Reign

Scene 9

The next morning, Ann Deems came to the Venetian Theatre to begin her new job. Donna Franklin gave her a tour of the building, and then showed her to a small office on the second floor just down the hall from Donna and Steinberg's two-office suite. There, she began to fill out the first of the forms that would become such a large part of her life. Dennis had not been there to greet her, nor had she expected that he would, and she was relieved not to have to see him again so soon after their last meeting.

Halfway through lunch, which Ann ate at her desk, Donna appeared at the door. "You have a visitor," she said. "Your daughter?"

Donna stepped back, allowed Terri to enter the tiny room, and left them alone. "Sit down," Ann said. "Here, let me move these papers."

"You look like you've settled in," said Terri, who remained standing. Ann noticed that she had her portfolio with her. "Are you feeling particularly fulfilled yet?"

"Terri dear, when you are all grown up and married, I hope you have a daughter exactly like mine."

"Thank you, mother. Now. Who do I have to… bribe to meet Marvella Johnson?"

Ann thought for a moment. She had made whatever loose arrangements she had with Dennis, and had no idea if he had even mentioned the situation to Marvella Johnson. Then she looked at the phone on her desk, at the initials next to the push buttons, in particular the one marked DKH, and made up her mind. "Hold on," she said, picked up the receiver, and pushed the button. Sid answered, but in less than a minute she was talking to Dennis, who sounded happy to hear her voice, and told her to bring Terri to the costume shop, where he would introduce them to Marvella.

Terri followed Ann silently down the hall and up the stairs. The place was such a labyrinth that Ann felt secretly proud that she remembered her way there. When they entered, Dennis was standing next to Marvella, his beaming face in harsh contrast to her wrinkled and frowning countenance. After the introductions, during which Marvella did not speak one intelligible word, Dennis walked Ann back to her office, leaving Terri and the costumer alone.

"I don't think they hit it off," said Ann, as she sat behind her desk.

Dennis chuckled as he leaned against the door frame. "Marvella doesn't hit it off with anyone. The costume shop is her domain, and she sees everyone else as interlopers – at least until they've worked with her for a while and she realizes they don't have smeared chocolate on their fingers or sabotage on their minds. Don't worry, they'll get along. And if Terri's good, she'll get the job."

"I hope so. I'd like to see her happy again."

"Again? How long has it been?"

"Oh, since she was six."

They laughed, and Ann realized she felt comfortable with Dennis. Maybe, she thought, this could work out after all. They seemed to be friends now, and there was no reason they could not remain so, no reason they had to become anything more.

~* ~

Marvella Johnson's frown was a forced one. It took a great deal of effort to make her facial muscles press the sides of her mouth down so far, but, she thought, it was worth it. If she could get them crying, or at least get that lower lip trembling, then she knew they were busted, and would go away thanking sweet Jesus that they weren't going to work with the tyrannous Marvella Johnson.

But this girl – this Terri – was one tough cookie. She gave Marvella back stare for stare, and slapped her designs on the work table as though daring her prospective boss to criticize them. Marvella liked that. It meant the girl wasn't prepared to put up with bullshit. Marvella hadn't put up with bullshit for years. "This all you brought?" she asked Terri, her steely black fingers flipping through the contents of the portfolio like a harrow through weeds.

"You want more, I can get more. But I don't have it here." She sounded, Marvella thought, just pissed off. There wasn't the trace of a sob.

"No, I guess this's enough to show me what you can do. The designs are fine, but what about the construction? You good with a machine?"

"I've built everything you see there." The girl took a colored envelope from her purse. "Here are the photos." She tossed the envelope so that it spun twice before it hit the table.

Marvella snorted, picked it up, and looked through the pictures inside. They were damn good, she thought, with the disappointment she always felt when she found someone she knew was good enough to work for her. It had to be done. She needed someone even now, for the bulk of the work was creeping up on her. Alone, she would be in no condition to costume the show due to open in the spring. Nope, no way around it. She could hire some of the people she'd worked with before, and when the time came, probably would. But she needed someone now, someone who would work like hell and take no shit except from her, and was damn good at what she did. Who knows, she thought, maybe I might even learn to like the little bitch.

Marvella tossed the pictures on the table and looked up at the girl. "You start next Monday. Work out the salary with Miss Franklin."

~* ~

Sweet Jesus! Terri thought, and felt the smile burst across her face before she could contain it. She thought about pushing it back, then decided what the hell, Marvella Johnson had already seen it. The only thing more uncool than losing your cool was doing it and then pretending you hadn't. "Thanks, Ms. Johnson."

"Don't load any of that 'Miz' crap on me. That's what my mama used to call the ladies she did floors for. Marvella'll be fine. We're on an equal footing here, except for what I say goes." She nodded her head several times as she looked at Terri appraisingly. "Yeah, you're gonna be fine. But get outta here now, I got work to do."

"Sure. And thanks." Marvella waved a hand in reply and turned back to her work. Terri couldn't call her Marvella. Not yet.

She felt jubilant as she walked down the hall to the elevator she had passed on the way up. For a moment she thought of finding her mother and telling her that she had gotten the job, but decided not to. She would drop it at the dinner table tonight, subtly, as though it was no big thing, just something that she deserved. Although Terri was surprised Marvella had chosen her, she didn't want Ann to know that. No, she would let Ann think that the real surprise would have come if Marvella had not offered her the job. That would piss her off royally.

The elevator doors opened, and Terri got on and pushed 1. The three story ride was slow, and Terri started to think about Dennis Hamilton. He was good looking, there was no doubt of that, and the way that he carried himself was a real turn-on – like someone born to be rich and famous. And too, when he had looked at her in the costume room, was she imagining it or had he examined her with more than ordinary interest? His smile had been very warm, and she was sure she had caught him, just for a moment, looking at her legs.

She giggled as the elevator doors opened, then stepped out into the large, elegant lobby, too busy with her thoughts to see the vast and priceless oriental rug over which she walked, the marble arches that spread over her, the Emperor looking down on her from the mezzanine balcony above.

~* ~

I shall have this one. Perhaps the mother later, but first the young one. I'll have her flesh, and with it I shall do whatever I want.

Whatever the Emperor wants.

Scene 10

That evening Marvella worked late in the costume shop. She wouldn't have normally, but Robin had sent a script down from New York by Federal Express. It was the script, the one that looked like the best possibility for production by the New American Musical Theatre Project, and Marvella decided immediately that she would have to see what pieces already existed for the 1930's American city milieu in which the show was set.

She had gone to the costume shop after dinner, climbed up the rickety stairway to the fifth-floor loft, and begun to go through the racks of unironed (and in many cases uncleaned) clothes that she had not yet explored. When she found a costume she thought might be serviceable, she threw it over the edge of the loft and let it float down to the floor of the shop below. By nine o'clock, when she paused to look over the edge, she discovered that she had quite a pile below, and decided to take a break.

Marvella always took her own coffee grinder and drip coffee maker wherever she went. To offer her coffee from a machine was tantamount to giving pork to a rabbi. It simply wasn't done, and no one did it twice. Now Marvella ground six scoops of Blue Mountain beans, one of the few luxuries she allowed herself, poured fresh water in the reservoir, turned the switch to on, and sat back for a minute while the coffee brewed and the air filled with its deliciously bitter-smelling steam.

The ragged bubbling had nearly stopped when the door to the costume room opened. "Looks like I'm just in time," said Sid, ushering Whitney, who was clad in pajamas and clutched a stuffed zebra, ahead of him.

"You want a cup?" Marvella asked.

"No thanks."

"Then what brings you here? And what brings the child?"

"I couldn't sleep, Grandma," Whitney said, going to her grandmother and attempting to put her little arms around her. "I missed you too much.”

“What's wrong with Sid?" asked Marvella, trying to sound stern.

"He's not as soft to hug."

"I guess I'll take that as a compliment. Okay, you can stay here for a while. I'll be through soon. Thanks, Sid."

"My pleasure. I can watch your TV as easy as mine. G'night." He gave Whitney a peck on the cheek and left.

"So what are you gonna do now?" Marvella asked her granddaughter.

"Just watch you. I'll watch you work, and then I can see what you do, and then when I'm old enough I can be your helper, like that new lady you hired." The girl walked over to the pile of clothes and started rummaging through them. "When can I meet her, Grandma?"

"Oh soon," Marvella sighed, sipping her black coffee with pleasure. "Real soon now."

~* ~

Soon, Grandma said. Everything was always soon, and Whitney was tired of "soon." Grandma would be done in the costume shop "soon," Whitney was going to go back to her mother "soon," Grandma would teach Whitney to sew "soon" as she had some time. Whitney gave a big, deep sigh, just the way she had seen the little girl on The Cosby Show do it, but Grandma didn't say anything, didn't ask her, like Bill Cosby always asked his little girl, what was wrong.

