cease and desist

by stephen david hurley

  There’s a long pause—a giant blank bubble that hangs over our heads. I know, once and for all, I have to fill in what needs to be said.

  “Avril and Etienne didn’t take to the stage,” I begin, as if I’m reciting a monologue—a part I don’t want to play. “I understand, Nina.” I feel a notch in my chest loosen as I say it and look desperately to the hallway because I want to run back to my room.

  Focus, Cease. This is the speech Jeanne wants you to give.

  “Nina. I think I understand. James carefully researched the lives of Avril and Etienne for a reason.” I open my mouth, no words come out. This is no longer drama; this is the story of my life. “Dominique’s children had no desire to become famous, to change the world. They just loved each other…” I take a deep breath, and as my lungs expand I feel another notch of that bolt of grief come loose. “My mother thought this was proof that the gift had skipped our generation. Therefore, she had inherited it.”

  Nina turns me around slowly by the shoulders and says, “They played the game too, child. They loved each other as you loved James. But because they had no desire to use the gift they’d inherited to become famous, your mother assumed they didn’t have the gift at all, and because it’s recessive that meant my sister had gotten it—or so she thought. She just needed to find another like-minded soul to activate it.”

  “That’s why my mother abused him, isn’t it?” I insist. Nina cocks an ear and pretends not to hear. The same way I pretend not to remember. I fold my arms across my chest.

  Nina says, “You must believe me, Cease. I took the books away from her and said I wanted no part of her crazy hocus-pocus.”

  But it’s too late for her excuses. It’s too late to hide behind my character for what I’ve done, and we both know it. I’ve got to give a speech. I’ve got to confess. Not just to my Nina. Not just to some detective and a social worker. I’ve got to tell others what happens when you get so ambitious you want to hurt the people you’re supposed to love.

  “Yes.” I point down at the faded blue line connecting the brother and sister. “Here’s the diagonal line. Faded but it’s there.”

  “Dominique called me one afternoon in November. She’d found my sister with Etienne in his room. She was holding him, reciting some weird incantation. It was then I took all the books away.” Nina’s gaze turns protective. “Two weeks later, she took off one morning headed west. She never even told me where she was going. I got a message from that place you lived east of Los Angeles.”

  I look down at my history balancing on the ancient wood of the pew. “I understand what James was trying to get me to see. I understand what he was saying on the last night of his life…or at least, I understand some of it.”

  Nina waits. I gather my courage. “They were normal. Avril and Étienne were real and normal, like all those people writing me online…” My voice trails off. We both turn to look out the window at the flurries swirling around the courtyard. I close my eyes; remember trying to steady the ice pack on his face. “The bruises had only made James more handsome—not the pretty boy he was afraid of becoming, but a rugged leading man. It was then I told him I’d gotten called back for a weird show directed by a famous director named Francis MacDonald. A big break. Just like Juliet. And then he said I’d become famous playing a virgin. I laughed. But I could tell his hurt went a whole lot deeper than those bruises on his face. I told him this would be my last audition. My last show. I’d buy a cottage on the Hudson. He could write and I’d just do stage work in the city…we could play the game.” I feel a loosening in my chest. My shoulders tense.

  Nina takes my hand. I want to push her away. “This isn’t going to be easy, child. There’s a part of you that wants to hang on to the drama, a part of you that wants to blame yourself for what happened that night.” Nina bows her head. I’m relieved. She’s right…and I’m ready; ready to let go of that lame martyr I’ve been hiding behind. The snow’s turning to a hard sleet that slants across the yellowing lights below. My tablet’s been ringing from my bed.

  “I have to get that.” I race toward my room.

  Nina calls after me, “What are the numbers from your scene with Stephanie?”

  “At least ten million in the eight-to-fifteen-year-old demographic, according to FANSCAN,” I shout from my room. By now I’ve missed the call, but it was Brad. I run back into the living room. “That doesn’t include the adult audience and isn’t factored for how much they might grow in the three hours from the start time.”

  “Let’s review after dinner. Craig will make the final choice after you conclude with Stephanie?”

