had a mental—”
“When we played the game,” I murmur, “I got stronger and he got weaker. I saw what it was doing…I couldn’t stand to see him suffer anymore.”
“That’s not what happened, Cease. You know—”
“James told me to hurt him. He said it would make him stronger—war wounds, he called them. He didn’t want to be made fun of by people like Phil anymore.”
“That’s not the whole truth, young lady. He came home that night with bruises on his face—that place in Central Park where boys…where men…go.” I rise, fall back and she’s got me by the armpits, pulling me up—my Nina’s incredible strength comes back. The last time she did this, I was kneeling over my brother’s coffin about to do a face-plant into that hard, dark, shiny wood when Nina’s hands dug into my pits…
I grab the door as she tries to carry me into my room. “Nina. Wait. I have to tell you something.” I stand on my own feet but let her hold me by the waist. “I tried to make love to Craig today. I thought by fucking him I could become a woman. I could forget—” I bow my swollen head, wait for her condemnation.
“Good.”
“What?”
“Cease. Just because you’re playing a saint doesn’t mean you have to become one. Jeanne doesn’t want you to become a martyr. You’re a strong girl who’s overcome a lot to be here. That’s what all your fans want to see.”
“I know the Jeanne who’s writing me is real, Nina. I can feel it. She knows everything about me. You think I’m crazy?”
Nina turns me around. “No. I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re lost, tired, hurt, but not crazy.”
“Why did you invite them here?”
“I didn’t want them talking to you on the set. I didn’t want to take you down to the police station.” A buzzer rings down the hall. “This girl, Sherry. Did they really find her?” she asks.
“Yes. Her name’s Chandra. Chandra…” I’m trying to remember what else Craig said, trying to remember if what we had today was real or just part of another scene. I rub my head. “Craig’s private investigator found her, and I’m not making that up. He’s going to send the papers over to you today.”
“This Craig. Is he a nice boy?”
“He’s not a boy, Nina. He’s a man. Twenty-six years old. I’m helping him cross over…or, he’s helping me cross over…” I rise, fall back into her arms again, and then, as if I were a rag doll, she’s pulling me by the armpits across the living room, her voice muffled through the aching pain.
You need to sleep. Call for takeout…call Francis…don’t talk to anyone else about what happened that night with James.
I wake in a fog. A large, empty pizza box sits at the foot of my bed. I hear Nina in the kitchen as I roll over and find my tablet. There must be some mistake. According to FANSCAN, I’m in the lead. For what?
Joan of Arc (Cease de Menich) 2,532,222
Catherine the Great (Stephanie Coombs)2,100,250
Susan B. Anthony (Eve Lonnia) 833,154
I look down at my bra, tangled amid my top near the armoire. How could I be in first place? I wasn’t in any scene yesterday. What did I say to Craig? I know what we did together was real, not just a bunch of lines and make-believe. Real. Yes. A little too real, according to the emails I open. Someone’s posted a scene of Craig and me together on You Tube. We’re going at it in his apartment. I read the messages:
Cease,
Wow. You looked pretty hot with Craig today. You don’t have Susan’s body, but watching a hunk d
evour a virgin will definitely get you into the final round. I can’t wait to see your climax (ha-ha, get it?).
Hi Cease,
How far did it really go today with Craig? It looked pretty real, as if you didn’t even know you were being filmed. You make everything look so real. Is that why you got the part? I think you’re going to win, but personally I liked you better as a virgin.
Dear Cease,
I read that your mom’s dead and that you live with your aunt. How can she consent to your having sex for all the world to see? I know you didn’t go all the way today, but it’s only a matter of time before you do, and then decent people watching will call the police and report you for the lying slut that you are.
Dear Jeanne,
I guess you saw what I did with Craig today. I’m not ashamed of kissing him. I’m ashamed that Francis filmed it, though. I don’t feel like a girl anymore. I know that what happened is supposed to make me more like a woman, but… Maybe becoming a woman isn’t about having sex, but about getting betrayed by a man. After that, you realize all those sweet little lies guys say to get your pants off are just that, lies. And doesn’t that make you just as much of a woman as one who has sex? But what the hell would you know about love? You never fell in love with anyone real, just some bright light and an angel’s voice. So whatever lecture you have for me, I don’t really care.