Maybe this new lady would be nice, Whitney thought. Maybe she'd want to do things now and not "soon." Grandma had said she was nice, and Whitney was anxious to meet her. So was soon tomorrow or next week or the week after, or…

No. Oh no. Soon was right now.

Whitney looked at her Grandma and saw that her back was to the lady, so she couldn't see her. But Whitney could, and knew that it had to be this Terri who Grandma had told her about at dinner. She had bright red hair, cut just below her ears, and glasses, but really pretty glasses that didn't make her look like an owl like some glasses did to people like Miss Franklin. She looked just like Grandma had said, only she wasn't crabby-looking at all. She was smiling at Whitney, a big, wide smile that showed all her teeth, and Whitney was surprised at how white her teeth were, almost like they were glowing.

The woman put a finger to her lips, as though she didn't want Whitney to tell her grandma that she was there, and winked at Whitney with her bright green eyes. Whitney winked back, and the woman smiled even more then, gestured over to the narrow stairway that led up to the loft, and began to tiptoe in that direction. She was a great tiptoer. Everybody made noise when they walked around the costume shop because the floor was so creaky, but Whitney couldn't hear the woman's footsteps at all, not even when she started up the stairway and beckoned to Whitney to follow her.

Whitney, in her own opinion, was a great tiptoer, since she was so light the floorboards refused to give beneath her. She held her breath as she followed the woman, around the pile of clothes, across the floor, and up the steps. Whitney couldn't see her now. She must have gotten to the top and turned to the left and was waiting for Whitney. What was she going to do? Some surprise for Grandma, that was it. Maybe they could scare her.

"Hello?" Whitney whispered, and clapped her hand over her mouth dramatically, the way she had seen the little girl on Cosby do it when she said something she shouldn't have.

"Whitney?" came her grandma's voice from below. "Where are you, honey?"

She had to answer. "Up here, Grandma. Just exploring."

"Well, you be careful and stay away from the edge. That banister's not much to speak of, so you stay back."

"I will, Grandma," she said. She was at the top of the stairs now, but still couldn't see the redheaded woman she had followed. On the left was the open area of the loft and a small work table, while to the girl's right were three racks of clothing parallel to the wall, so that only the front one was visible to Whitney. Where was the woman? Was she hiding behind one of those rows of clothes? Did she want Whitney to come and hide with her too? And then they could get Grandma to come up and look for them and jump out at her and scare her? That had to be it, and Whitney suppressed a giggle as she tiptoed across the boards of the loft, peering between the costumes that hung like dozens of scarecrows on the fat, steel pipes.

"Hello?" Whitney whispered again, softly enough this time so that she didn't have to put her hand over her mouth. But there was no answer. Okay then, Whitney would just have to find her.

Slowly she made her way down the rack of costumes, pausing after every half dozen or so to separate and look behind them for the lady. At worst, she expected Grandma's helper to lean forward, make a face, and whisper Boo. But when she pulled the costumes apart at the exact middle of the rack to reveal who was standing behind them, no one said Boo. No one said a thing. And what Whitney had expected to be the worst would have been merely playful in comparison to the reality.

It was not a young, redheaded woman with kind green eyes and glasses who now stood a yard away from Whitney. Instead it was a creature out of a worse nightmare than any little girl could imagine. Everything was bad, but the eyes were the worst of all, or rather the absence of eyes. Where they should have been were two black pits, their utter darkness in vicious contrast to the icy whiteness of the skin and the long hair that, shroud-like, framed the face. Yet deep within the sockets Whitney saw red specks burning brightly, like coals when you blow on them.

The mouth opened slowly, as if cranked, and the exhalation that rippled over Whitney was more foul than anything she had ever confronted in her eight years of life. She felt a sudden warm dampness, knew that she had wet her pajamas, and for an instant shame swept over her before the fear bludgeoned its way back.

Now something moved at the bottom of her field of vision, and she saw that the hands, sharp talons from which gray flesh was flaking, were coming up toward her across the surface of the thing's blood-red dress, and the monstrous head was growing closer as well, the nightmare face nearing her own.

Whitney's hands fell to her side, and the costumes closed together, blocking the woman from her sight, breaking the spell the lich had laid upon her, giving her just enough time to back away a few steps before the gray, rotting claws darted from between the costumes, pushed them violently to either side, and the woman came toward her again, quickly now, her legs unseen beneath the long red dress she wore, the red coals of the eyes blazing as though buffeted by a tornado.

" Grandma! " Whitney screamed, still backing away, unable to turn her gaze from the thing bearing down on her. Then her head hit the railing of the loft, and she was through, falling backward, toward the floor of the costume shop far below, falling, the ceiling receding, and all she could do was hope that the woman didn't come over the edge, didn't fly down after her where she was falling, falling, hearing the air rush past her, hearing Grandma's cry, and falling.. .

~* ~

It was Whitney's scream that alerted Marvella, then the sharp crack of her head hitting the rail that brought her to her feet and turned her around just in time to see the girl fall. Too far away. There was nothing she could do, only stand frozen and watch the girl falling, falling in an eternity of time during which Marvella could not move a muscle, in that split second knowing the futility of it, praying for angels to bear the child up, ease her to the floor.

But the prayers were unanswered. The girl did not slow in her descent, but fell down, down, directly onto the heap of clothing that Marvella had been throwing over the edge of the loft for hours, and disappeared into them.

"Oh Jesus," Marvella breathed, a prayer, not a curse, and ran to the heap of costumes, where weak, thrashing movements told her that her granddaughter was alive. "Lie still!" Marvella barked, fearing that if harm had been done the girl's movements would only worsen it. "You lie still, Whitney!"

But the girl did not obey. Soon she was out of the soft pile, and if the strength of the embrace with which she held her grandmother was any indication of her general health, Marvella had nothing to worry about. Still, she grasped the girl's shoulders to disengage her as gently as possible and hold her at arm's length. "Are you all right?" she said firmly.

The girl, tears in her eyes and trembling, nodded. "Oh Grandma," she said, lowering her head and pointing upward, as though she feared what she might see. "That lady up there, she turned into something.. . into a witch…"

"What?" Marvella frowned. "What are you talking about. What lady?"

"The lady! The lady you said was helping you, the lady with the red hair and the glasses, she was here."

"Who? Terri?"

"I guess, I guess, and I followed her up the stairs, only when I got up there it wasn't her, it was somebody else, like a witch, or like a… a dead person…” The girl broke into a fit of crying then, and it was a moment before Marvella could get anything else out of her. "She scared me, Grandma, and that's why I fell over!"

"You let me look," said Marvella grimly, knowing that no one could have gotten into the costume room without her seeing them.

"Don't leave me, Grandma!" The girl grabbed at her sleeve.

"Well, you wanta come with me then?"

"No! No, I don't wanta go up there!"

"Well then, you just have to wait here, don't you? I won't be a minute," and she started toward the stairway.

"I gotta see you, I gotta see you, Grandma!"

"Well, you're not gonna see me when I'm up there."

The girl's face puckered in thought, and she wiped her cheeks with balled fists. "Sing then," she said. "You sing, I know you're there."

"All right, all right, I'll sing." And she climbed the stairs, singing one of the ballads from A Private Empire that she sang Whitney to sleep with when she was younger:

"'I catch a glimpse of you as in elusive dreams,

A girl who could be true, but isn't who she seems…”

Marvella hummed the rest, loudly enough so that Whitney could hear her as she went through a cursory search of the loft. She expected to find nothing. She knew Whitney, and knew how the girl tended to dramatize events, blaming her own rash acts on invisible playmates, or people who were there "just a minute ago," but who conveniently disappeared when time came for blame. The woman turning into a witch was just one more, Marvella reasoned, in a long line of Whitney's fictitious scapegoats. Her fear and crying could easily have been caused by her terrifying fall. God knew it had shaken up Marvella as well.

There was no one in the costume loft. The only thing she found out of place from when she had left it just a short time before was one of Dennis Hamilton's costumes from A Private Empire. It was the Emperor Frederick's formal dress uniform. The costume was turned on its wooden hanger so that it lay adjacent to the other costumes, neatly lined up in their row.

"Now what's that doing here?" Marvella whispered to herself, forgetting to continue humming. It should have been downstairs in the locker that held all of Dennis's costumes. She picked it up just as Whitney shouted up to her.

"I'm here, I'm here," Marvella replied. "Don't worry." She began to hum again as she crossed the loft and came down the stairs, the uniform held carefully so that it would not wrinkle.

"Did you find her?" Whitney asked. "Where is she? Was she there?"

"There's nobody there, Whitney," Marvella said gruffly. She opened the locker, carefully hung the costume inside, closed the door, then turned back to her granddaughter. "And there wasn't to begin with. You made that all up, didn't you?"

