Crosstalk

by Connie Willis

There’s no time to unbutton it, the man went on. I’ve got to be back on that stage in exactly two minutes.

  That’s somebody in the play, Briddey thought. I’m starting to hear even more voices, and it was as if that thought had opened some sort of floodgate. The voices rained down on her:

  …who moved these props?…get that scrim up…not surprised they’re splitting up…cheating on her since the day they got married…should have gone to see The Rainmaker…that’s your cue, you moron!…bow tie’s killing me…hate sushi…don’t put your arms around me!…no, no, no, stage right!

  Briddey turned and fled back in the direction she’d come from, no longer trying to find a way out, not thinking consciously at all, only trying instinctively to find a place to hide, like a fox fleeing a pack of baying hounds.

  Only it was worse than that. Baying hounds and shouting mobs all blurred together into a dull roar, the individual voices impossible to identify in the general din. But she could hear every single one, even though there were now scores of them, railing at her at once, talking over one another. Their words were all perfectly distinct.

  And unbearable. They were like blows, like cudgels, beating on her so that she lost consciousness of everything but trying to ward them off, to get away. But there was nowhere to go. Her back was to a wall, and when she turned to run, she was facing another.

  She turned again, terrified, her body backed into the angle of the walls as far as she could go, like a cornered animal.

  “Go away!” she shouted, putting her hands up to keep them at bay, but they weren’t out there, they were inside her head, calling people names, carping, ranting, howling, and she had no way to shut them out, to fight them off. They poured over her, a torrent of inchoate thoughts and emotions.

  I have to get help! Briddey thought, and tried to unlock her phone to call Trent. But he’d turned his off, and she couldn’t see to unlock the phone for the voices, she couldn’t find his number….stage right, damn it!…she’s just as bad…slept with her trainer…how hard is it to remember six lines, for Chrissake?…Get your hand off my knee!…thing’s crap!…total slut…loser…washed-up has-been!

  Briddey crouched back into the corner, her hands over her head, trying to shield herself against the force of the voices. “C.B.!” she cried, but it was too late, the wave was already crashing over her, dragging her under.

  Oh, holy Saint Patrick and all the saints of Ireland, help! she thought, C.B.! and floundered in the flood, choking.

  “Great were the noise and clamor…the current which propelled the crowd…turned back, agitated and whirling.”

  —VICTOR HUGO, The Hunchback of Notre Dame

  Briddey, C.B. said, his voice cutting through the cacophony of voices like the beam of a flashlight through darkness. What’s wrong? Briddey, talk to me!

  She latched on to his voice as if it were a life preserver, keeping her head above water. Where are you? she called.

  Where am I? Where are you? What’s happened?

  They…I tried to get out before they…but I couldn’t. The voices…

  They didn’t let her get any further. They crashed down over her again, cutting her off from him, drowning out his voice—and hers. He wouldn’t be able to hear her, to find her. He wouldn’t know what had happened—

  Yes, I do, his voice calm and reassuring. The voices hit big-time, didn’t they? Jesus, I’m sorry. I didn’t expect it to go this fast. When it happened to me, it was almost two weeks before things got this far, and when— His voice cut off.

  When what? she said, but she couldn’t hear his answer for the roar….if he touches me again, I swear I’ll kill him…so much at stake…revolutionize the whole industry…fucking money back…just say your line, damn it!

  C.B.! she sobbed. Where are you?

  I’m right here, he said. You didn’t take anything, did you? A sedative or Valium or anything?

  No, but I had a few sips of wine.

  Shit, he said, and then: That’s okay, and, just as he had in the hospital, You need to tell me where you are.

  I don’t know! I tried to make it up the stairs to the lobby of the theater, but—

  You went to a theater? I told you not to go anyplace crowded. And she hadn’t listened, and now the voices were going to—

  No, they’re not, C.B. said. I’m sorry I yelled at you. Are you on the stairs?

  I don’t know, she sobbed. I can’t—

  It’s okay. Which theater? The Cinemark? The Regal?

  She tried to answer, but the voices were beating at her. No, she said, cowering from them. We didn’t go to a movie. Trent got us tickets to—

  A play? Where? At the Civic Center? The Broadhurst?

  No…She waited for him to name another theater, but he didn’t. He’d gone away, and the voices were swirling around her like a whirlpool, pulling her in and down toward the center of the vortex. C.B.!

  I’m still here. I was just checking online for theaters. What play was it? A Sound of Madness? Dames at Sea? Dropped Call?

  And she must have thought Yes, because he said, I’ll be right there. Just stay put, which would have been funny if it weren’t so terrible. Because she couldn’t go anywhere. Hurry! she cried, but he didn’t answer.

  He’s already gone, she thought, fighting down the panic. “C.B.!” she cried aloud. “Don’t leave me!”

  I won’t. I’m right here, and I’ll be right beside you the whole way. Just focus on me and don’t think about the other voices. They’re just background noise, like the crowd at one of those fancy cocktail parties Trent’s always taking you to. Just shut them out like you would if you were talking to me at the party. I’ll be there in a few minutes. I’ve already left Commspan—

  Commspan! If he was at Commspan, it would take him at least twenty minutes to reach the theater, and the voices were already rising, crowding in, and C.B. was wrong, they weren’t background noise, and this wasn’t a cocktail party. People at cocktail parties didn’t say such terrible things: …didn’t come here to be pawed…sick and tired of covering for you not knowing your lines…such a snob…my dog could do a better job of acting! It was like being out in a relentlessly hammering rain, the din deafening.

