by Lorna Graham
• • •
When she got home, several reporters remained on her stoop. They leapt into action, brandishing pens and microphones, but Eve only shook her head at them and went inside. She pulled herself up the stairs by the railing and stumbled in the door feeling like she was a hundred years old. The bed swallowed her whole and within minutes she fell fast asleep, coat and shoes still on.
Sometime later, she didn’t know when, she stirred.
“There’s the girl,” came a whisper in her ear.
“Donald …” she mumbled.
“Shhh. Back to sleep,” he said softly, and soon she was dreaming again.
She came to for real hours later, sweltering in her coat. She rolled out of it and kicked off her shoes. In the bathroom she threw cold water on her face.
“Better?” he asked.
“Mmmmm. I don’t know. It’s been a—I don’t think I can even explain it.”
“No need to. I’ve seen it all. In your dreams. You were so goddamned brave. I’m in awe, little one. And so relieved that you’re all right. If anything happened to you, I don’t know what I …”
“Thank you, Donald.”
“And the attack, why, it was like something out of one of my stories. Your weapon, a prime metaphor for the scatological nature of society today …”
“I … guess.” Eve was relieved that amid all the insanity, Donald was behaving as one would expect, which was to inflate his own importance.
“And then—the interview,” said Donald.
“Um-hmm.”
“It’s like you have taken to heart everything I’ve been trying to teach through my work.”
“It is?”
“Yes, standing up to that vile news harpy, right there in the temple of her mediocrity. You are a champion. A firebrand.” He sounded like Vadis. “And the fact that I have inspired you in this way is so gratifying.…”
Eve wandered into the living room and collapsed on the love seat. “Is this your way of saying you want to do some dictation?”
“In your present state? Of course not.” There was a pause.
“Of course, if you’d like to get your mind off all this hullabaloo, I’d be more than happy to oblige you.”
“Why not?” sighed Eve, rolling her shoulders back. She could use a break from fretting about everything that had happened and the fear of what was to come. She found their current pad—the last of twelve in the packet—underneath the seat cushion and scanned the last few paragraphs of “Rock, Paper, Scissors.” The story had been creeping up on Eve, growing more and more interesting despite its stubborn opacity.
“Where were we?” Donald asked.
“Let’s see.” Eve located the last few lines of the story. “ ‘Paper and Scissors live in harmony. It is a relationship that confounds the critics but thrills the gods.’ ”
“Ah, yes. Here we go: Their closeness is not romantic but it is nevertheless a love affair. The skies of Paris smile down on the pair, the trees along the Champs-Élysées wave at them. The monuments all stand at attention when they pass by and at night the lights twinkle their names in Morse code.”
“Hang on.” Eve took a sip of her drink. “… Morse code. Okay.”
“One night they leave a restaurant very late, so late it is early, and take one of their walking trips by the river. There is a hush in the air. The streets are empty and the city feels ancient, sacred. The skies go from black to silver and the stars begin to fade. The river stirs as if waking up and sends waves crashing to shore. They see something in the water, glinting in the new dawn. An island? But there has never been one there before. Paper and Scissors look at one another and decide it is worth the risk. They jump in.
“The current is strangely colored, a dark blue-green shot through with black, like rare sapphirine, which some say lies beneath the streets here. It has ideas of its own about whether it will be crossed. The water buffets and rolls them, almost pulling them under. They are half dead before they make it to the middle. But there, before them, shiny and trembling, lies a tiny island.
“Rock.
“They pull themselves up and collapse on her, exhausted by their swim. They rest in tiny hollows on her surface; her dimples cradle them tenderly. Beneath their weary bodies, they feel her breathe, deep and steady.
“ ‘Will you join us?’ they ask her, each speaking before realizing the other has also opened his mouth.