The child's face went gray. "No, Grandma, no!"

"You got careless and you fell outta that loft and thank the Lord those costumes were beneath you, and you made up that story to get the blame off yourself. But now you got a whupping coming, girl. You come here."

Whitney went to Marvella, but not at all reluctantly. She went, her arms outstretched, tears streaming down her face, sobbing as if she were going to die. Marvella hugged the girl, but her trembling would not stop. She decided then not to punish her, that the terror of the fall had been punishment enough. When Whitney sat in her lap, and she felt where the girl had wet herself, she was sure of it. No, Marvella thought, patting her granddaughter's head as she carried her back to their suite, this little one has had quite enough for one night.

Scene 11

The show was titled Craddock, and Robin Hamilton knew it was a good one. It had all the elements she thought a strong musical should – harmonically sophisticated yet memorable tunes, lyrics that managed to disguise their cleverness beneath a cloak of spontaneity, and a powerful, original story, complete with a charming and involving love interest.

The readers in New York had done a good job, narrowing the field down to just five finalists. Robin, Quentin Margolis, and Dex Colangelo read all five shows, listened several times to the scores of each, and interviewed the librettists, lyricists, and composers. The final choice of Craddock was unanimous. She had copies sent to Kirkland, then stayed two more days in the city to rest, see some shows, and visit friends, activities that ultimately drained her far more than her work had.

Now, as her plane landed at the Philadelphia Airport early Friday afternoon, she felt quite weary, anxious only to see Dennis again, to have him put his arms around her in the car so that she could go to sleep as Sid drove them both home. But when she went to the baggage area, she found only Sid, who shook his head sadly, as if he knew what she had expected, and was sorry. "He said he didn't feel up to the drive," Sid told her.

"He sounded all right on the phone the other night," she said, trying to keep the hurt and disappointment out of her voice.

"I don't know, Robin. I mean, the doctors can't find a thing wrong, but…”

“I still think it could be Epstein-Barr."

Sid shook his head. "Doc Chandar says it's not the yuppie flu, and he's not the only one." He reached out and grabbed one of Robin's Banana Republic bags from the carousel. "I think once we get started with the show, he'll come around. Something to keep him occupied."

"That's what I thought about the theatre. But he's been holing up in our suite so much… there's the other one." Sid grabbed the bag at which Robin was pointing, and they started toward the parking lot.

The drive to Kirkland took forty minutes, and Sid had to wake Robin after he parked the car. She stretched and rubbed her eyes, lightly smearing her liner, but did not fix it, thinking that she would have access to a rest room before she saw Dennis again. Indeed, she would be surprised if he was not sitting in the chill air of their balcony, steeped in lethargy.

The thing she did not expect to find was Dennis sitting in the office suite, laughing and talking animatedly with John Steinberg and an older woman she did not recognize. It was the first place she had gone on not finding Dennis in their apartment, and as she entered, Dennis was sitting on the sofa with the stranger, his back to Robin. John was the only one of the three to see her come in, and he wiped tears from his eyes and gave one final chuckle before he acknowledged her presence.

"Robin," he said, "welcome back. We're just swapping old war stories."

When Dennis turned, she knew that something had changed. He looked surprised to see her, but there was something else there, something that she did not immediately recognize because she had never seen it on Dennis's face before. He looked, she slowly realized, guilty. And when Robin looked in turn at the woman on the couch next to him (not touching, but close, yes, close), she thought she saw the same emotion (but less obvious, oh yes, this was a cool one).

"Hello, darling," Dennis said. He stood up, hugged her, and kissed her, but she was aware of a self-consciousness about his action, as though he wished he did not have to do so. Dennis was a marvelous actor, as she often told him, but she knew him intimately enough to know precisely when he was acting, and now was one of the infrequent times. Nevertheless, she responded to his kiss with more passion than she would have otherwise, pressing herself against him with the wary tension of an animal marking its domain against interlopers.

She broke away then, and looked at the woman. "I don't think we've met," Robin said, unable to hide the smugness in her tone, the subtext of See? This is my man.

Too smug, Robin thought as John Steinberg leapt into the conversational breach like a handler separating pit bulls. "Of course. Let me make the introductions. Robin, this is Ann Deems, our new production assistant. Ann, Robin Hamilton, Dennis's wife, as you may have surmised from the warmth with which they have just embraced."

Was there a dig in that? Robin couldn't tell, but she didn't think so. It wasn't like John to bait her. Other than an ironic aside from time to time, he had never unleashed his witty but savage cruelty upon her. She realized that she must be looking for things to irritate her, and that thought made her even more irritable.

Ann stood up, smiled and nodded. "I'm delighted to be working here, Mrs. Hamilton. It's such a wonderful building."

"Oh, it's home," Robin said, trying to smile as warmly as she knew how. "And please, call me Robin."

"One big happy family, that's us," said Steinberg.

"I'm sorry I didn't come along to meet you," Dennis said, a hand on her shoulder. "I was feeling a little off today."

"You seem all right now."

"Yes, well, John wanted me to look at a few things here, and we got talking, and…"

"And," Steinberg continued, "laughter being the best medicine, we decided to set the lad right in time for your arrival home."

"Well, thank you. I appreciate it." She put her arm around Dennis's waist. "It was nice meeting you, Ann, but if you'll excuse us, there's so much that I want to catch up on with Dennis. All right, darling?"

"Sure," he said. "Let's go up. It's good to have you back again."

Is it? she thought, but only smiled and left the room, Dennis following her.

When they were in their suite, the first thing she did was to hand him a script of Craddock and put the cassette they had made in New York in the tape deck. As the first song began to play, the composer's reedy but not unpleasant voice piping over her commanding piano playing, Robin sat next to Dennis on one of the sofas and put her arm around him.

They listened for a few minutes, Dennis nodding his satisfaction, smiling at the occasional lyrical bon mot. As the first song ended, Robin finally spoke. "Did you know her before?"

"Who?" He was good, but not good enough to fool her.

"Ann Deems. She seems very nice."

"Well, yes, I did know her, oh, years ago."

Robin felt something heavy in the pit of her stomach. "You never mentioned her before."

She felt him shrug. "Why should I have?"

"You seemed to be very friendly."

" Jesus, Robin! Is this an interrogation? I knew a lot of people before I met you!" He pushed her away, and with the action, all the anger seemed to go out of him, leaving him confused and pale. He shook his head, it seemed to her, as though he had no understanding of his previous outburst. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know what came over me…"

"No," Robin said, struggling to keep her own anger in check. "I don't either."

"I knew Ann… I knew Ann Deems when we started A Private Empire back in '66. We dated a few times, here in Kirkland, that was all. She applied for the job, she was qualified, she was hired – I didn't even know about it until later."

Robin knew she had gone too far. The jealous wife was a role she had never played before, and did not want to play, and she regretted it, as she regretted the hurt look on Dennis's face. Maybe she had been wrong about what she had sensed in the office suite. Maybe Dennis had just been surprised to see her, and she had imagined the rest. Robin could be very imaginative.

"I'm sorry, darling," she said, putting her arms around his neck and pressing herself against him. "I'm not jealous, really. I was just curious, that's all. I know that I have no reason to be jealous." She rubbed her hands down his back, cupping his buttocks. "God, it seemed like I was away from you a long time."

He was smiling now, his eyes halfway closed, and his own hands ran up and down her sides. She moved away from him just enough to allow him to caress her breasts. "I missed you too."

"Let's go in the bedroom," she whispered, following the words with a soft lick of her tongue just behind his left ear. She would make him forget that Ann Deems had ever existed.

Their lovemaking was impatient, urgent, and both reached orgasm quickly. After the final kisses, Dennis drifted to sleep, but Robin's thoughts were too full. She looked at the clock, saw that it was only two-thirty, and, although she knew she would have benefitted from a nap, arose quietly, dressed, and walked down the stairway to the second floor, from which she went to the mezzanine of the theatre.

The vast auditorium was empty and quiet, dimly lit by recessed lights at the sides of the ceiling. Robin thought she could hear music playing, but the sound was so elusive that she could not determine its origin. From the mezzanine, she walked up toward the top row of the balcony, a trip she took several times a day, often in exercise clothes. There was nothing better for the legs, she had been told, than to climb long flights of stairs at a brisk clip. Now, however, she wanted to ascend to have a place to think, an aerie from which she could theoretically look down, godlike, on the world below. She did not like what she saw.

Rather, she did not like the drama her imagination constructed, the impending romance played out upon the screen of her mind.

It was romance and imagination that had drawn Robin McKenzie to the theatre. It was the closest she could come to living in the fantasies she imagined. And finally, one of those fantasies had come true – that elegant, exciting fantasy of the chorus girl marrying the star. But now, a fantasy far more pure was coming to light.

A lost love had returned.

