Jane Goes Batty jb-2

by Michael Thomas Ford

  Ben hesitated.

  “I know,” Jane said. “You don’t normally socialize with people you counsel. I think, however, that we’re becoming something of friends.”

  The rabbi smiled. “I believe you’re right,” he said. “And in that case, I accept.”

  “Excellent,” said Jane. “How about tomorrow night?”

  “As it happens, we’re free,” Ben replied.

  “Good,” Jane said. “I’ll expect you at six.”

  She wrote down her address for Ben, inquired after Sarah’s likes (hamburgers) and dislikes (anything involving celery), and returned to the truck. She got in and sat there for some time thinking about things. The whole question of her soul and its status was upsetting her more than she cared to recognize. But her more immediate problem was Walter and, to an only slightly lesser degree, Miriam.

  She took out her cellphone and dialed Walter’s number. Part of her hoped he wouldn’t answer, but he picked up after only one ring.

  “Where are you?” he asked, sounding anxious. “I’ve been trying to call you for the last two hours.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Jane. “I must have turned the ringer off.”

  A silence stretched between them like a thin, tight wire. Jane knew that, having caused the problem, it was up to her to make the next move. “We should talk,” she said. “I don’t suppose you can get rid of your mother?”

  “Not permanently,” said Walter.

  Despite the tension, Jane found herself laughing. “How about long enough for lunch?” she said.

  “I think I can manage that,” Walter said.

  “Meet me at the bookstore in half an hour,” said Jane. “We can go from there.”

  “All right,” Walter said. “I love you.”

  Jane bit her lip as tears came to her eyes for the second time that day. “I love you too,” she said.

  As she drove to the bookstore she fought back feelings of panic. So much was going on in her life—and going poorly. She felt out of control, and that in turn made her want to retreat. Part of her longed for the quiet, secure life she’d had before Constance had come out and turned everything upside down.

  But it was too late. Now she had no choice but to face her new life and all of the challenges it was presenting. Your characters manage to do it, she reminded herself. If they can, you can. After all, you’re the one who told them what to do.

  Chapter 11

  “Jane!”

  “Jane.”

  “Jane?”

  “Oh, Ja-aaane.”

  The voices came from all around her. Jane turned, trying to locate the sources, and saw Ant Doolan coming at her with a video camera. Behind him was Byron, behind Byron was Walter, and behind Walter was Beverly Shrop. Seeing them all, Jane’s heart began to pound.

  “Jane,” one of the twins called. “There’s a phone call for you. A Jessica Aber—”

  “Tell her I’ll call her back,” Jane told him as she walked toward Ant and the others, holding up her hand.

  “Stop,” she commanded.

  Her four visitors formed a neat line in front of her, like soldiers falling in for inspection. Before any of them could speak, Jane did.

  “I’m taking the day off,” she told Ant. “Go find something else to do.”

  She next faced Byron, who looked at her with a puzzled yet amused expression. “Yes, of course we’d love to do a signing for your new novel,” she said.

  “That’s not why I’m—” he began.

  “Just speak to Lucy about it,” said Jane, moving on to Walter. “You wait out front,” she instructed her boyfriend. “I’ll be just a minute.”

  Lastly she addressed Beverly. “And what do you want?” she asked.

  Beverly beamed. “It’s about the festival. As you may know, there’s a rivalry between Janeites and Brontëites.”

  “Is there?” said Jane dryly.

  Beverly nodded. “There is. So we—and by that I mean I—thought it might be fun to arrange some kind of game with teams composed of each group.”

  “What kind of game?” Jane asked.

  “Softball,” Beverly answered. “It seems easiest to manage. Of course, I would prefer croquet, but what with so many people—”

  Jane sighed. “What has this got to do with me?”

  “Oh,” Beverly said. “Well, I was hoping you might captain one of the teams. Mr. Osborn has graciously agreed to captain the Brontëites, and—”

  Jane once more interrupted Beverly. “Have you now?” she asked Byron, who was in the process of pretending to ignore the conversation.

