by Sarah Dreher
''You're not quitting?" Sherry asked in a small voice, turning tear-drenched eyes in her direction.
"I never said I was, did I?"
"Yes, you did."
“Well, I was only thinking out loud." Now she wasn't certain of what she had said. But she was pretty sure she hadn't used the words "quitting" or "running out."
"I need you. We all do. This whole thing will fall apart if you quit now. Everyone's suspecting everyone else. It's a mess. If we don't find out what's really going on, it's the end of Demeter Ascending."
Stoner took a deep breath and tried to smile. "Then we'd better get inside. We both have work to do."
As she got to her feet, Sherry clutched at her shirt. "Promise me something first? Please?"
"I'll try."
"Please don't talk about quitting again?"
"I didn't..." Oh, well. "I won't."
"And don't suspect me any more."
Stoner felt at a complete loss. She didn't want to make promises she couldn't keep. Everyone was under suspicion now. But Sherry was giving her that small-child-puppy-dog look again. She hated that look. It said, "Beat me, kill me, just don't reject me."
It made her want to scream, "Grow up and leave me alone!"
It made her want to do things she never did. It made her feel feelings she hardly ever felt.
It made her feel spiteful.
Sherry was still watching, waiting for her response.
"I won't suspect you," she said as gently as she could.
The woman jumped up and dusted off her shorts.
She hadn't noticed before that Sherry was wearing little, short-length overalls. They looked like a play suit. All she needed was a plastic bucket and shovel and they could all toddle down to the beach together.
"I really appreciate it," Sherry was saying. "No matter what happens, know I appreciate everything you're trying to do."
"Thank you," Stoner said.
Sherry held the screen door open for her. "Coming?"
Stoner walked through, feeling trapped.
The rest of the morning was uneventful. That is, there were no events. But it was stiff and awkward.
Roseann went through the rehearsal, but during the breaks she sat alone in the back of the barn and no one seemed to have the courage to face her. On stage, she kept her voice so low she was barely audible. Her movements were low-keyed, unsure, and Zombie-like. It was as if she were afraid to do anything that might be noticed for fear she'd be criticized.
Rebecca carried on as best she could, but she seemed reluctant to give directions to Roseann, even when she missed her blocking—as Stoner had learned to call being in the wrong place at the wrong time. As assistant director, Stoner had the job of providing missed lines and correcting movements. She had to do it so often she began to feel like a one-woman show.
It was affecting the others, too. Marcy's complaints were coming as quickly as labor pains in the final stages of child birth. Rita had taken to heaving deep, sharp sighs that sounded like "Hoh." They had even caught one another's eyes on several occasions and joined in mutual looks of frustration.
Nice for them, but hardly in the best interests of the show.
Only Divi Divi and Sherry seemed to remain above it all, but Divi Divi had entered another world and was filling page after page with large, scrawling writing. Sherry, real trouper that she was, actually seemed to be energized by the goings on, and was giving a consistent, sharp performance in her few scenes. Between times on stage, she came and sat next to Stoner, pulling up her chair to a closeness that invaded Stoner's preferred psychological space by about six inches.
Hardly a capital offense, but Stoner wished she wouldn't do it, and found herself subtly moving the chair away with her toe whenever Sherry left to go on stage. But when she returned to her seat, she’d pull it closer again.
By the time they broke for lunch, Stoner had decided she had to do something fast, before Roseann’s anxiety and timidity became a permanent condition.
She caught up with Gwen at the entrance to the dining room and determined that there had been no incidents among the techies—who were beginning to seem like a placid, peace-loving bunch compared to the actors. Gwen had heard about the events of the morning. It had been discussed at length among the back stage crew, whose general consensus had been that “some really weird shit was coming down.” But no one had had any idea who was doing it or why. Speculation had ranged from the Boy Scouts at the camp on the next lake over to the Cottage Ghost. Barb had reported that there were some pages missing from her notebook, and Gwen had managed to get a peek at the tear line. It seemed to match the tear line on Sherry’s threatening note, but she wasn’t sure. The paper matched, but since it was a standard sort of note book, available at every stationary, discount store and CVS pharmacy in the country, she didn’t think it was much of a clue.