It was absurd, she told herself. It was like being jealous of her own mother. For God's sake, the woman had to be in her forties. What could she offer Dennis?

And the answer came. While Robin could offer him only the pale substitute of her own youth, Ann Deems could offer him the emotions he had felt when he himself was young. She could restore the feelings of his youth, of the times when he was innocent and truly happy. Robin found no reassurance in the fact that what she had to offer was truth, and what Ann Deems had was illusion, for from the first time she had met him, Dennis Hamilton had always chosen illusion.

It was not until the second week of rehearsals for the 1981 revival of A Private Empire that she had even set eyes on Dennis Hamilton. The chorus had, by that time, set all their work in the production numbers, and the time had finally come to fit the principals into the mob scenes. That morning, Quentin Margolis had entered the Broadway Arts rehearsal studio with Dennis and Naomi Weiss, the Austrian film actress who was playing Lise, the female lead, and several of the principal players. Robin had never seen Dennis in person before, although she watched the film version of the musical every chance she got. To her, at nineteen, Dennis Hamilton was a man dreams were made of, and, from the age of twelve on, she had watched all his other movies as well, whenever they appeared on television. So now she looked on him with the eyes of impressed youth, and he was well worth looking at. At 34, he was trim, muscular, and handsome, and there was no gray in his red hair. The frown lines on his forehead were deep for his years, and, noticing that, Robin fell into the attitude of worshipful solicitude that would permanently mark her relationship with Dennis.

But he did not notice her. Not once did she find him looking her way. Rather, his interest was divided between the mechanics of the rehearsal and Tanya Pearson, another dancer whose face and form were abetted by what Robin considered to be a severe overuse of makeup and a blatant underuse of rehearsal togs. She looked, one of the gay singers remarked, like a Republican's wet dream.

If that was the case, Dennis Hamilton was a Republican. Tanya Pearson was the most artificial looking woman in the studio that day. Even Naomi Weiss (who left the show two months after the opening, unable to deal with what she felt to be Dennis's turbulent ego) couldn't hope to compete with Tanya's studied theatricality. During the breaks, it was Tanya to whom Dennis spoke, and, by the end of the day, touched, with a gallant arm thrown comradely around her shoulder. Robin assumed they became lovers, but was never sure. In any case, Dennis tired of her quickly, and Tanya followed in Naomi Weiss's footsteps several months later.

Despite Dennis's apparent predilection for bimbos, Robin was still very happy to be working in his company. He was not one of those irritating actors who she had already come across in her brief career who began to get into character a long time before they ever step on stage, becoming withdrawn and frequently obnoxious. In contrast, Dennis could go from an animated conversation about films, politics, or baseball directly on stage and be completely in character in an instant.

Of course, in a way Dennis was never out of character. In public and in rehearsal, he acted like an emperor, and it was being able to see behind that fa c ade that finally endeared him to Robin. She was perceptive enough to know that what she and the rest of the world was seeing was not the real Dennis Hamilton, that beneath the guise of imperiousness was just another frightened human being who needed love like anyone else.

It was not, however, until the show went on the road that she began to actually get close to Dennis. Until that time, she wasn't even certain that he knew her name, although everyone else did. Robin was funny and thoughtful, and helped keep the company at ease. It was she who remembered everyone's birthday, who posted photos of celebrities with humorous typed captions or word balloons on the cast bulletin board, who was always the first to welcome a new chorus member into the dressing room. She was, in short, everyone's friend, and it was only a matter of time before she became Dennis's as well.

The first time he talked to her at length was on Robin's twenty-first birthday, when they had already been on the road for a year. They were playing Seattle, and Robin had brought in several boxes of doughnuts and placed them on a table outside the chorus dressing rooms. It was a half hour before curtain and Robin, having come early, was already in costume and makeup. She was just placing the napkins when Dennis came up to her, also ready for the performance, and asked what was the occasion.

"My birthday," she replied, somewhat embarrassed.

"Your birthday?" Dennis said in the patronizing voice he used with the dancers. "And how old is our little girl today?"

"Twenty-one."

He looked surprised. "Really? I don't mean to offend, but I thought you were older. You've been in the show since the beginning, haven't you?"

"Yes, but I was only nineteen then."

"A lucky lady to get such an early start."

She thought about it before she said it. "And lucky to get in this show too."

He cocked his head. "Lucky? Why?"

"I've always admired your work."

"Ah! Not only is she pretty, she has good taste as well." He chuckled self-deprecatingly. When he stopped, the soft smile remained. "Robin, isn't it." She nodded. "You're the one who puts the funny pictures on the board?" She nodded again. "You've got a wonderful sense of humor. Where were you when we needed more jokes in the script back in '66?"

Now it was her turn to smile. "In nursery school."

"Ooo." He winced. "Did I say sense of humor or acerbic wit? You make me feel old."

"You're not."

"I know," he said, and surveyed the doughnuts. "Nor am I fat, but perhaps I can remedy that shortcoming. Are there any cream filled ones here?"

She pointed. "Those."

"My weakness," he said, taking one and extending his neck so that no powdered sugar would fall on his costume. "Delicious," he said after swallowing a bite. "Now. Come with me."

He led her across the backstage area toward his dressing room, and she went reluctantly, unsure of what to expect. If he had taken a fancy to her, and expected a squeeze and a tickle in private, or even more, he would get an unpleasant surprise, even if he was Dennis Hamilton. Nevertheless, she followed him inside, where they found Sid Harper sitting in a corner reading a copy of Downbeat. "Sid, give Robin here fifty dollars, please."

"What?" she said, surprised.

"For doughnuts," Dennis said. "Every night I want you to buy several dozen for the cast and crew, and when you're out of money see Sid and he'll give you more. That was a nice deed, and nice deeds are not often enough rewarded in this world. Besides," he grinned, and for the first time Robin saw the man behind the mask, "I like doughnuts. And if you buy them, then I don't have to feel guilty about eating them."

She bought the doughnuts as directed, and, since Dennis was generally at the doughnut table a half hour before curtain (he always ate one and one only), she made it a point to dress early and be there as well. Their conversations lengthened, got more serious, and in a short time Dennis suggested that they finish over dinner after the show. One dinner led to another, and by the time the show arrived in Portland for a week's run, they were spending most of their time together. They did not sleep together until San Francisco, although by that time it seemed a foregone conclusion. She could tell that it was more than lust that had brought Dennis into her arms, and, several months later, one night in his suite when she grew bold enough to broach the subject of marriage, she was pleased to find him receptive. Although she felt in retrospect that she could have used a more subtle approach than, "Do you ever think of getting married again," such a bold sally had the desired effect.

"Yes, I've thought of it," he told her. "A lot lately. And I've thought about it because of you, Robin. Because you're one of the few giving people I've ever met. And I'm damn sure you're the prettiest." He smiled. "And the best in bed, for what that's worth. You're the best thing that's happened to me for a long, long time."

"It sounds like you'd be crazy to let me get away."

"It does indeed." They had been lying on the carpet of his living room watching a football game on television, and he turned off the set, reached over, and took her hand. "Do you love me?" he asked.

"I do," she said. "Yes."

"Marry me then. Take care of me, and I'll take care of you. I need someone like you very much. I have for a long time."

She didn't ask him then whether he loved her as well as needed her. After they were married, he told her that he did, and she had never had any reason not to believe him. Their marriage had been a good one, although the second year of the tour she regrettably stopped performing at his request, after he told her that he felt she would be far more of a help to him as a liaison between him and John Steinberg. There were so many things, he said wearily, that John expected of him, a hundred little decisions a week that sapped his strength, all of which he needed lately for his performance.

At first she was reluctant to stop performing, especially to fill the role of majordomo, a position already held, she felt, by Sid. Dennis's response to that was curt. "But you're my wife, Robin. You know how I think, you know what I'll say before I say it." She wasn't so sure of that, but she didn't disagree. "Besides, Sid, as much as I love him, is really a glorified cook and valet. He makes no decisions other than what to serve for dinner and what tie to lay out for me. As for major business decisions… darling, you could be of great help to me."

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him if part of it was that he didn't want her to perform any more, but she bit it back. Dennis, although he was always kind to her, was possessive as well, and she could not help but feel that he resented her performing because it meant that her affections were divided, that the energies she brought to her stage work were somehow energies that were taken away from him, and, like a selfish child, he resented it.

Still, she did as he asked, deferred to him as did so many others, because to refuse would have been unthinkable, an act of treason to the throne. People obeyed Dennis, from his son Evan to John Steinberg. Robin simply fell into line and obeyed as well. She had promised to take care of him, and take care of him she would. She saw all too easily the insecurity behind the imperial mask, and she loved the man there. Too, she loved the life that he had given her – the luxurious suites, the fine dinners, the parties with famous people, the clothes, the jewelry – Dennis never scrimped. All she had to do was to mention that she thought something was nice, and he would buy it for her, sometimes on the spot, more often later as a surprise. This generosity was one way he knew to show affection, and she appreciated it. It showed her that her efforts to make his private life as easy as possible were not taken lightly.