Jeanne,
Are you there?
No answer.
Jeanne,
Were you ever really there?
Nina’s cleaning the Wusthoff’s and polishing silver at the dining room table when I come in.
“I have to talk to you, Nina. You know Craig, the TV star that Francis cast, right?”
She nods. “A hunk—not a lunk.” I push one of her curlers back in place. She takes my hand, gently, and gives me a sympathetic look.
“Remember I told you we almost went all the way yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Francis secretly filmed it. He put it up on You Tube.” Nina leans over and hugs me. It’s the longest hug I’ve had since the funeral.
“I know, Cease. I got it this morning in my email. I’m so glad that you told me.”
“I’ll never lie to you, Nina. I’m quitting the show. Maybe Esme’s right. I don’t really know who I am anymore.”
“If that’s the way you feel…” She props up another curler. “All I want is for you to be happy. I called Francis’ assistant and warned him not to make up any more stories about you and your brother.”
“Did you tell him I quit?”
“No.” She folds her hands neatly in her lap. Her gaze is steady, trustworthy. “That’s a decision only you can make, now.”
“But I’m just a…girl…a minor…”
“No,” she says resolutely. “Not after everything you’ve been through. I think you’re ready to make your own decisions.” I look around the room strangely; a barren stage, a production we should’ve shut down long ago. Nina as usual is reading my mind.
“We’ll rearrange the furniture, my precious. It’ll be just the way it was at that cottage in Narragansett.”
“I love you, Nina. I know this isn’t over, but I think we’re on our way out of Thebes.” I stand and look out to the monolith in the gray light. “I’m not in love anymore. But I do feel I’m in a new, more grown-up space.” I call over my shoulder as I walk down to my room, “I have to say goodbye to a friend.”
Nina nods. “Jeanne isn’t Juliet or Jocosta. She’s not a character you play, child. She’s someone you’re trying to become.”
Jeanne,
I’m leaving the show. I think that means I can’t reach you anymore. But there was one question I wanted to ask from the beginning. After everything the priests did to you, how did you still believe in God? That’s the part I just can’t figure out, no matter how much I study your character. All those lines you spoke at your trial. How could you keep your faith?
Cease,
I know as a saint I’m not supposed to say I had doubts about God. I know I’m supposed to talk about the virtues of divine love…and believe me, it’s like nothing you’ve ever felt. But that’s just it. Trying to share in words what you feel about something so awesome, a love you’ve never experienced, is hard…to share what I felt that morning beside the faerie tree is like trying to share what your first kiss really felt like. Though I think you really nailed it, Cease…a vast expanse of beach; your favorite flavor of ice cream; jasmine chocolate heath bar…that is your favorite, isn’t it? You need to feel that. I know it’s not always wholesome, but it’s a lot easier to watch than a bunch of teenagers killing each other.
There’s so much I want to share with you, but there just isn’t enough time. I have a message you need to understand before you go live tomorrow. I can’t do it all in words. Can you close your eyes? See me as a girl, as you are; human, filled with questions about my role in life. I confess that sometimes when I prayed it felt like I was just reciting lines the same way you do, lines for a drama I didn’t deserve to be cast in. Do you know what praying really is, Cease? It’s listening to the message that can be heard between all the lines you have to recite in this world. Nothing more. The clouds won’t part. No angels will speak to you, but if you listen—really listen—you’ll get a message from your heart that will show you the way.
It’s the boys and girls broken by abuse who teach me the most about love. The boys and girls (and adults) watching you online need answers about what real love feels like. Answers only you can give; a strong girl who knows what real heartbreak feels like. Stephanie’s power—the way she manipulates the gift she’s been given—is mesmerizing, as seductive as Eve’s body, but neither of them have what you’ve got…
Jeanne,
There isn’t going to be a final scene. My journey has ended. Francis shamed me for all the world to see. He filmed me making out with Craig, the star of the show, and that means by this time tomorrow I’ll either get arrested for having underage sex (which I never had) or for killing my brother.