  “Yes. Actually, the fans watching will make the final choice, but Craig will choose which one of us will be his lover, the girl who helps him save the world.” I point down to the last paragraph of the attachment entitled Rules of the Final Round. “But those are the official rules…we both know there will be only one girl left for Craig after Cate, Susan, and I go at it.”

  Nina says nothing. Her nod tells me she knows the score. I’m thinking of my final speech…will I get a final speech? My auto-da-fe—that’s what they called it in Jeanne’s day. An Act of Faith, a confession. Why did Jeanne confess? She hadn’t done anything wrong.

  “Cease? It’s Brad. Have you gotten your final scene yet?”

  “No. You?”

  “No.” He must be calling from the street. I can hear traffic. “But I’ve got to meet you. We can’t talk over the phone.” It sounds awfully cryptic for Brad—but then, this is the boy who duped me into believing we’d walk hand-in-hand down the red carpet together.

  If this is a trick, Brad, watch out. That little ingénue who swooned at our kiss has left the building.

  “Sure. Where are you?”

  “Francis has moved us to a hotel in midtown. It looks like there’s a bunch of billboards outside my window, and that’s Broadway below.”

  “That’s Times Square, Brad.”

  “Yeah. I can see a theater. Your bio says you live on 89th Street and East End Avenue. I could take a cross—”

  “I don’t live on the Upper East Side anymore. We’re down in Tudor City.” I hear a clicking, his fingers pressing into a tablet keyboard.

  “I’ve got it—near the United Nations building. We could meet at a club.”

  “We’re too young to get into most clubs. Just a second.” I stick my head out into the hall. “Nina. Can Brad come over?”

  “Yes. But you two are to stay in the living room and I want him gone by ten. You’ve got a big day tomorrow, young lady.”

  “Brad. Take the A train down to 34th Street and then transfer.” I give him the address.

  “Got it. See you soon.”

  I race down the hall, collect the genealogies still scattered on the floor, and put them carefully in the bookcase. I pull the Chippendale chair into the living room, as far away from the bookcase and the cloisters as possible. We’ll sit, we’ll strategize. Because Brad’s made it to the final round he can mix things up, and I intend to keep all my options open. I look over the living room. A coleus Nina planted is beginning to bud on the windowsill. After tomorrow this silly reality-drama will be over and I’ll be free. Nina will probably insist I go to college, and there I’ll meet a normal boy and fall in love.

  Free? Wake up, Cease. You’re going live tomorrow with real weapons; one of your adversaries will probably be high on cocaine, the other is so cold and calculating she took out two men in an alley without batting an eye.

  I walk circles round the coffee table until the doorbell rings. Brad hands me a collection of irises and we hug on the threshold. He’s wearing a white sweatshirt with red horizontal lines that make his chest look bigger. We kiss and then he pulls me into a desperate hug.

  “I ran the last two blocks,” he says. “It’s sleet now. No more snow.”

  “Let me get a vase for these,” I say, pulling away from him. “Take a seat in the chair and I’ll sit on the couch.” I run to the kitchen as Brad takes
a seat, looks out through the window to First Avenue below.

  “Tudor City,” he says. “Funny, how it fits with your character.”

  “The Tudors were later, Brad, but yeah, sometimes it feels as if I’ve never left the set.” He looks older, a lot less the Boy Scout—scared, too, like some of the boys I brought home looked after I’d left them alone with my brother. He rubs his wet hands on his navy blue corduroys. He downs the water I give him, hands back the glass, speaks as if he’s got some great secret to share.

  “I think we still have a shot, Jeanne. I’ve been hearing all sorts of things…” He shrugs in that way I’m weary of, and then comes the lopsided grin that tells me he’s got a secret.

  “We?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, you’re a realist—that’s what I liked about you from the start. But face it, you don’t have a shot with Craig. You just don’t have enough experience.”

  Experience? Does he mean the kind of experience Catherine has on stage? Because when my training kicks in—and when I hit my mark tomorrow, my training will kick in—I’ll go toe-to-toe with any actress in this city.

  But I can tell by the way he looks down at his feet, after he says it, and makes a wry smile, that’s not the experience he’s talking about.

  “You think I don’t know how to please a man like Craig?”