Nor should they have been. It could be hard work to live with Dennis Hamilton. Despite the change that had recently come over him, he had often been demanding and imperious and selfish. But the rewards, both financial and emotional, had been great. There was no denying that she loved the man and the life she led with him.

But now, with the reappearance of Ann Deems, Robin saw the possibility -indeed, in her imagination, the likelihood – of that life being taken away, of a quick and savage divorce and settlement and remarriage to Ann. And although she knew that whatever settlement she would receive would be a greater sum than she could imagine, it was not money she wanted. It was Dennis. Dennis when they were alone together and the masks came down, when the regalness turned to tenderness.

And he had been more tender of late, more sensitive to the needs of those around him, even weak at times, so that he needed her all the more to be his strength, and she would be, no one else. No, she would let no one come between them. She would not lose him. She would not lose Dennis.

Dennis.

She saw him, far below, way upstage in the shadows. She could make out no details, but she knew it was Dennis from the long, magisterial stride he used on the stage.

"Dennis?" she called, not loud enough to be heard below, even with the excellent acoustics of the Venetian Theatre. She would have called louder, but something stopped her. She would not admit that it was fear, for she had never feared her husband. What was it then? she wondered. What caused this hesitance on her part to call down to him?

She opened her mouth to call louder, but she stopped as the figure paused. She saw its leonine head turn in her direction, caught the spark of red in the hair, a quick flash of blue eyes, and the lights shining dimly on…

Gold braid.

He was wearing his costume, the imperial uniform of the Emperor Frederick.

She tried to call again, but her tongue felt thick and disobedient in her mouth. Now the lights seemed to dim even more, the figure backed slowly upstage, and in a few seconds was lost in the darkness.

Robin sat there, staring into the blackness at the rear of the stage, but seeing nothing. "Dennis," she whispered, then stood up. The shortest route back to the suite was down the steps, but the dread in her would not let her go any closer to the stage. Instead she turned and walked up the stairs to the back balcony stairway, frequently glancing over her shoulder. At the top she turned and looked down, but saw nothing.

When she arrived back at the suite, Dennis was sleeping in precisely the position she had left him a half hour before. He was still naked, the sheet and blanket pulled over his hips. There was no sign of a costume, no traces on his unmarked skin to indicate that he had on any clothing since she had left him.

She lay down beside him, put an arm around his shoulders without waking him, and began to worry, not only about Dennis and Ann Deems, but about herself.

Scene 12

During the next few weeks, the Venetian Theatre was filled with caution. Ann Deems felt her way into her job, neither seeking out Dennis's company nor seeking to avoid it. When she did run into him, he was generally accompanied by Robin, who hovered over him protectively, an attitude to which he made no protest. Their conversations, as a result, were merely friendly and perfunctory.

And, like her mother, Terri Deems felt her way into her new job. She made the shell around herself even harder in the presence of Marvella Johnson, refusing to be baited, accepting Marvella's reproofs with a sullen silence, swearing to herself that she would do nothing to raise Marvella's ire again. The best way to accept chastisement, she decided, was not to do anything to be chastised for in the first place.

Robin's fear of losing Dennis hung about her palpably, as did her concern over what exactly she had seen from the balcony, and Dennis's own uncertain emotions gnawed at him slowly. Marvella and Whitney remained shaken from the little girl's narrow escape in the costume loft, and Donna and Sid were puzzled over what they took to be Dennis's recent deviant behavior toward Donna.

With the strange death of Tommy Werton casting an additional pall over the denizens of the Venetian Theatre, it would be no exaggeration to say that everyone walked on eggs in those weeks before Thanksgiving.

Two days before that bountiful holiday, Dan Munro, Kirkland's chief of police, sat in the six-year-old department Buick in the huge parking lot of the Venetian Theatre. From time to time he thought about the turkey dinner that his wife and sister and mother would make together on Thursday. He wondered if his sister would cook the oyster stuffing that she always said never turned out right, although he could not remember a Thanksgiving when he hadn't loved it. He thought too about the cranberry relish that was his mom's specialty, the mashed potatoes (gloriously lumpy and real, not instant) at which his wife Patty excelled, and the pies – always three kinds, at least – and he had to fight his kids for every bite.

Shit. He thought he should just forget about this damn theatre and go get himself some lunch. Maybe that would get all the visions of sugarplums out of his head.

But it wouldn't get out the other visions that had been there for nearly a month now, ever since the official ruling of Tommy Werton's death had called it an accident. Oh, there was no reason that it couldn't have happened the way they determined it did. The rope could have been loose on the pin and then slipped the rest of the way, sure. At first Munro had been willing to accept it.

But the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that it didn't happen that way. Too many people heard Dennis Hamilton talking when Dennis Hamilton said he was quiet, heard him say things that he insisted he hadn't said. The only thing that that proved – to Dan Munro at least – was that Hamilton was lying about talking. Munro himself admitted that Hamilton couldn't have pulled the pin himself. It would have been physically impossible.

A confederate? Maybe. Hamilton calls the kid out, and the confederate yanks the pin and kills the kid, then runs out one of the stage doors, locking it behind him. The only thing was that the drivers and reporters who were hanging around outside didn't see anyone leave the theatre. And what would the motive have been? Maybe something nobody knew about. Maybe the Werton kid was screwing Hamilton's young wife. Munro grunted. Hell, with these theatre types, maybe the Werton kid was screwing Hamilton. Whatever it was all about, the damn thing just didn't wash.

So for the twentieth time this month, Munro sat in the parking lot watching people come and go, seeing the same faces over and over – the bunch who lived there, the two women, one young, one older, who worked there, the janitors, the delivery people. He sat there for hours at a time every few days at random. He didn't know what he expected to see, but he'd know it when he saw it. It was just a feeling that he had. Bill Davis, his good right hand, had teased him about those feelings over the years, calling them his sixth sense. But it had solved at least one murder, one of the few that had occurred in the fifteen years that Dan Munro was a member of the Kirkland police force. It had wasted a lot of time too, but it was his own time, not the town's, and if he wanted to waste his own time, well, dammit, that was his own business, wasn't it?

Just as Munro was getting ready to start the car and grab some lunch down at the Burger King, a cab pulled up in front of the Venetian Theatre's main entrance. Munro watched as the door opened and a young man climbed out. His red hair, though short, was not at all stylish, and a scraggly beard circled his face. He wore what looked like an Army-Navy store jacket, and pulled a khaki duffel from the back seat. The young man paid the driver, turned, and looked at the exterior of the building for over a minute after the cab pulled away. Then he hoisted the duffel to his shoulder and walked under the great marquee and through the heavy brass doors into the box-office area.

Now who in hell, Munro wondered, is that?

~* ~

Evan Hamilton paused again inside before trying the inner doors, only to find them locked. On either side were ticket booths, both closed, but next to the left-hand booth was a button with a small sign, Visitors. He rang it and waited.

In three minutes the curtains behind the glass of one of the inner doors parted, and a woman he did not recognize peered through. He thought she looked mildly frightened of him, and realized that he must be a pretty scary looking figure. So he smiled and gave a little wave, and she opened the door. "Yes?" she said.

"I'm Evan Hamilton. Here to see my father."

An expression of interest lit the woman's face. She was attractive, he thought, if a bit old for him. "Evan," she said, and opened the door wide enough for him to pass through. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Ann Deems. I work for your father."

He followed her the length of the lobby to a door that discreetly hid an elevator, which they entered. Ann pushed a button, and the doors closed. "Does your father know you're coming?"

"No. It's sort of a… surprise."

"Ah. Well, fine. That'll be nice." The elevator was slow and cumbersome in its ascent, and he noticed that she was looking at him with what he took to be more than slight interest. As if self-conscious at being caught, she said, stammering a bit, "I think Dennis and Robin are just finishing lunch now."

He smiled. "Think they'll invite me?"

Ann Deems laughed uncomfortably. "I'm sure they will."

They did not speak again until they were standing outside the door of the Hamiltons' suite. "Go ahead," she said as he paused at the door. "I'll just leave you here, okay?"

He smiled thinly and nodded. "Yeah, sure. Thanks."

When he no longer heard her footsteps down the hall, he raised the brass knocker and rapped it on the door. It opened, and he mercifully found himself face to face with Sid Harper, who stood looking at him for a long moment before finally breaking into a huge smile.

"Evan!" Sid said, wrapping him in a bear hug. " Damn, but it's good to see you!" He held Evan by his shoulders and looked from his face to his clothes to his face again. "You look… terrible," he said, and laughed. Evan laughed too, in spite of himself.