  “What? Oh. Yes, I believe I have. It should be great fun, don’t you think?”

  “I had no idea you were so fond of the Brontës,” Jane remarked. “Or softball.”

  Byron feigned surprise. “Who isn’t fond of them?” he said. He winked mischievously at Jane, who glowered back.

  “Very well,” Jane told a waiting Beverly. “I’ll do it. We can talk about it later.”

  She turned and walked toward the front door. Walter was waiting outside, and she could see him pacing. But to her annoyance, Byron was following her.

  “I suppose you think this is amusing,” Jane said. “Honestly. Softball?”

  “I knew you would be enthusiastic about it,” said Byron. “But that isn’t why I came.” He gently took Jane’s elbow, forcing her to stop.

  “Unhand me,” Jane objected, pulling away. But Byron’s grip tightened.

  “You’re in danger,” he said in a low voice. “We’re all in danger.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Jane. “All who?”

  “All of us,” Byron said. He smiled, and for a moment Jane saw his fangs. Then he retracted them. “Someone is here who means us harm,” he said.

  “And just who is it?” said Jane. “Don’t tell me Our Gloomy Friend is back.”

  Byron shook his head. “I don’t think it’s she,” he said. “Although I suppose it could be. For the past day or two I’ve just felt something wasn’t right.”

  “Oh, well then,” Jane said. “Now that’s much clearer.”

  Byron leaned in even closer. “Listen to me. I don’t know who it is. But I sense something. Maybe if you’d developed your powers instead of running from them, you would sense it too.”

  “I’ve been practicing,” Jane said.

  “Just be careful,” said Byron. He stepped away. “We’ll just see about that,” he said loudly and cheerfully, confusing Jane. “I’ll have you know I pitched a mean softball game when I was younger.”

  “Is that so?” Jane replied, playing along. “Well, we’ll just see how many touchdowns you get!”

  Byron shook his head.

  “How many goals you get!” Jane said as several customers began to laugh.

  Byron grimaced.

  “Baskets?” Jane asked.

  “Just go,” said Byron, rolling his eyes. “Now.”

  Jane walked quickly to the door and went out into the warm afternoon sun. Walter immediately descended upon her, taking her hand. “I’m so sorry about this morning,” he said. “I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that. I don’t know what came over me. One minute we were talking about the house and then I was talking about getting married. And my mother, well—”

  “It’s all right,” Jane said. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. The way I ran out of there, I can only imagine what your mother thinks.”

  “She seems fine with it, actually,” Walter said.

  “Well, that makes me feel better,” said Jane.

  Walter indicated the store with a nod. “Shouldn’t you get back?” he asked. “It sounds as if everybody wants something from you.”

  “No,” Jane said. “I asked you to lunch, and that’s where we’re going.”

  “Okay,” Walter said. “What would you like?”

  Jane thought for a moment. She didn’t want to go anywhere near the store, as it would be too easy for people to find her there. Then she had a
n idea.

  “Come on,” she told Walter. “I know just the place. Oh, but you’ll have to drive. My car is … indisposed.”

  With Jane directing him, Walter drove to the restaurant she’d chosen. When they pulled into the parking lot he looked at Jane quizzically. “Here?”

  “Absolutely,” Jane said, opening the car door. “You’ll see why.”

  The broad front doors of Tiki-Tiki featured the giant, grinning face of some unnamed god carved into the wood. Walter grabbed the handle somewhere in the vicinity of the tiki’s nose and pulled, the enormous face parting neatly down the center to allow him and Jane entry. Inside, the restaurant was a re-creation of someone’s idea of a Polynesian village, complete with burning torches, booths seemingly made from bamboo lashed together with rope, and a smiling hostess wearing a grass skirt and a bikini top printed with garish pink hibiscus.

  “Aloha,” the girl said. “Welcome to Tiki-Tiki.” She stepped forward and placed around each of their necks a garish lei made of gathered plastic strips intended to look like flowers.

  “More like Tacky-Tacky,” Walter whispered to Jane as the hostess led them to a booth.

