by Clea Simon
‘Please, come in.’ She reached to take the pile of books off the one guest chair by her desk. ‘Have you been waiting long?’
‘I didn’t want to bother you.’ Tessa. That was it. From her English 10 section. ‘But I did want to ask about the reading.’
Dulcie smiled to encourage her student to continue. Tessa Rayne, the bespectacled young woman before her, was a good student, if a bit shy. And English 10 – the year-long survey course of early American literature – could be daunting. At least they were finally past all those early Puritan sermons.
‘I was wondering about the Hawthorne actually.’ Tessa tossed one long braid over her shoulder to get it out of the way as she pulled a notebook from her bag and began leafing through it. ‘About his moral stance.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Well, maybe they never did get past the Puritans, Dulcie thought. ‘He can be a bit intense. That’s one reason why we’re reading from his papers and not just The Scarlet Letter.’ Given her druthers, Dulcie decided, she’d have banned that short novel from the syllabus. For all its supposed moral complexity, she found it both dull and didactic.
‘Well, that’s just it.’ Tessa, her brown eyes huge behind thick glasses, blinked down at the page. ‘I was reading this bit here, and I couldn’t help but wonder. Do you think he’s having a bit of fun with us?’
Dulcie took the notebook and read. The passage wasn’t from the author’s best-known work, and it took her a moment to place it. ‘The Blithedale Romance, of course,’ she said aloud. ‘A work after my own heart.’ It wasn’t entirely true, but Hawthorne’s dark romance at least had some of the characteristics of a true Gothic, complete with a good romance and some supernatural chills.
‘Well, I was wondering about the narrator,’ said Tessa. ‘I mean, the point of view, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Poor girl, she was learning the lingo, but Dulcie couldn’t help but regret the slow submergence of her more natural approach.
‘Anyway, I couldn’t help but wonder—’
Dulcie cut her off. ‘I know,’ she said, wanting to save the undergrad from struggling further. ‘It changes halfway through. Some have cited this as an inconsistency and used it to disqualify the work, but the more widely accepted reading is—’
‘No, it isn’t that,’ Tessa broke in, then bit her lip. ‘I mean, I’m sorry. But what I was really wondering is, if it’s real.’
Dulcie shook her head, not understanding what the girl in front of her meant.
‘I mean, maybe it’s a trick and this is, like, the reveal?’ The big brown eyes blinked behind the thick lenses. ‘Maybe the narrator doesn’t change? Maybe, like, they’re one and the same?’
Dulcie opened her mouth and closed it several times before she realized that the undergrad was staring. ‘That’s a reading I have not heard before,’ she acknowledged finally. ‘And it may have some merit to it.’
This was when Dulcie really hated her schedule. She should have reread the book, she knew that. But with so much of her own work pressing, she had trusted on memory to see her through.
‘I found one paper from Yale that supports the theory.’ Tessa seemed not to have noticed Dulcie’s flustered state. ‘And, anyway, I was wondering … it’s not in the reading, but do you think I could do my midterm paper on it? I mean, see if there’s any way I can make the case?’
‘Most certainly.’ Dulcie could say this with confidence. She’d be the one grading the paper. ‘I’d be interested in reading it,’ she added, honestly. ‘Do you have a title in mind?’
Tessa nodded enthusiastically, her braids bobbing. ‘Seeming Otherwise,’ she said.
ELEVEN
‘Chris, please.’ Dulcie nudged her boyfriend. ‘They’re starting.’
‘How can you tell?’ He didn’t look up. Chris had, as she expected, protested against coming once she had told him about the stunt behind her accident. However, her insistence – and the free tickets – had won him over. To a point. Still, even with the music playing, she could hear Esmé’s aggrieved mew as his phone powered down.
‘Look.’ He did, and she pointed. ‘The waiters have all lost their trays.’
‘So much for my beer.’ He pocketed his phone just as a hand appeared between them, depositing a frosted pint on their table.
‘How did you do that?’ Chris turned to the waitress, a petite blonde whose bobbed curls caught the faint stage light. She only smiled and backed away.
‘It’s the lighting,’ Dulcie explained, as she watched the server recede. ‘They wear that matte black and these lights only pick up where they’ve powdered their hands and faces.’