“ ‘Yes! I cannot hang on here much longer. Please take me with you!’ she cries over the roar of the current. Paper and Scissors lower themselves into the water and are nearly sucked away. Their strength is spent from the trip over. Rock reaches out to them and the three clasp hands. The current tries to force their hands apart, to cull the herd. But they hold firm. Together, they possess just enough might to make it across. Slowly, laboriously, their little circle moves through the waves until it reaches the shore.
“When at last they stagger out of the water, they find they are tinted with its odd hue. It clings to their hair, their limbs, their eyes; they know in an instant that it will mark them forever.
“The journey has left them famished. Paper and Scissors are poor and can only afford to make a picnic, but it transforms before their eyes. Cold sausages become pâté, and water, wine. Passersby gasp, but not at the enchantment of the food. Isn’t Paper supposed to wrap Rock? they wonder. Isn’t Rock supposed to smash Scissors? But look at them, they don’t even try. They are an affront.
“The three ignore the stares. They have been through hell and high water and have their own idea of destiny. They run through the streets, laughing.”
Donald’s transmission had a dreamy quality to it and Eve became positive that it was no mere construction. There was something here, an emotional resonance that “The Numbered Story” and the other works hadn’t had. But what was it?
“Suddenly, the wind picks up, and around them, the trees begin to laugh. They shake merrily, letting go the blossoms in their hair and turning the sidewalk into a flower girl’s trail. The sky overhead is licked by pink and orange flames. Sound drains. Colors deepen. A bird cries and flies out of a tree. It is as if the world mirrors their happiness: Nature herself celebrates the improbability and purity of their friendship.” He paused. “They form a nation of three, a country at peace.”
Eve rubbed her hands together to relieve a cramp and waited, mesmerized, for him to continue. After several moments of silence, she said his name, but he did not respond. Whether he’d been pulled away by the forces he did not understand, or the subject matter had simply overwhelmed him, she didn’t know.
• • •
She looked at the phone for quite a while before dialing.
“Hi, Dad.”
“This is a nice surprise.”
“You didn’t watch my show yesterday by any chance, did you?”
“Sweetie, I’m sorry. I just got back from a four-day retreat with the partners. No TV, no computers. We even had to turn our cellphones off. Did I miss a big story you did?”
“You could say that.” Eve told him everything, trying to get it out quickly, to skip over the worst moments and emphasize her rapid recovery. “My stitches will come out in a few days and everything and—”
“Stitches. My God. Stitches.” There was a long pause. “Why don’t you come home and we’ll have Dr. Olsen take a look at them?”
“I’m fine, really.”
“He’s very good, you know. He took care of you when you hurt your wrist, remember?”
Why was her father so focused on the stitches, the least interesting part of her tale? Perhaps he found the rest of it inconceivable.
“The doctors here are pretty good, Dad.”
“I thought you’d want to come home at a time like this.”
“Oh.” Eve stood up and started to pace. “To be honest, I never even thought of it.”
“Ouch, kid.”
“I’m sorry.” Why had she said that?
“No, no. You have every rig
ht.” He sighed and there was a long pause. “I guess I’ve never really been there for you, not the way a dad should be. After your mother … I suppose I dropped the ball.”
Eve couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You did the best you could. I know that.”
“If you came home, I could do better.”
Eve sat on the floor and tucked her knees under her chin. “That’s so nice to hear. It really is. But I don’t want to leave New York,” she said, pulling Highball in close.
“Your mother told me that once. Eventually, I changed her mind.” He paused. “Get it, eventually?” he asked.
“I get it.”
“Though maybe it wasn’t me who convinced her.”
“What do you mean?”
“When we first met, she was here for a friend’s wedding, staying with her parents for a few days. She spent the whole time itching to get back to the Big Apple. Suddenly, a few months later, she calls me and says she’s coming back. And this time she’s going to stay. That’s when we started seeing each other. We were so happy. Though sometimes I caught her crying when she thought she was alone. But my friends said all girls do that, and what did I know? When you kids were born, she’d come alive for a while, but it never lasted. You were too young to notice, of course. How far away she was.”