  “Which is exactly why no one will think to find us here,” Jane said. She removed her lei and dropped it on the table. Walter left his on as he picked up the laminated menu and perused it.

  “Aloha,” said a cheerful voice. “Can I start you off with a drink?”

  Jane regarded the young man standing next to the booth. He wore a shirt made of the same hideous print out of which the hostess’s top was made, but instead of a grass skirt he wore surfer shorts and flip-flops. The effect was a grotesque parody of Polynesian culture as filtered through the mind of someone who had clearly never experienced the real thing. Jane found it fascinating.

  “Something with rum,” she told the waiter. “And an umbrella.”

  “I’ll have the same,” said Walter. He looked across the table at Jane. “I have a feeling I’m going to need it.”

  The waiter withdrew to get their drinks, and Jane leaned back against the cool vinyl of the booth’s bench. “It’s all too much,” she said. “The movie. The DVD nonsense. The new book I can’t seem to write. Beverly Shrop.”

  “My mother,” Walter added. “Me.”

  Jane shook her head. “You’re the one thing that isn’t too much,” she said.

  Walter cleared his throat. “Except when I proposed,” he said.

  Jane fidgeted with her menu, pulling at the corner where the laminate had begun to peel.

  “I know it was awkward,” said Walter. “Like I said before, it just popped out. I’d actually planned this really romantic thing. It was a kind of treasure hunt where you followed clues that eventually led you to a box with a key in it and a map to the house. When you got there I was going to be waiting with dinner and champagne and … and … a ring.”

  He stopped speaking and scratched his nose—a gesture Jane knew meant he was embarrassed. She took his hand and held it while she spoke.

  “That sounds wonderful,” she told him.

  “I know,” Walter agreed. “But now it wouldn’t be a surprise, and anyway you already said no, so—”

  “I didn’t exactly say no,” said Jane.

  “You said you can’t,” Walter reminded her. “That’s more or less a no.”

  “I know it sounds that way,” said Jane. “But you must understand—”

  “Jane, stop,” Walter said. He withdrew his hand from hers.

  Jane looked into his face and saw something there that troubled her. It was a kind of weariness mixed with resignation. Suddenly she was very frightened.

  Walter swallowed hard. “Since the first day I met you I knew I loved you,” he said. “I know that sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. And when I asked you out and you said no, I promised myself I would keep trying until you said yes. Then when you finally did say yes, I was terrified I would do something to drive you away.”

  “But you haven’t,” said Jane.

  Walter shook his head. “No, I haven’t,” he said. “All I’ve done is tell you how I feel, and that’s something I can’t change. Maybe I didn’t do it in exactly the right way, but I think your answer would have been the same no matter how I’d asked. It’s always been ‘I can’t,’ Jane, and I don’t think it will ever be anything different. Am I wrong?”

  Before Jane could answer the waiter returned and set two huge hollowed-out pineapples on the table. Tiny umbrellas were stuck into the rims, and straws made to resemble stalks of bamboo protruded from the dark liquid inside.

  “Two Pele’s Potions,” the waiter said. “Have you decided on your food yet?”

  “Another few minutes,” Walter told him, and the young man went away again.

  “These are rather imposing,” Jane said, trying to lighten the mood. “I think Pele is trying to get us drunk.”

  “You haven’t answered my question,” Walter reminded her.

  “No,” Jane said. “I suppose I haven’t.”

  “The answer will never be yes, will it?” asked Walter.

  Jane took the umbrella from her drink and twirled it in her fingers. She wanted Walter to stop talking. She wanted him to look at the menu and laugh at the silly names of the dishes. She wanted him to take her hand again, and for everything to be all right. More than anything she wished she could tell him why she couldn’t answer his question.

  “I love you, Walter,” she said finally. “It’s just that I …” Her words trailed off. She was tired of making excuses for herself and hoping they would buy her more time. It wasn’t fair to Walter. Yet she couldn’t wait forever. When would be a good time to tell him? she asked herself. After you’re married? After he notices that you don’t age? When he’s on his deathbed?