  “No.” Brad holds up a stop-sign hand. “I mean, yes.” He wipes his wet hand on his thigh. “I’ve looked at all the possible scenarios, and I think I’ve got a way for us both to come out on top. Maybe you’ll go up against Eve. But you’ll lose to her and I’ll rescue you, the way I did after Francis tried to axe you.” I follow his eyes as he talks—they dart to the right, then down to his boots…

  “So, you were the one who saved me from getting axed?”

  “Well,” he shrugs, “I talked to Francis, but I don’t have any real power.”

  I’m sick of this bullshit boys pull. They think I don’t know the score just because I’m a virgin. I feel the cool, furious rage rise in my chest. So that makes a woman to you, mister Boy Scout? Eve’s got more experience in bed, so what? I try to look disgusted to hide the fear and the hurt. I stand, walk over to him. I’m wearing the navy-blue cashmere V-neck Nina bought me after my rave review for Juliet. I pull the sleeves up, slowly. I arch my back. I’m not wearing a bra—not very ladylike. Brad’s eyes are glued to my breasts the same way they were glued to Eve’s phony peaks after she pulled off her chest plate. I place my forearm gently against his ear and then draw it slowly, like a bowstring, across his face.

  “You’re wet,” I whisper in his ear. “I know what it feels like to be with a boy I just can’t keep my hands off of.”

  “Well,” Brad’s voice cracks, as I brush my breasts against his face. “You’re so beautiful compared to her, and I know you’ll develop a fan base…” I brush my fingers through his hair. Should I kiss him?

  He says, “…and once you lose to Eve—”

  I pull back. “Wake up, little boy.” I slap him across the mouth. “Eve sent you down here, didn’t she?”

  “No. Why would you ever—”

  “Liar,” I shout. I see the hurt and near-rage flash across his face.

  “We just want what’s best for you.” I unleash my maniacal laugh. “That’s big of you—sounds like she’s got another wannabe loser under her finger. I’ve seen what girls like Eve can do to boys like you.”

  “Watch out, Cease. She’s going to hurt you tomorrow.”

  “Wow, I’m really scared, Brad.” I hold up my hand and let him see how steady it is. “You should’ve picked a better actor to have sex with, Brad. Tomorrow, at least ten million people are going to watch me show her what real love feels like.”

  Brad grabs my forearm, squeezes—and through clenched teeth he says, “Eve and I are going to win, so just back the fuck off—”

  “Let go, Brad. Or you’ll get what Rex got.”

  “What’s going on?” Nina’s in the doorway, pulling her robe in that worried-sick way.

  “Nothing,” I say. “We were just rehearsing.” And we are. The same way Craig and I were just rehearsing when he held me and said it was time to raise the stakes; the same way my whole life has become one big scary improv fit for the stage. Only tomorrow will be the climax, and it will be live with no chance of a do-over.

  “Good luck tomorrow, Brad,” I say, as I follow him to the door. “May the odds be ever in your favor.”

  I stand at the threshold of Nina’s bedroom door, holding a cup of hot chocolate She’s propped up, reading a book about Saint Paul. She pulls the wool blankets down to make space for me. “Just the way you like it,” I say, “with the marshmallows.”

  Hot chocolate in bed—a ritual we started after I’d survived my first week of this show. I’d come home after marching across battlefields, all my fear and sadness tightly held beneath the armor of a warrior saint. But then I’d get home, run into her arms and cry and cry and cry, and when I stopped she’d hold me and I’d fill the void with memories of the boy who molded me like clay…One door has closed…that was then…and the door that’s opening, now? We couldn’t see where it would take me.

  I hand her the cup of hot chocolate and climb beside her. She takes a sip, puts the cup down on her nightstand, beside a photo of me on a swing and James pushing me from behind. She gives me a grave look, her eyes peering over the pince-nez like a protective hawk. The radiators are clacking. The silence sits between us like the heavy, wool blankets on the bed.

  I have volume III. I turn to the blue ribbon and a family that defies my dramatic imagination.

  De menil. A normal family, who lived and loved and died.