Stoner agreed, and told her of her concern about Roseann. “I’d like to have lunch with her and get her to open up a little.” she said. “Maybe I can convince her that Rebecca didn’t really say those things.”
“Do you believe that?” Gwen said.
“Yes. Do you?”
“I don’t have a lot to go on, but, yes, I think I trust her. She reminds me of you. I’ll bet that computer file is full of doubts and obsessing.”
“Probably,” Stoner admitted. The crew had been working outside through the morning, building sets where they wouldn’t interfere with the rehearsal. Gwen’s tan had deepened. The skin over her bare arms was the color of sandstone. “Will you be okay for lunch?” Stoner asked wistfully.
“Sure. Sherry asked us to eat with her anyway. She’ll have to settle for me alone.”
More than anything else in the world, Stoner wished she could settle for Gwen alone. But she had work to do.
On second thought, she was glad Gwen would have some time alone with Sherry. She was curious to see if she’d make Gwen uneasy too. She annoyed her at times, that much was clear. But the uneasiness, this sense of being in two places at once, of feeling two contradictory things—or feeling one and knowing you ought to feel the other—was just plain strange. It was like having one foot in each of two parallel universes. If Gwen noticed it too, she might be able to shed some light on Stoner’s own reactions. She thought about mentioning it, but decided to wait, to let Gwen form her own impressions first. “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “Maybe if I tell Roseann about the other things that have been happening, and why we’re here and all… maybe it’ll put what happened to her into perspective. What do you think?”
Gwen nodded. “I feel as if we’re on the verge of having to bring it all out in the open, anyway, don’t you? I mean, how far can we let this go before we have to warn people that they could be in real danger?"
"Do you think they don't know that already?" Stoner asked. "After last night and the ladder?"
"You would, and I would. But some of them need it spelled out. You know what Edith Kesselbaum says. Denial is the American Way. Besides, it might make them feel better to know someone's working on it."
Stoner ran her hand through her hair. “If I knew it was me working on it, it wouldn't make me feel any better."
"Glory, you are obtuse," Gwen said. "See you later."
Feeling lonely and abandoned, Stoner watched her go.
Looking back on it, she was glad she'd decided to talk openly with Roseann. Not only had the woman believed her, she'd been furious that someone was trying to make Rebecca look bad. "She's one of the nicest people I ever met," she's said. "Better'n ninety-five percent of the clientele of the Unisex Styling Center that used to be Thelma's Cut 'n Curl. Though I don't suppose she'd be caught dead setting foot in a dump like that. Strikes me as the type that gets her cuts from gay men—a little more flash for the cash, if you know what I mean."
Even though it was politically incorrect, Stoner had to agree with her.
Dessert was oranges which Roseann peeled for them both, having—as she said—superior orange-peeling finger
nails which she insisted were more sanitary than Stoner's Swiss Army knife. "Vicious-looking thing," she declared, "and Lord knows what you've been hacking with it."
Stoner didn't dare tell her she'd only used it once, to cut off a length of thread when she'd sewed a button on her shirt and had lost the scissors in the bed.
“What I think I oughta do," Roseann said around a section of orange, "is apologize to Rebecca."
“Really?" Stoner took her own orange section and split the white, tough part with her thumb nails, in the middle where the seeds tended to gather. She squeezed them out onto her plate and touched her hands to her napkin.
"I thought some pretty mean stuff about her. I should have known she wouldn't do anything like that."
''You were a victim of circumstance," Stoner said. "You both were."
"Hah!" said Roseann. "If what you've been telling me is true, it's not any old abstract circumstance we're victims of. It's some mean person making trouble."
"True," Stoner said. She attacked another orange section.
“Want me to do that for you?" Roseann asked. "Your nails are all stubby."