‘But …’ Chris had turned, too, as the room went even darker. Whatever question he may have left was lost as the man at the next table turned and angrily shushed him.
‘Sheesh, you’d think we were at a real theater.’ Chris leaned in to Dulcie’s ear. She only dared smile back, but she took his hand – his real, un-powdered hand – as the show began.
‘Ladies and gentleman, beasts and fowl …’ It was the pretty blonde who had brought Chris’s beer. Now speaking on the raised stage, she had donned a simple white gown over her black top and leggings. Behind her, Dulcie could make out movement – other black-clad actors, she guessed – and before she knew it, the actress was winding up what seemed to be both explanation and introduction. ‘Let the transformation begin!’
‘Well, this could be fun.’ Chris leaned forward to whisper in her ear. ‘But how are you feeling, Dulcie? Are you sure you don’t want a drink, some water or a Diet Coke?’
A thunderclap cut off Dulcie’s response, and before she could try again, the music kicked in.
‘It’s raining men … ’ That blonde had reappeared beside them, singing along with the recording. While her voice wasn’t much – high and a little breathy – she threw herself into the performance, squeezing her eyes closed and throwing her head back. Dulcie was enjoying it until she stood up, those blue eyes sparkling, and wrapped her arms around Chris as the chorus ended. Before either of them could object, however, the performer had twirled off to the next table, the pleats in her white gown swinging behind her. ‘Hallelujah, it’s raining men!’
Chris raised an eyebrow, but Dulcie just shook her head. It had to be something to do with the Creation but to call this a loose interpretation was like, well, calling Esmé a scholar. Besides, she had no time to explain. Another thunderclap brought the number to an abrupt end – and served as the cue to summon all the dancers back to the stage. The beat kept on, though, segueing into a pulsing instrumental as Apollo – it had to be Apollo, Dulcie figured, from the golden beams emanating from his head – was lowered into the dancers’ waiting arms.
‘Oh no.’ Chris’s voice carried in the lull, and in a moment she saw why. The wires lowering the actor seemed to have caught, tipping his gilded ‘chariot’ at an awkward angle.
‘Don’t worry. That’s got to be the next act.’ Dulcie leaned over to reassure him. ‘It’s Apollo’s son who crashes.’
‘My son!’ Dulcie sat upright. The actor – Heath Barstow – must have heard her. ‘And where is the nymph who would bear me such a son …’
But, no. Apollo embraced one of the dancers – a nymph? – with more gusto than the role seemed to require. It was the blonde who had doubled as their waitress, and, despite her size, she pushed the long-haired actor off with enough force that he skipped back a step. She’d almost missed her cue, Dulcie saw, as the chorus began twirling again and she jumped to join them. The song had morphed into an amped-up version of ‘Mad About the Boy’, and despite the punishing volume, Dulcie found herself trying to make out the words.
She was distracted by Chris, who seemed to like the production even less than she did. ‘Oh, hell,’ she thought she heard him say, as he grabbed the fake candle off their table. ‘I must have—’
Dulcie missed his next words as he shoved his chair out of the way and ducked under their table, earning a scowl from the couple to their right
. Dulcie returned their stare and jumped off her chair to join her boyfriend. ‘What is it?’
Boom-bah! Boom-bah! Boom-bah! The music was painfully loud, too loud for her voice to be audible under the table. She reached over to get his attention.
‘Ow!’ He looked up so quickly he hit his head. Dulcie saw feet turning in their direction. ‘It’s my wallet,’ Chris yelled. ‘It’s gone.’
‘What?’ Dulcie sat back – and felt a hand on her shoulder as the pounding beat gave way to a synthesizer interlude.
‘Never fear, mortals.’ Their blonde dancer/waitress again, her face sticky with sweat and glitter. ‘You rule here, while we divine are merely your fools.’ With a smile, she bowed, offering her hand. In it, she held Chris’s wallet.
‘Chris Sorenson, please!’ The quieter keyboard music was interrupted as a voice boomed from above, and they both looked up. Barstow, this time wearing an oversized crown, was back on stage. ‘Dear mortal sir, your presence is requested. Please grace our stage, though I fear we may be bested.’