"Sid, who…" Evan heard a voice from the other side of the room, looked up, and saw Dennis standing in the doorway, Robin behind him. "Evan…"

Sid remained between Evan and Dennis, as though hesitant to let the two of them meet, but Evan gently detached himself from Sid's grip and walked over to his father, letting his duffel fall to the floor. "Hello, Dad."

He didn't know what to expect. He had not seen his father for nearly two years, and their parting had not been happy. Though his attention was fixed on Dennis, he saw Robin out of the corner of his eye. He had liked Robin from the first time he met her when he was twelve, and he still saw the hope in her eyes that he had seen then, the hope that in some way he and Dennis could be as close as they were when he was little, before the rounds of private schools and summer camps had isolated him from this man he admired and respected, and feared that he would never be able to make respect him as well.

He stood there now in front of Dennis, and realized that the man had grown older. There was something else too. He didn't look as big as he used to. Had he lost weight, or had Evan merely grown, become a man? Suddenly, as he looked into Dennis's watery and somehow hunted eyes, he had the irrational but overwhelming feeling that something was threatening his father, and he wanted nothing more than to be with him and protect him.

"Dad?" he said uncertainly.

"I'm… glad to see you, Evan." Dennis held his hands out in front of him, as if not knowing what to do with them, how to make them form a paternal embrace, and the thought ran through Evan's head, Is he acting? There were so many times he was unable to tell.

"I'm glad to see you too," Evan said, taking the hands and holding them.

"Hello, Evan," Robin said, her voice as warm as his father's hands were cold. "Welcome home." He felt Dennis's fingers stiffen when she said that. He knew what Robin meant, that this was where his family was, whatever family meant, but he wondered if his father felt the same way.

There was a pause that seemed to last forever, but Sid finally broke the silence. "You hungry, Evan?"

He shook his head as he released his father's hands. They stayed where they were for a moment, then slowly the fingers closed, and Dennis brought them back to his side. "No thanks, Sid," Evan said. "I had something."

"Jesus, not airline food."

"Worse. Bus station."

"You came in on the bus?" Robin said. "From where?"

"Quantico."

"Virginia?" He nodded. "Then you're on leave?" she asked.

"You might say that," Evan said. "Permanent leave. The Corps and I have parted company."

"I thought you were in for another year or two," Sid said.

"Honorable discharge." Evan smiled. "Always honorable, never fear. Medical reasons.”

"Medical?" Dennis frowned. "Are you all right?"

"The asthma I had when I was a kid kicked up. Nothing life-threatening, but, under the circumstances, pretty inconvenient. They were a little pissed I hadn't told them about it when I enlisted."

"Well, look," said Sid, "I'm sure you have a lot of catching up to do, so I'll take care of some shopping. The farmer's market is due to have some fresh cauliflower – I know you always liked that stuff, Evan. You'll, uh, be staying for dinner?"

"I don't know," said Evan. "We'll see."

Sid nodded and took a jacket from the coat tree near the door.

"Hold on, Sid, I'll go with you," said Robin, giving Dennis and Evan a peck on the cheek. "It's been a long time since the two of you were alone together. Too long. And, Evan, you will stay for dinner. At least." In another few seconds the two of them were gone.

"Well," said Dennis. "Come in. Let's sit down."

He followed his father through the entry and the spacious living room down a short hall into a baronial den paneled with oak. Evan was relieved when Dennis did not sit behind the massive carved desk, but instead sat on a leather couch, beckoning his son to seat himself on the other end. At least, Evan thought, we're not on opposite sides of the room. That must mean something.

"I'm glad you're out," Dennis said, crossing both his legs and his arms.

"I thought you would be."

"I never wanted you to go."

"I know. You screamed like hell when I told you."

"Do you blame me? We had other plans for you."

"They weren't my plans."

"You never wanted to go in the Marines."

"It was the only way out."

"Out from what?"

"From the prep schools, from the college you picked for me. It was the only thing I figured I could pick for myself."

"It was a waste. A waste of two years."

Evan barked a laugh. "How do you know it was a waste? You've barely spoken to me in two years. Two Christmases ago, that was all. When I came to see you in New Orleans? Even then we hardly said a word to each other." He sighed, and slumped back in the couch. The leather creaked under his weight. "Look, Dad, I didn't come here to fight. We fought enough." He looked into his father's eyes. "And I always knew I could never win. I could only run away." He smiled gently. "How can anyone hope to beat the emperor?"

Dennis looked away, and Evan was again struck with how his father had aged. "I'm not the emperor anymore." He turned back to Evan, who was surprised to see tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry. I don't want to fight either. I've missed you terribly. I did write to you…"

"I know. I got the letters."

"You didn't write back."

"There wasn't anything to say."

"You could have told me what you were doing -"

"That's not what I mean. I didn't have anything… to say to you." He smiled. "No subtext."

Dennis did not smile back. "So. What are you going to do now?"

"Why? Do you have plans for me? College?"

"Not if you don't want to. It's your life."

"Well. I'm glad you finally realize that." Evan sighed and put his head against the cool leather back of the couch. "I don't have any plans, not really. Thought I'd just move around, see the country." He smiled. "Since you never took me with you on the road."

"I suppose I should have," Dennis said.

"It was what I wanted most of all – to be with you." He cleared his throat and corrected himself. "To be on the road."

"Why not now, then?"

He shifted his head to look at his father. "Now?"

"We really could use you. We have no ASM, since Tommy… you heard about it?"

"How could I help but? You have a way of staying in the public eye.”

“Work with us, Evan. Stay here."

"I see you haven't lost the imperial 'We.'"

"I didn't mean that – I meant the family. We have one, you know. Robin and Sid and John, Donna, Marvella – there's a togetherness here, and I'd like you to be a part of it. I do love you, you know -"

"Come on, Dad…" He felt embarrassed. He could not remember his father telling him that, although he was sure that he must have, years ago.

"I do, Evan. I only ever wanted what I thought was best for you. Maybe I made mistakes -"

Evan laughed uncomfortably. "Maybe is right."

Dennis turned pale at the rebuke. "I never meant to hurt you."

"Dad, you never hurt me. I mean, I always knew you had my best interests at heart. Damn thing is, most of the time you were right." He shook his head slowly. "The service was one of my mistakes."

"How could you know that asthma would kick up?…"

"It wasn't just asthma…" Evan's voice trailed off as he remembered the humiliation of standing in front of his squad, trying to speak, to command, the terrifying inability to fill his lungs with air, while the others watched with a mixture of bemusement, pity, and contempt.

"What, Evan?"

He heard his father's voice as if from far away, and twisted his head as if to clear it of the memories. "Nothing. Never mind, nothing important." He stood up and began to move around the room. He felt like a caged animal, and knew he must look like one too. "I can't stay here, Dad. Thanks for the invitation, but I can't."

"Why not?" Dennis's voice was pleading. It was a sharp contrast to the father he had known before, the father who would not have accepted an answer that did not please him, and it nearly weakened Evan's resolve.

"It… the time's not right, things, the situation, I just.. . need to be by myself," he said weakly.

Dennis sat there, his eyes large with sorrow. "Stay the night," he said at last. "Have dinner. Stay the night, maybe longer. Could you do that?"

"I… I guess so, yes."

"If you need money -"

"I don't." It was true. The severance from the Corps would see him through for a few months.

"Well… if you do, ever…” Dennis left it unfinished. "We have a guest suite down the hall. You'll be comfortable there… for as long as you like." Evan didn't like the implication.

"Just for tonight," he said.

~* ~

After Sid helped him get settled in, Evan decided to take his suggestion and inspect the building complex. Evan had liked exploring theatres ever since he was old enough to walk. He liked the quietness of them, the emptiness of the vast spaces. Most of all, he liked the absence of people.

He had been exposed to crowds ever since he could remember, and he had hated them, had seen them as a protoplasmic mass with bulging eyes and reaching arms, shaking papers like guns toward his father and him, wanting autographs, a word, a handshake, as though celebrity was something contagious, and fame could be spread with a touch. His father never understood Evan's aversion to the mob, those adulatory throngs who treated Dennis, that strong and distant man whom he seldom saw, as a king. He merely accepted the acclaim and the flattery as due him. And, like a king, he had not so much fathered Evan as commanded him.

As the years passed, Evan grew used to obeying. His favorite times were when he was alone, when the crowds were dispersed, when the boarding school term was ended and he was home in the house in Beverly Hills with just his father and, best of all, Sid. It was Sid who made life with his father bearable, who acted like the brother or close friend Evan never really had.