  She knew that there would never be a good time. What she had to tell Walter would come as a horrible shock under the best of circumstances. There was no way to prepare him for learning that she was undead, no gradual working up to it so that the final revelation was not so bad. Her only options were to tell him and hope he would understand, or not tell him and deal with the guilt of deceiving him. Neither option appealed to her.

  “I won’t say I understand, because I don’t,” Walter said. “And I’m not even sure you know. But I know I can’t keep doing this.”

  “What are you saying?” asked Jane.

  Walter sighed. “I’m saying maybe we should go back to just being friends,” he answered.

  “Friends,” Jane said, testing the shape of the word on her tongue and finding it uncomfortably sharp.

  “I don’t know what else to be to you,” said Walter. “You won’t be my wife, and frankly, both of us are too old to be anyone’s boyfriend or girlfriend. That’s for twenty-year-olds who want to keep their options open. I don’t want options, Jane. I want you.”

  Walter’s words made Jane want to tell him right then and there that she would marry him. She even opened her mouth to say as much. But she couldn’t. The words stuck in her throat, choking her, and refused to come out. You can’t do that to him, her own voice commanded her.

  The waiter appeared again. “Have you decided?” he asked.

  Jane shook her head as she began to cry.

  “Yes,” she heard Walter say. “I think she has.”

  Chapter 12

  Jane’s backyard was teeming with movie stars.

  “They’re like ants at a picnic,” Jane remarked.

  “Well, they are at a picnic,” Lucy reminded her.

  They were standing in Jane’s kitchen, looking through the window at the group of people milling about on the lawn. Jane had counted them half a dozen times, and each time had come up with a different number. Finally she had decided that there were slightly fewer than two dozen of them and left it at that.

  “Do you think we have enough tables?” Jane asked, looking at the four redwood tables Ned and Ted had recently purchased for her at the local home improvement center and set up in her yard. Now the twin
s were helping Byron figure out the propane grill.

  “You’d think he’d want to stay away from fire,” Lucy mused, watching as Byron tried—and failed—to get the grill lit. “And yes, I think there are enough tables.”

  The cookout had been a mistake. Well, not so much a mistake as a slip of the tongue. When earlier in the day a striking woman had entered Flyleaf Books and introduced herself to Jane as Julia Baxter, Jane had been so thrilled to meet the director that she’d invited her for dinner. A moment later, when she recalled that she’d also invited Rabbi Cohen and his daughter, she’d heard herself say aloud something she should have kept to herself: “There’s room for everyone.”

  Julia Baxter, hearing this, had smiled warmly and replied, “That’s so kind of you. I’ll tell the others.”

  And so a cookout had been arranged. The “others” had turned out to be the principal cast and a handful of assistants, as well as Ant Doolan and Shelby, who were filming the whole thing. To balance the equation Jane had invited her staff, as well as Byron. She had found herself picking up the phone to invite Walter and his mother, but then she’d remembered that their situation could currently best be described as uncertain, and so had not made the call.

  She didn’t want to think about that. “Tell me again who they all are,” she asked Lucy, focusing her attention on her guests.

  “Okay,” said Lucy. “That one over there—the girl with the long, dark hair—that’s Portia Kensington.”

  “Yes, I recognize her,” Jane said, trying to place the young woman’s face. “She was in that movie about the girl who … did something.”

  “She’s your Constance,” Lucy said, ignoring her. “And don’t start about her being too young or not looking the way you picture Constance in your head. She’s big box office. Oh, and she used to date one of the guys in Endzone, but she broke up with him when she found out he cheated on her with her best friend, Tanner Bixby, while Portia was recovering from her nose job.”

  “Why do you know this?” Jane asked.

  “I can’t help it,” said Lucy. “I’m a pop culture sponge.” She next indicated a woman of about fifty with short, curly red hair and a face—Jane thought—that Cassandra would have described as “looking like a boiled pudding.” “That’s Anne Simon,” said Lucy. “She’s one of those people you know you’ve seen before but can never remember what you saw her in.”