‘Oh, man.’ Chris let the waitress help him to his feet and, still holding on to her hand, followed her to the stage.
‘It’s all in fun.’ Dulcie whirled around to find herself face-to-face with a pair of glasses. ‘It’s part of the act,’ said the woman attached. Seeing that she looked rather normal – brown hair, no glitter – Dulcie hesitated. ‘I’m with the company.’ The dark-haired woman must have seen Dulcie’s scowl. ‘Sorry if we scared you. Usually people don’t notice, you see.’
‘Huh.’ Dulcie allowed the other woman to give her a hand up. For a moment, she found herself wondering why this woman, with her tied-back hair and oversized glasses, wasn’t the one to take Chris’s hand, rather than that pretty, glittery blonde.
‘Please, let us comp your drinks for the night.’ The brunette must have seen something on Dulcie’s face. She nodded to the bar, before turning back to Dulcie. ‘Champagne?’
‘Uh, thank you.’ A wave of self-consciousness washed over Dulcie. Of course, this woman was a manager of some kind. The blonde was just a performer, a pretty woman acting out a role. Another nod to the bar, and a second waitress/actress, this one in a green gown, came running over with a bottle and two flutes. The dark-haired woman took the bottle as if to open it as the waitress – a muse? another nymph? – skipped off. Dulcie put her hand on the brunette’s forearm. ‘Maybe we should wait until Chris comes back?’
‘Chris?’ Something about the brunette’s widening grin made Dulcie turn toward the stage. Sure enough, her boyfriend was still there, seated in the throne. But before Dulcie could ask when he’d return a gasp went up from the audience.
‘Look!’ A woman pointed, and Dulcie looked up. There, above their heads, a tightrope appeared. It must have been there all along, Dulcie told herself, hidden in the shadows. And at one end, above the bar, a shadow appeared. No, not a shadow, a cat – a lithe and short-haired cat, almost invisible in the dark.
The music had started up again, a low, throbbing beat, and Dulcie waited for the cat to retreat. The noise, if not the crowd, would have sent Esmé scurrying. But this cat didn’t seem to mind, even as other voices called out in surprise. Leaning out from his perch above the bar, he looked down at the crowd, turning back and forth as if to judge their reaction – or as if he were waiting. And then, when the murmurs had all but died down and every eye was on him, the silver cat reached out one delicate paw on to the narrow tightrope. Tentatively, as if to test it, he leaned forward, adjusting. And then he took a step, and another, until his entire body was on the tightrope, high above the audience.
The crowd gasped as one, but the cat didn’t seem to notice. Putting one assured paw in front of the other, he made his way across the room, above their heads, to jump down on to the now vacant throne.
Chris had disappeared.
TWELVE
‘That was a blast!’ Chris had a sparkle in his eye, and not, Dulcie noted, because of the glitter that had rubbed off on to his cheek. ‘That bit where she turned into a tree? And you didn’t tell me they were doing magic.’
‘I didn’t know.’ Dulcie looked at her boyfriend as if he, too, might turn into a tree. They were waiting outside the theater for their friends right after the performance, but Dulcie felt they might have come from two different shows. ‘I guess I should have.’
Chris turned toward her expectantly, and Dulcie tried to explain. ‘Changes is a good title, actually. The original work, Metamorphosis, is all about things going topsy-turvy, the expected order being overturned,’ she said. ‘Like, people having more power than the gods, and, well, things changing.’ She’d stopped herself before she started talking about love – the work’s other theme. Things were too weird with Chris right now.
‘At least we know why you thought that one guy was being attacked.’ Chris didn’t seem to notice her abrupt conclusion. ‘I think I’d heard that one – the hunter who spies on the goddess, so she turns his own dogs on him.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’ Dulcie knew she was being silly. ‘Here they are.’
Trista emerged, with Jerry in tow, Lloyd and Raleigh – who had used Jerry’s discounted tickets – behind them. All of them were beaming, and Dulcie felt her heart sink. She had known that Trista would love the show, and Raleigh was a theater fan. But she had kind of counted on Jerry being resistant, if for no other reason than because his girlfriend seemed so smitten by the handsome lead actor.