Evan did not remember his mother, who had killed herself when he was two. She had at least had the good sense to send the toddler to stay with friends before she had downed her Seconal-Drambuie cocktail. When he went to live with his father, he had had a nanny, despite the fact that Dennis was not working with any regularity. As soon as he was old enough, he went away to boarding schools, and saw his father only on holidays and during the summers. The revival of A Private Empire took place the same year that Evan entered puberty, the result being that just when he needed a father's guidance and advice most, his father disappeared almost totally from his life.

Although his marriage to Robin initially brought Evan and Dennis closer together, they split apart, seemingly irrevocably, when Evan announced his plans to go into the Armed Forces the summer after his high school graduation. Dennis had insisted on, indeed ordered him to go to college, but instead Evan, on his eighteenth birthday, enlisted in the Marines.

Dennis had gone into a rage that promised to be perpetual, and Evan now wondered just what had happened over the past year or two to make his father so tractable. He thought it might be giving up the Emperor that had done it.

Damn the Emperor anyway, Evan thought savagely. That absurdly melodramatic personality had controlled his father's life, and Evan was delighted that it was finally gone. There had been so many times in the past when he had felt that he was not talking to his father at all, but to that damned character he had created. Evan had not seen A Private Empire on stage since he was thirteen, and had seen the movie only one time. He could not bear it.

Now, as he stood in the first row of the orchestra, he pictured his father in front of him dressed in that red costume with all the epaulets and the ribbons and the medals, and the thought made him nearly as sick as had his feeble attempts to command his squad. He closed his eyes for a moment to drive away the dizziness and the nausea and restore his breathing, and, while his imagination was in darkness, he heard a voice.

"What are you doing here?"

Startled, Evan opened his eyes and twisted around. A girl was standing halfway up the aisle. He could not see her face in the semi-darkness, but her form was slim and elegant, even in the loose-fitting pants she wore.

"Do you belong here?" she said, and advanced toward him into the light so that he could see her. Her features were small but beautifully made, and reminded him of porcelain faces, white and pink and delicate.

"I… I'm sorry," he said. "I'm, uh, Evan. Dennis's son."

"Evan," the girl repeated thoughtfully, then asked, somewhat sharply, "Are you an actor too?"

He laughed at the suggestion. "God, no. No way."

Her head tilted, and he could not shake the sensation that he was being studied as if under a glass. "Stage fright?"

How the hell did she guess that? he wondered, and then realized that his unease was all too evident. If he was this uncomfortable with one stranger, how could he ever have functioned before an audience? "You got it," he said.

"I'm Terri," the girl said, coming down the aisle and holding out her hand. "Terri Deems. I work with Marvella." He took her hand and held it for a moment. It was cool, and her grip was firm. She shook it, then broke the contact, and smiled at him for the first time. "So, are you going to be here for a while? Or just visiting?"

"I'm… not sure." He grinned. "I may stay a little longer than I'd thought."

Already Evan was wondering what the duties of an assistant stage manager were. He was as immediately and irrationally attracted to Terri Deems as his father had been attracted to her mother a quarter of a century before.

Scene 13

Evan Hamilton's decision to remain at the Venetian Theatre was not based purely on his fascination with Terri Deems. Other inducements offered over dinner that evening were Robin's maternal urging, Sid's desire to catch up on the events of the past years, John Steinberg's assurances that Evan would be of great value to the company, and Dennis's diffident and chastised manner.

It was a novelty to Evan to have his father actually sit and listen and pay attention to what he was saying. What was even more seductive was the impression that his father was actually concerned about what Evan thought on certain subjects. It may, he considered, have been illusion, acting only, but Evan believed that his father had never before felt him important enough to even act for.

By the end of the evening, Evan accepted the blandishments of his courtiers, and agreed to remain. Curtis Wynn was called from his suite, introductions were made, and a date was set between the two for breakfast the following morning. Evan went to sleep that night thinking of Terri Deems and his father, hoping that he could grow closer to both of them.

~* ~

The next day was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and Curtis Wynn awoke early, showered, shaved, and finished packing his bags. He was going back to his parents' home in Trenton that afternoon, but was of two minds about leaving the Venetian Theatre. As much as he loved working on and around the stage, with a practical efficiency that made him a valued member of every production team he was on, he was looking forward to a brief sabbatical from Kirkland.

Tommy Werton's death had affected him more than anyone knew. Curt had worked hard at making himself unflappable, and a great deal of his reputation stemmed from the fact that if the entire stage caved in, Curtis Wynn would not bat an eyelash, but would coolly and methodically continue to call the show out of one side of his mouth while making arrangements for carpenters out of the other. True to form, he had let no one see the effect Tommy's accident had had on him. In a way, he felt as though it was his fault, for, according to theatrical tradition, whatever went physically wrong on stage was the ultimate responsibility of the stage manager – not the director, not the actors, but the stage manager. Also, though he had seldom shown it, Curt liked Tommy Werton. He was easy to get along with, energetic, and he knew his business, unlike the boy he was going to have to initiate today.

God, talk about unbridled nepotism, Curt thought. The prodigal son returns home, with absolutely no theatrical experience, and suddenly he's the new ASM, trying to fill the shoes of a techie whose hammer he isn't fit to carry. Oh well, he'd do with him what he could. At least the kid looked strong.

And, thank God, he was punctual. Right at the stroke of seven-thirty, Curt's bell rang. He opened the door, ushered Evan into the small kitchen of his suite, slid eggs and bacon onto plates, and served the coffee. After the meal, during which neither of them said much, Curt handed Evan a well-worn copy of The Stage Crew Handbook. "When I come back on Monday," he said, "I'll expect you to have read this and have learned most of it."

Evan nodded and began to flip through the book. "I know a lot of this stuff."

Curt was surprised, but didn't show it, nor did he ask where Evan had learned. "Good," was all he said. "We won't do much today. I have to leave at three. I want to go under the stage. There's a big storage area there. Lots of lumber, flats, rolls of canvas, a lot of it's garbage we'll have to throw out, but I want to inventory the materials we can still use."

It was eight-thirty by the time Evan and Curt reached the empty stage. "Nobody's here now," Curt said. "The custodians don't start till nine." He led the way to a narrow staircase in the stage right wings, and led Evan down it.

"How do they get anything up and down this way?" Evan said.

"They don't. Part of the stage floor drops to cellar level."

Curt hid a grimace as the sour smell of dampness struck him. Although the pool and activities rooms were on the same level as the storage area, the huge space under the theatre, except for a room directly beneath the stage that had served as an orchestra green room, was unheated and had only a dirt floor. Although there was never standing water, the scenery materials were all stored on wooden skids, the bottoms of which were filmed with a pale green mildew that caused the musty odor. They had already decided to install a dehumidifying system the following spring.

At the bottom of the stairs Curt flipped a switch that gave a feeble light to the brick and timber walls and the gray dirt under their feet. A walk of twenty yards brought them to the mouth of a central tunnel from which they could see bays on either side. Pieces of yellowed stage flats and 1x4's protruded from the darkness like massive, webbed fingers.

"The lights are just in the center corridor," Curt said. "Here." He handed Evan a flashlight and a clipboard, to which a legal pad and a pen were clipped. "Just write down what I tell you. Single columns."

They made their way down the right hand side, and by ten-thirty had catalogued the contents of seven bays. As they were about to start on the eighth, the last one on that side, Evan cleared his throat. "Hey," he said, "is there a john down here?"

Curt shook his head. "Upstairs. Go ahead, I'll wait."

Absurd as he knew it was, his ability to control his urination was a point of pride with him. He would go before he went to the theatre to call a show, and would only seek a bathroom again after the show was over and the prompt book safely stowed away. When asked by a musical director if he had a cast iron bladder, Curt had replied, "Someone goes to take a piss, that's when things fuck up." Struck by the sprightly rhythm of this response, the musician had used it as the lyrics to a canon, performed with great fervor at the opening night party.

"Want anything?" Evan asked. "Coke?"

"All right," Curt said, taking fifty cents from his pocket and handing it to Evan. "A Coke."

Evan turned and trotted down the corridor toward the stairway, leaving Curt alone. He took a deep breath, wishing that he would have gone above if only to breathe some air that didn't smell like mildew, then walked into the eighth bay, shining his light up and around.

The bay was much like the others. A few pieces of old furniture used long years before as set dressing were piled atop each other, their stuffing rotting away. Odd lengths of lumber leaned against the outer wall, their bases green with mold. In one corner a steamer trunk sat as it must have sat for decades, the once bright stickers pasted to it now dulled to a flat and obscure gray. Curt allowed his controlled imagination to roam just far enough to consider what itinerant showman might have left it behind and why – a failure to appear due to drink, and a convenient escape from town before the management could prosecute him? Or something else – perhaps the owner's death, no next of kin, no one to send the trunk to, so it came down below, as buried as surely as its owner.