"This part requires stubby nails. Yours'd break."
“Would not," Roseann huffed. She held up her hands and examined her nails. "Look at them. And they're all mine, too. No fakes."
"Lethal," Stoner said.
"You better believe it. They come in real handy. You never know when you're going to have to fight off some randy hooligan who said he wanted to take you out on the town when what he really had in mind was making a grab." She glanced over at Stoner. "Don't imagine you have that problem, though."
Stoner laughed. "You shouldn't, either. What are you doing, dating randy hooligans?"
Roseann shrugged. "You take what you can get."
"Tell you what." She milked the seeds out of another orange section. "I'll have Marylou get you a date. She knows a few men who aren't randy. And some who aren't even hooligans."
"I don't know." Roseann looked sad. "I probably couldn't keep up my end of the conversation."
Someone else might have been hinting for reassurance, but Roseann said it as if it were a matter of fact, one which made her unhappy, but one everyone would agree with.
"I haven't noticed you having a hard time," Stoner said.
''You're easy," Roseann commented, and handed her another orange section.
Stoner grimaced. "I don't know whether to thank you for the compliment or not."
''Yeah. World's a funny place, isn't it? You hardly know how to take things. Just when you think you have a handle on it, it all shifts."
The afternoon seemed endless. They rehearsed, and rehearsed, and rehearsed some more. The play still didn't make much sense to Stoner, but she assumed that was because they were doing it out of chronological order, skipping around Sherry's part while she finished in the kitchen. And the musical numbers. She hoped the musical numbers would add something to the play. Like clarity.
They probably would. Divi Divi had explained to her that ever since "Oklahoma!" musical numbers were supposed to advance the story as well as entertain. She was about to launch into a quick run-down on the history of the American Musical Theater when Rita needed a cue and a blocking check. Too bad. She'd hoped Divi Divi could explain the endless appeal of The Fantastiks.
If the musical numbers didn't help, maybe she should take time tonight and read Not Quite Titled through from beginning to end.
If she had time.
What she really wanted to do was go into town on some pretext, call Aunt Hermione, and ask for help from the Astral plane.
Clara and Esther had presented her with a list of the comings and goings of everyone staying at the Cottage. She had witnessed most of them herself, and the rest didn't seem to have anything to do with anything.
Clara had made her a pass key that could open all the rooms. She'd made it from her room key and a nail file. It convinced her that anyone with a little ingenuity could get into the rooms.
Roseann had obviously believed what Stoner told her, and she and Rebecca were having a reunion that resembled a courtship, with a great deal of laughing and touching and nudging and teasing. The rest of the company seemed tremendously relieved. Nothing made Marcy miss her timing, and even Seabrook couldn't find anything to complain about.
Gwen came back from lunch late and without Sherry. She looked spacey, the way she often did when she was confused. Stoner wasn't surprised. An entire lunch with Sherry Dodder was undoubtedly a confusing experience.
She wanted to ask her how it had gone, but just as she was about to slip out, the blocking got completely mixed up and everyone ended up on the right-hand side of the stage... stage right, Rebecca explained. Having everyone on the same side of the stage was apparently a theater taboo. As was having everyone on the same level, all standing or all sitting or all at the front or the back... the taboos were endless. This particular one had happened every time they got to this part of the play, and Rebecca declared it had to be straightened out once and for all before the actors "set" it, meaning becoming incapable of moving any other way. This involved finding the exact moment where things went off, and required following the script word for word while Rebecca sorted it out.
Gwen's impressions of Sherry would have to wait.
Sherry herself didn't show up until about fifteen minutes later, then spent the next fifteen minutes apologizing and explaining a kitchen crisis in minute detail until Rebecca's eyes began to roll up in her head and she asked if they could please get back to business.
By the time the afternoon was over, everyone was hot, exhausted, and ready to either play or fight. Boneset announced that she would be conducting a healing ritual in the clearing by the lake at moon rise for anyone who was in need or just interested in raising healing energy, please bring songs, drums, and stories to share. S'mores would be provided around the ritual bonfire.