‘Tell!’ Trista grabbed Chris’s arm, nearly spinning him around. ‘I want to hear all their secrets. Did you get to talk to Heath?’
‘You were so lucky to get chosen,’ added Jerry. More, Dulcie suspected, because of the blonde than because of Heath Barstow. ‘Tell us everything.’
‘It was crazy.’ Chris looked so happy, Dulcie tried to put her own misgivings aside. She had no reason to be jealous, and if Chris wasn’t upset about having his pocket picked, she should let it go. ‘They said they had to,’ Chris was explaining to Lloyd as they started to walk. Trista had started to steer them back to the bar they’d visited the night before. ‘So I couldn’t reveal anything, even if I wanted to. But when they took the hood off, I was behind the curtain.’
‘Did you see the cat?’ Dulcie asked. Chris might not have been a cat man originally, but he’d been won over to the breed by Esmé. ‘It was pretty amazing up on that tightrope.’
‘Classic misdirection.’ Trista sounded sure of herself. ‘We all watched it.’
Chris shook his head. ‘There was a cat?’
‘A Russian blue.’ Dulcie heard herself repeating back what the actor had told her. ‘At least, that’s what those actors are claiming. Or, no, the office manager. Roni.’
‘She’s the one who sent over the Champagne.’ Chris nodded in recognition. ‘Roni. Roni Squires. She met me backstage and introduced herself.’
‘But it was the blonde girl who led you away, right?’ Jerry asked, his voice eager. Trista didn’t flinch. Then again, she was blonde herself. ‘Did you get to talk with her?’
‘You mean Persephone?’ Chris was smiling to himself at the memory.
Dulcie caught Trista’s eye as her friend mimed gagging.
‘Hey, that’s what she said her name was.’ Chris had seen her. ‘She’s an actress, so maybe it’s a stage name or something. But that’s what she said to call her.’
‘Well, if that’s what she said, I won’t out her.’ Jerry mimed zipping his lips shut.
‘Come on, tell.’ Chris leaned in, but Jerry only shook his head. Dulcie was beginning to get alarmed.
‘Well, that’s all she told me.’ Chris glanced over at his girlfriend. ‘Honest. She only introduced herself, really, and told me where to stand. Stuff like that.’ He smiled at Dulcie. ‘Which was totally fine. To be honest, I don’t even think she was that into it. She seemed distracted.’
‘Fight with her boyfriend.’ Trista nodded, but when Chris turned toward her, she explained. ‘Looked like she was mad at him, the way she pushe
d him off.’
‘Don’t you think that was because he came down awkwardly? I thought he was going to fall,’ Dulcie said, trying to remember the scene. ‘And she had to get into that line before they all snaked into the audience.’
‘Maybe.’ Trista shrugged.
‘I think maybe Tris is right,’ Chris chimed in. ‘There was something going on between them. In fact, I was wondering if Roni was back there to keep things cool.’
‘Huh.’ Trista looked thoughtful. Jerry must have noticed, because he put his arm around his girlfriend. They had come to the corner where Dulcie had seen the performers on the street and as they crossed, she turned to look. A chill ran through her. Memory, she told herself. Memory or the frigid air. Here, in the crosswalk, the wind could run straight up the river. It was enough to make anyone shiver.
‘So you didn’t see the cat?’ She asked again, taking Chris’s arm. ‘He was amazing. Very lithe and, well …’
‘Un-Esmé-like?’ He drew her close.
‘I didn’t want to say it.’
‘She is a little butterball, isn’t she?’ With his arm around her, the night was neither too cold nor too scary, but she huddled closer, anyway. ‘Sadly, though, no I didn’t. Why don’t you tell me about him?’
‘What amazed me was his poise.’ Dulcie didn’t need a second prompt. She didn’t even care that they were going back to that awful bar, or that Trista had once again commandeered their party. ‘Especially considering how loud that music was. But he didn’t seem to care. He was up on top of the bar and he looked down at us and then …’ She was with Chris, and with her friends. It was a good night.
And then she heard the scream.
THIRTEEN