Eve wondered how he could possibly think that she hadn’t noticed, but realized it was probably less painful for him to believe than the truth, so she said nothing.
“And there were certain things that would just set her off. You’d step on a trip wire, without even knowing it, and she’d clam up. Go hide in her room. Weird things. A song playing on the radio. A poem in The New Yorker. The Vietnam War once, for heaven’s sake. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to what would upset her.” He sighed again, a long exhale that seemed to let all the air out of his body. “Anyway, I got the feeling it all had something to do with New York. I offered to take her there once, for our anniversary, and she said, ‘God, no.’ Something must have happened, but she never wanted to talk about it. Not that I was one for asking about things.”
He sounded miserable. Eve didn’t know what was more surprising: her father’s insights or his candor.
“Oh, Dad.”
“Anyway. I won’t push. If you want to live in that treacherous town, you stay there. But please be more careful. No more walks late at night. And remember, there’s always a place for you here. And a job.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re really all right?”
“Yes.”
“I guess I’ll go on the computer and read all about it.” He paused again. “Think about coming for Christmas. Okay? I miss you, sweetheart.”
“I miss you, too,” said Eve.
• • •
It was nearly six o’clock and she was starving. The fridge held little more than a yogurt and some almonds, of which she grabbed a handful. She collapsed on the love seat and turned on the TV.
CHANNEL 2:
GOOD EVENING.
WE BEGIN TONIGHT WITH NEW
DETAILS ABOUT THE END OF THE
STILETTO’S REIGN … AND A LOOK
AT THE YOUNG WOMAN
RESPONSIBLE.
A WOMAN WHO TOOK TO THE
AIRWAVES THIS MORNING … AND
MADE WAVES.
CHANNEL 4:
—WE BEGIN TONIGHT WITH A
CITY FULL OF RELIEVED WOMEN.
WOMEN GRATEFUL TO ONE OF
THEIR OWN FOR PUTTING AN END
TO THE STILETTO’S CRIME SPREE.
CHANNEL 7:
—BEGIN TONIGHT WITH THE
YOUNG WOMAN WHO FOILED THE
STILETTO LAST NIGHT, AND HER
RATHER LIVELY TV DEBUT THIS
MORNING.
Before she was able to take it all in, the phone rang. She let the machine pick up. “Are you watching TV?” It was Mark’s voice.
She dashed for the phone. “Uh … which channel?”
“Any channel. It started with the noon broadcasts, then the five’s, now the six’s.”
“I’m watching,” she said. It was so thoughtful of him to think of her when she felt so alone, so isolated.
He breathed slowly and loudly, in and out. “Were you put on earth just to screw up my life?”
“What?”
“Do you have any idea what happened today after you detonated your little bomb in the studio? As soon as the show was over, I was dragged into Giles’s office and ordered to explain.”
“Explain what?”
“Explain why you did what you did. They thought it was my idea.”
“Oh God, Mark. No,” said Eve, looking at the TV, which now showed tape of her straddling the coat rack. She cringed and turned it off.
“And then all the other writers were called in—individually—in an effort to detect some sort of plot.” Eve was suddenly aware of traffic behind Mark’s voice.
“Mark, where are you?”
“On my cell outside. I can’t risk talking to you from the office.” Everything suddenly felt cloak-and-dagger, as if they were two characters in a Le Carré novel. “Can I ask you something?” Mark’s tone turned bitter. “Why the hell didn’t you think about the writers when you went off on Bliss like that?”
“The writers are exactly who I was thinking about,” replied Eve hotly. Didn’t he know that? A man she’d harbored a crush on for more than half a year should know that. “Look,” said Eve. “I’ll call Giles and tell him you had nothing to do with it. And I’ll call the writers to apolo—”
“No—don’t. Do not call anybody. And I’ve told all of the writers not to contact you. That could ruin everything. You wait till you hear from me.”
“Am I …” She almost couldn’t bring herself to say it. “Going to be fired?”