This shocked Rita, who found it sacrilegious, but Roseann explained—to everyone's surprise—that it was common practice for Wiccan festivals to end in singing and dancing and feasting. After all, all acts of love and pleasure were the Goddess' rituals, she declared.
Marcy looked at her funny and asked how come she knew that.
Roseann explained that one of her customers, a Ms. Moore, was a Witch and had told her all about it.
Stoner cringed, afraid she was about to add that Ms. Moore was also Stoner's aunt. It would arouse suspicion about her motives for being there. And, while the time was fast approaching when she might have to tell all, she wanted to be able to time it for maximum impact.
Fortunately, Roseann was diverted by Boneset, who said there was one little part of the ritual she was unsure about, and maybe this Ms. Moore had said something that would help her sort it out. They went off together.
Gwen came forward from the back of the barn and dropped down into the chair next to her. There was sawdust in her hair, and spatters of paint on her face and arms. She was sweaty and droopy and limp as a wrung out towel. Stoner thought she looked adorable.
"Do you think that lake water's really swimmable?" she asked. "The other day, I thought there might be things in it."
"Things?" Stoner asked.
"Disgusting things. Things that nibble at our legs. Squishy things piled up on the bottom. Blood-sucking things."
"Beats me." She caught Sherry's eye and waved her over.
"No nibbling things," Sherry said. "But, yes, we have a few blood-suckers. Only a few."
"Only a few," Gwen repeated tonelessly.
"The Peking ducks keep the swimming area pretty clear, but they can't get them all."
Stoner didn't remember seeing any Peking ducks when they were at the lake. But perhaps they'd been laying low. On a nest or something. Hatching dozens of Peking ducklings which would go on a feeding rampage and rid the lake of leaches forever.
She wondered if the Peking ducks in Chinese restaurants were fed on leaches, and was immediately sorry she'd let her mind wander.<
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"Listen," Sherry was saying, "if you're squeamish about the lake bottom..."
"We're not squeamish," Stoner assured her.
"Stoner isn't squeamish," Gwen corrected. "I am congenitally squeamish."
"There's a canoe in the boat house. Paddle out to the middle of the lake. You can't even touch the bottom."
"Sounds good," Gwen said.
Sherry gave a little hop. "Have to go. Dinner prep."
"Right," Stoner said, and smiled warmly and insincerely.
''You don't like her," Gwen said as Sherry trotted away.
"She's okay, I guess. How was it at lunch?"
"Fine."
"Did you have any impressions about her?"
Gwen looked at her, one eyebrow raised. "Impressions?"
"Like..." She made circles with her hand. "Like, what kind of person she is or anything?"
"Nope. Nothing." She got up.
That was oddly abrupt, Stoner thought. Or maybe she was just being hypersensitive.
A hot, muggy air mass had moved in while they were rehearsing. It wrapped around her skin and felt like algae. Stoner hoped it'd be cooler out on the lake. She needed to talk to Gwen, but it was hard to concentrate when all you could think about was getting out of the sun. She was reminded of their times in Wyoming and Arizona, where it was even hotter than this. But there was no humidity there, and relief was as close as the nearest shade.
Gwen walked along looking at the ground, silent. Stoner was worried. She'd seen her in this kind of brooding silence before, but not in a long time. It meant she was deeply angry, or deeply troubled.
She couldn't think of anything she'd done to provoke it. And there'd been no letters or phone calls bearing bad news. It might have been that lunch with Sherry, or something that happened with the tech crew.
She knew Gwen would tell her, sooner or later. But it made her nervous, uneasy—apprehensive.
Edith Kesselbaum would invite her to look for the transference. "This is obviously an old thing," she'd say.
Yes, it felt old. As old as time and something she'd always have with her.
"And when have you felt it before? Go with it, Stoner. Use the feeling to open doors."