  I put my hot chocolate down, shake my head slowly. “Nina. I think I get it. The last night with James, what I should be remembering. It’s not about the drama. He was trying to get me to see something in these pages; a brother and sister who’d played the game as we had. She died. He lived. They didn’t move mountains, start a revolution, cure world hunger—they were just a couple of kids who loved their parents and loved each other. There wasn’t anything dramatic about them; they were real and normal—people my brother most wanted to be. I feel the bolt of grief loosen. Nina has me in an intense gaze. I thought we had to look for the drama and the pain. But we don’t…he just…” I turn to my brother’s sad face in the photograph, “wanted us to be a normal family. There doesn’t have to be any drama, just love. That’s what he was trying to tell me, wasn’t he?” I watch a tear descend her sagging cheeks.

  “I love you, Nina.”

  “The video Phil took was real. I swear it. But James didn’t kill himself because of what Phil and Serena did to him.” Nina takes off her glasses and holds my hand. “We’d already gotten our revenge on Phil and Serena, or didn’t I tell you?” I can’t remember if I’d confessed to the big caper James and I had pulled to pay back the Van der Ebbs.

  “No. You didn’t say anything about that,” she says.

  “Do you remember how handsome he looked in the Brioni tuxedo I got him?” Nina gives me an accusing look, so I quickly add, “The one I bought with the money I got from Vampire Grrls.” She nods. “You should’ve seen him in that Brioni tux as he walked up Fifth Avenue. James turned heads, and I’m not talking just tourists here, but all those rich vampires on the Upper East Side looked at him, looked at both of us—as if we were the talk of the town. Do you remember that evening we went to the fundraiser at the Met?”

  Nina nods.

  “We hadn’t been invited to the fundraiser, Nina, but Serena and Phil had been. James and I played the game and decided we could become them. And we did. That was my idea. You would’ve been…”

  I’m about to say, proud. But she’s got the apprehensive mask back on.

  “What the hell was I supposed to do? You saw what was happening to him.” I could stop, but it’s time to share everything with my Nina. “James hacked into Phil’s email and found messages from one of Mr. Van der Ebb’s business ass
ociates that suggested a mutual attraction, and that’s when we found the invitation to a fundraiser to be held in the Egyptian wing of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.” I brace my shoulders.

  “Our names were on the list, because we were Serena and Phil by then.” I check to see if this is sinking in. Nina props up her knees as if she’s preparing…

  “The real Serena and Phil were in Nantucket. I’d dyed James’ hair blond. But he didn’t even need a disguise. He had his Phil down as well as I had my Serena. I found the older man who was Phil’s love interest. James took him behind the Pharaoh’s tomb and made out as I photographed them from the shadows. Then we danced to a laser show and admired a thirty-foot-tall ice sculpture that was absolutely gorgeous until James took a fireman’s axe and chopped it to bits as about two hundred of Phil and Serena’s friends and neighbors looked on. We escaped into the park and laughed so hard we both cried. We sent the tape to every student at Dayton, and Mr. Van der Ebb paid all the damages and didn’t even try to arrest us. Go figure.”

  For an instant a look of delight flits across Nina’s face, but she recovers and says, “It’s time for you to see where all this will take you if you don’t stop and face it now.”

  “I don’t know who we really are, Nina,” I plead.

  “You’re a girl who’s trying to become a woman,” she insists. “You got into a fight on the last night of his life…” She pushes her legs flat, pulls me in. “James was trying to tell you something about what he’d found in our history, what he knew about the game you played—“

  “Yes,” I say, defensive. “But I need to do this my way…my own way.” My chest tightens. God. I’ll say anything to finally be free of this bolt of grief. Something about that night we pranked the Van der Ebbs will help me set the stage.

  “Nina, we ran right into Central Park after we fled the Met, to Panther Hill. James was laughing so hard he was crying. I’d never seen him so happy when we lay down and looked up to the stars. I put my head on his chest and said we’re free of those people for good. James laughed, but said there was a price we had to pay for the gift I’d been given. I thought it was crazy talk, my brother trying to throw off all the guilt over what our mother had done to him.” I look at Nina for an answer but she has her hands clasped tightly in prayer. “What did he mean? I told him we’d already paid our dues. We deserved all the good things that were coming our way. He wasn’t playing Phil anymore. But the person he was playing wasn’t my brother James.” I bow my head. “That was when I knew something was seriously wrong with my brother.” I say, and check to see if any of this is making sense to Nina. I get up, pace the foot of the bed.