“I don’t know. If they were going to fire you, I think they would have done it already. Something weird is going on. There were a bunch of executives running in and out of meetings today. I heard the PR department sent out for pizza and they’re still huddled upstairs. Just lay low and try not to attract any more attention. And I’m sure this goes without saying, but absolutely no press. Okay?”
“Of course.” She coiled herself into the fetal position on the settee and closed her eyes, listening to static on the line for several moments after he hung up.
• • •
Around nine o’clock, the phone rang right next to her ear, startling her awake. She’d been dreaming about the Stiletto and her heart was pounding.
“Hello?” The voice on the other end was so muffled she could hardly understand. “What?”
“We’re in my office,” said Quirine in a low voice. “We’re not supposed to call you. But we had to.”
“No matter what happens,” said Russell, “you did a great thing today. And whatever Mark says, we know why you did it.”
“Steve’s father even called, and they haven’t spoken in years,” said Quirine. “He was so moved by hearing his son mentioned on the show.”
Eve began to feel better. They spoke for a few more minutes and then Russell said he heard Mark in the hall and that they better hang up.
“Thanks for calling,” said Eve, suddenly missing them both intensely. “You don’t know how much I appreciate it.”
Highball whined and paced the room, signaling she needed a walk. Downstairs, another cream envelope rested on the vestibule table.
Dear Miss Eve,
I have read about your adventures with keen interest and am relieved that you are safe.
Would you and your brave canine companion be well enough to come to dinner Friday evening?
Until then, count me “another grateful New Yorker.”
MK
Eve tucked the note into the inside pocket of her coat and went into the crisp night, once again brushing past the reporters gathered on the sidewalk.
• • •
Mercifully, Gwendolyn didn’t ask to come over. Instead, she invited E
ve for lunch at her place. Gwendolyn met her at the door, took her coat, and offered her at least five different things to drink as well as a feast of takeout that spanned the nationalities from Greek to Chinese to Indian.
“I didn’t know what you’d be in the mood for, but whatever we don’t eat you can take home. In case you don’t feel like cooking for a while.”
“Thanks,” said Eve, helping herself to stuffed grape leaves and samosas and realizing she was starving. “I want some of everything.”
Gwendolyn wanted to hear the Stiletto story in its entirety, and for the first time, Eve came close to explaining it exactly as she had experienced it, including the tangle of thoughts and memories that had confounded and incited her.
When she was done, Gwendolyn put a hand on hers. “Did you ever think …”
“What?”
“How proud your mother would be of you?”
Eve put her glass of wine down and turned to her friend. “That,” she said quietly, “is possibly the loveliest thought, ever.”
• • •
Highball did not like water. She scraped against the edge of the tub, eyes wide with panic, trying to claw her way out. On previous attempts to bathe the dog, this was the point at which Eve had conceded defeat. But not today. They were going to an early dinner at Klieg’s and everyone had to look her best.
Klieg’s driver, André, greeted Eve at her front door with an umbrella to protect her from the snow that fell slowly and heavily through the darkening afternoon. He opened the car door for them and Highball hopped inside as if she’d been doing it all her life. When they arrived at the townhouse, Marie ushered them in. “Mr. Klieg is on the telephone and asks that you and your companion wait upstairs in the drawing room. It’s at the top of the stairs, all the way to the left.”
They climbed the steps up to the residence. Eve couldn’t resist poking her head in several rooms, including a library. In contrast to the grand, airy first floor, this room felt like a cozy wooden cocoon. Diamond-patterned windows of deep purple and green glass filtered the light from the streetlamps to a soft glow. Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling and two large leather armchairs took up the center of the space. One chair was perfectly smooth; the other, which Klieg evidently favored, was marked by a soft depression in the center. A stack of books towered on a table next to it. Eve touched her index finger to the spines, finding biographies of artists and emperors, and a picture book of the jewelry of sixteenth-century India.