The thought was morbid, unlike him, and he tried to dismiss it, thinking instead about the tremendous trash bill the removal of all the ruined materials would bring, not a pleasant thought either, but one closer to realities, intended to help him drive back the discomfort that seemed to be entering his brain through the mold-coated channels of his nostrils. If only, he thought, I could smell something else. The scent of the mold seemed redolent of death and decay.

But Evan would be back soon. The kid seemed pleasant enough, and, like Tommy, eager to please. Now if only he didn't take so damn long on the crapper…

Curt had just about made up his mind to go above, when he heard footsteps from the direction of the stage. He was about to breathe a sigh of relief that Evan was returning, when he realized that the steps were not Evan's. Instead of a brisk clatter, like those of someone returning to their task, they were instead a slow and ponderous shuffling, not so much the sound of walking as that of something being dragged along in the dirt.

It was possible, wasn't it? Maybe Evan had glanced into one of the bays on the left and found something heavy that he wanted Curt to see. Wasn't that possible?

No. That was stupid. There was someone out in the main tunnel, and it wasn't Evan. So what? So fucking what? It sure as hell wasn't a ghost. It could be Abe Kipp or Harry Ruhl or a goddam electrician, and to learn who it was, all he had to do was look – just take a few steps to the main tunnel, turn, and look.

Then do it, damn it. Just do it.

He hissed air through his teeth in self-disgust, twisted about, and stepped into the corridor.

It wasn't Evan. And it wasn't Abe Kipp or Harry Ruhl or some goddam electrician.

Electricians didn't wear long black robes with hoods that covered their faces.

Electricians didn't move along tunnels like this thing did, half-floating so that Curt could see the toes of its bare feet, the dirty yellow-white of old bones, dragging through the dust, plowing thin furrows as it came toward him.

Electricians, or Abe Kipp, or Harry Ruhl, didn't drive a wedge of ice down Curt's throat, didn't make him feel that at any second his carefully controlled bladder might burst in wet fear.

Electricians and plumbers and janitors didn't, goddammit, do those things, and Curt could only stand and watch as this absurdly medieval apparition, this terrifying and imbecilic anachronism drifted closer and closer, the light behind it growing brighter, the dark oval within the cowl becoming blacker, an ultimate blackness that would drown him if he did not move, or yell, or look away…

And then, in the blackness, he saw its eyes.

"Hope Sprite's okay!"

It was gone as quickly as Evan's words had come, just vanished, as if it had never been there, and instead he was looking at Evan bouncing down the tunnel, a green can in each hand, a smile on his face, a face mercifully normal, eyes, nose, mouth, all in the proper place and in the proper relief.

"The machine's out of Coke," he went on, holding out a can for Curt to take.

Although Curt felt incapable of motion, he saw his hand reach out and grasp the can, and felt the cold. The sensation steadied him, and he nodded at Evan. "Thanks," he heard himself say harshly, and cleared his throat.

"Pretty dusty down here," Evan said, acknowledging Curt's roughness of voice.

"Yes… it is. Maybe we've been down here long enough. We can finish this next week." He tucked the clipboard under his arm and let a cold jolt of the soda sear his throat. "Have you seen our recreation area?" he asked Evan, thinking that an exit from the tunnel in that direction would keep him from once more passing the dark mouths of the bays.

"Not yet."

"Come on then, I'll show you," he said, and led the way out of the tunnel.

What he had seen, he told himself, had to be an hallucination. He had been working too long without a break, maybe thinking too much about Tommy Werton's death, and, finding himself alone in a particularly eerie place, and in a morbid state of mind, that mind had just overloaded its circuits and shown him something that did not, could not exist outside the network of ganglions in his brain. Simple as that.

The only alternative was that there were ghosts, and Curtis Wynn had never believed in ghosts. He had spent over half of the thirty-eight years of his life in theatres, a good many of which were reputed to be haunted, and not once had he ever seen anything inexplicable by natural means, not once had he felt the presence of any creatures other than human.

Hallucination, then. A visit home was just what he needed, and he decided to leave early.

~* ~

As soon as Curt and Evan stepped into the basement hall and closed the door to the storage area behind them, the musty odor was replaced by that of chlorine. "Smell that?" Curt said. "The pool. Right around the corner. But in here…” He crossed the hall and opened a door. "A bowling alley, shuffleboard court, even quoits, if anyone is still into that."

"Very thirties, huh?" Evan said, grinning at the large room. Although he had never played quoits, he had bowled often while in the Marines, and had enjoyed shuffleboard at several of the boarding schools he had attended, even though it was considered a retiree's game.

"In here," Curt went on, sliding open a pair of paneled doors, "are pool tables and card tables. Kirkland's bridge club met here some years ago. Dennis had the pool tables' surfaces recovered." Evan nodded appreciatively. The tables were elegant, with legs of polished mahogany and large net pockets rather than ball returns. But he had little time to examine them closely, for Curt led the way immediately out another door and across the hall, from where the chlorine smell came.

"The pool," he said as he passed through the doorway. "Six lanes. We use this a lot. You have a suit?" Evan nodded. "You may want to give it a try today then. It's heated, of course. The locker rooms are through there." He gestured toward a door at the deep end of the pool. "Come on – it goes through to the gym."

"A gym too? You've got everything here."

Curt shrugged. "It was a community center. And the man who ran the community was generous."

As they passed through the men's locker room, down the rows of dark green metal lockers, Evan pictured it as it must have been over half a century before – the laughing, sweaty bodies of businessmen, sated with their Saturday luncheon at the local Rotary, casting off their inhibitions with their suits and ties, becoming kids again, splashing about in the pool David Kirk had given them. But this picture of aquatic felicity was banished by the sight that met his eyes as they walked into the spacious and well-appointed gym.

Terri Deems, clad in a leotard and Reeboks, was driving the flywheels of a rowing machine to a state of frenzy. Her short red hair was plastered to her forehead, and sweat darkened the light green fabric between her breasts. When she saw the two men, it seemed to startle her. She broke her rhythm, then took two more long strokes before she relaxed, letting the machine come to a rest with a long hum of gears.

"You two met?" Evan asked.

"Yesterday," Terri said.

"So," Evan said smiling, "you're into exercise.”

“I'm into not dying an early death, that's all.”

“Things slow upstairs?" said Curt, crossing his arms.

"Marvella's in one of her solitary moods – she can't stand the sight of me right now."

"If I remember right," Evan said, "most of the time Marvella can't stand the sight of anyone in her shop." Terri gave a sour smile.

"Well, the five dollar tour is over," said Curt. "I'm going to take our list to the office, then get out of here." He started to move toward the door, but Evan didn't follow. Curt turned back, gave him a look half-amused and half-pitying, and nodded. "Happy Thanksgiving. See you both next week." Then he was gone.

Jesus, thought Evan, is it so obvious? Well, if it was it was. He was simply not capable of walking away from Terri Deems without an overwhelming reason. "So," he began, "how did you come to work for Marvella?"

"Your father used to date my mother," she said, without the trace of a smile. The answer took him by surprise, and he gave a chuckle that he was sure sounded as uncomfortable as it felt. "I'm sure there was more to it than that."

"Really? And how did you get your job?"

He felt his face redden. "I, uh, I had some connections too."

She shrugged. "Makes the world go round, doesn't it."

"Look, um, would you like to have some lunch?"

“Why?”

God damn it, but she was cold. "Well, it's almost noon, and I thought you might be hungry."

"I brought my lunch, thanks.”

“Maybe dinner?"

"I eat dinner at home."

"A movie?"

"I don't think so." There was not a hint of apology in her voice. Evan knew that any further attempt would be useless.

"Okay, well… I'll be seeing you." He gave a half-hearted wave and left the gym. Outside the door he paused and listened to the rowing machine crank up immediately. God, what an impression he must have made on her – not even a moment of contemplation for the poor putz who tried to date her. Nope, just pump that machine and feel the burn. Hell.

He decided to go watch the television in his suite and think about ways to look sexy.

~* ~

Hot shit bastard, Terri thought, trying to punish the machine by yanking the oars out of their cradle. Just because his old man runs the place, he thinks he's got free and easy access to all the help. Fuck that.

She stopped her rowing, thrust the oars from her, and sat with her head down, watching the sweat trickle from the hollow of her throat down onto her chest. Dennis Hamilton's kid. Just the person she didn't need in her life. She was angry at her mother, and she was angry at Dennis as well for having loved Ann, and for maybe still loving her, and she was goddamned if she was going to have anything to do with his kid.

Even if he was as cute and charming as hell.

Even if she did, in spite of herself, like him.

~* ~

She likes the boy. She'd like to have him, I'll wager, have him between her legs, making her sweat even more.

Sweat.

God, look at her sweat.

But that's nothing to how I'll make her sweat. Christ's jewels, I'll make her MOAN and sweat, sweat blood before I'm done with her, the little whore.

Sweat.

And blood.

Blood.