Cease,
It isn’t over till it’s over. Your wounds have given you power you don’t yet understand. Tonight, sit quietly and think about what you’d say to all those people who think life is only about being the last girl standing.
INT—THE PLAZA HOTEL, NEW YORK CITY, AN EMPTY BALLROOM, WITH A MAKESHIFT STAGE WHERE CRAIG PACES. REPORTERS COLLECT PRESS RELEASES FROM THE CHAIRS AND FILE OUT OF THE ROOM.
PRESENT DAY
I study the crazy hodgepodge of a set he’s had constructed in the middle of the Plaza Ballroom—wood planks holding a four-poster bed adorned with purple sheets and a gold baseboard, a gossamer veil covering its canopy. Francis is huddled beside a broken-down camera on an oval table. He doesn’t even mumble a hello as I step up on the makeshift stage, ready with my farewell monologue. Craig paces beside me. He tears the gossamer veil from the bedpost.
“Where did you get this stupid water bed?” he asks. “That ’70s Show?”
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Why don’t you ask mister enfant terrible, here.”
Francis keeps his face pressed into the viewfinder and shouts, “The producers have pulled out. I still own everything.” It comes out like he’s won a battle, but he sounds like a child who’s just had a tantrum. He glares at me. I’m suddenly an outsider, a girl watching two grown men act like petulant little boys.
Time for my swan song…at least I get to say goodbye on stage.
“It’s been great working with both of…” A door slams. A huddle of suits at the far end of the room breaks up; it’s the men who stopped one of the scenes the day Claude had a heart attack. They stomp by Francis with laser stares.
“Sorry we can’t make this a Cinderella story for you, kid,” Craig says, with the same cold shrug he gave me back in his apartment. I feel like I’m one of the viewers about to press down on my choice for the next round; I should nix these drama queens. Francis doesn’t look like a god anymore.
He’s human and clueless, and Craig isn’t the confident star he was before he seduced me.
I face Craig and say, “I don’t like what you did to me in that room, Craig.”
“If you can’t stand the heat…” he says. And then, apologetically, “My PI really is sending the paperwork to your Aunt Nina.” We both turn to look at Francis. The red light on the camera is flickering. I leap off the stage and run up to him.
“Unless you want my fist through that lens, I suggest you turn that thing off.”
“I’m not done with you, yet,” he says petulantly.
“What’s that mean?” I’m still feeling hopeful.
“Call your agent. Check your email.”
No. Nina was right about you…I’m out. I don’t care what my fans think.
I hold up an empty duffel bag. “Where is my stuff?”
“Upstairs. Your driver will take you home.”
“Goodbye, Francis. I’m sorry things didn’t work out.”
I turn and see Craig is standing beside me. He puts his hand on my shoulder. I don’t push it off.
“You’ve got the magic, Cease. I’ve never seen presence like yours before.”
“You’ve got the chops to go the distance in a real movie, Craig,” I say. “But with all the shit white people pull, do you really want to cross over into our world?”
Outside, I check my tablet. There’s a still photo of me with Craig that’s been photo-shopped. It’s disgusting but the caption is even worse.
SHE KILLED HER OWN BROTHER—THEN FUCKED A STAR
I fill in the missing pieces after reading the next story from RHI.
FRANCIS NIXES POPCORN HOUSE, PRODUCERS
Lew Ericson, the new bopper at Trident, threw down the gauntlet last week in Hollywood, and Francis MacDonald just crossed the line at the Plaza Hotel in New York City this morning. Standing beside a phalanx of lawyers, Francis announced he’d be exercising his option to end his relationship with the producers.
Eric Weissman, chief counsel for Trident: “Francis has backed himself into a corner. We hope he enjoys this drama while he can. No studio can pick up a project with the content or storyline of the reality-drama called History’s Superheroes. Period.”
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