  Not rain, C.B. said, his voice slashing through the downpour. Niagara Falls.

  Niagara Falls? she said blankly.

  Imagine that’s what you’re hearing. You’re at Niagara Falls, and that din is just the roaring of the waterfall. Have you ever been to Niagara Falls?

  No—

  But you’ve seen them, right? They’ve been in lots of movies. Bruce Almighty. Superman II. The wedding episode of The Office. Great place. Big honeymoon destination. Maid of the Mist, Horseshoe Falls…and as he spoke she could almost see them, the water roaring over the cliffs and tumbling to the rocks below, the mist boiling up, and the spray—

  They make an ungodly amount of noise, C.B. said, shouting over the sound of the falls. You can’t hear what the tourists are saying, the noise is so loud, but that’s all it is: noise. It can’t hurt you.

  Yes, it can, she said, and had a sudden image of the voices sweeping her over the edge of the falls and down, submerging her in the smothering water, tumbling her over and over in the foam, in the rocks, and her going under, drowning…

  Briddey! C.B. said sharply. You can’t go over the edge. There’s an iron railing. Can you see it? The railing?

  No…

  It’s chest-high and black, and the bars are too narrow for you to fall through. And the top’s just the right size to wrap your hands around and get a good grip, he said. It’s wet from the spray, but it’s not slippery. Can you feel it?

  Y-yes, she said, imagining her hand gripping it. It’s cold. She could almost feel the spray on her knuckles.

  Good girl. Just keep holding on to it. The railing’ll keep you safe.

  What if it gives way?

  It won’t. It’s bolted into the ground.

  But what if the ground gives way?

  It won’t.
It’s solid rock. All you have to do is hang on for a few more minutes, and I’ll be there. In the meantime, think about how beautiful the falls are.

  They’re not beautiful! she said violently. They’re horrible!

  Then think about the great sex we’re going to have when I take you there on our honeymoon, he said, and some part of her mind that hadn’t been thoroughly traumatized knew he was saying that to distract her, to get her to respond indignantly, “We are not having sex at Niagara Falls or anywhere else. I’m emotionally bonded to Trent.” But it wasn’t working. The voices were too loud, too fierce.

  Okay, then, think about the shredded wheat, C.B. said.

  The what? she asked, surprised by the non sequitur into taking her mind off the voices. What does shredded wheat have to do with Niagara Falls?

  Beats me, he said, but the shredded-wheat box used to have a picture of Niagara Falls on it. Maybe it was made there. Then again, there’s a leprechaun on the Lucky Charms box, and they’re not made in Ireland. Though with all the outsourcing these days, you never know. They might be. Froot Loops are manufactured in Finland.

  He chattered on about sugared cereals and the strange ways of outsourcing, and she didn’t believe a word of it, but she clung to his talk like she clung to the wet black railing. If he was talking, the voices couldn’t sweep her over the edge.

  And I have it on very good authority, he was saying, that Cap’n Crunch is made on the pirate Isle of Tortuga, along with—

  His voice abruptly cut off. C.B.? she said, her voice rising in panic.

  It’s okay. I’m here, he said, but his voice sounded different, both closer and farther away.

  Where? I can’t hear you!

  I’m just outside the theater. I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could make it outside under your own steam, is there?

  No! She clutched the icy railing. Why?

  I’m not sure they’ll let me in. I’m not exactly dressed for the theater. If you could just make it out to the lobby—

  He could rescue me from the voices, she thought, but at the idea of letting go, of going up the stairs, the voices surged toward her.

  I can’t, she said, and it was more a whimper than an answer.

  That’s okay, he reassured her. I’ll think of something. But listen, I need you to tell me where you are.

  At Niagara Falls, she said, bewildered. You said—

  No, where in the theater? Are you still on the stairs?

  No.

  Where did you go after the stairs? Try to remember.

  I can’t—

  Okay, then open your eyes, just for a second. The voices won’t sweep you over, I promise. I’ve got hold of you. But I can’t come get you if I don’t know where you are. Open your eyes.

  I can’t, she said, holding desperately to the railing, but the thought of being left alone with the voices was even more terrifying than the possibility of going over the falls. She opened her eyes.

  She had only a momentary impression of metal pipes and black-and-white tiles, had just long enough to think, surprised, I’m sitting on the floor, before the voices poured through and she had to squeeze her eyes shut again.

  But it must have been enough because C.B. said, The bathroom. Good, I’ll be right there. And until then, don’t think about Niagara Falls. Think about Lucky Charms. Remember, they have little marshmallows in them of different shapes and colors? What are they? There are pink hearts and what else?

  I don’t know—

  Come on, he coaxed. Maeve eats them, right? And you’re Irish. They’re your national cereal. You’ve got to know what the marshmallows are. Pink hearts and…

  Yellow moons?

  Good girl. That’s two. What were the others? Think.

  She did, squeezing her eyes shut against the spray and the roaring water, gripping the wet iron railing so hard, the rectangular edges cut into her hands. “Pink hearts,” she murmured, “yellow moons, green shamrocks,” and what else? Stars. But what color were they? Blue? Purple? She strained to see the box, the cereal.

  But it wasn’t enough. The voices were breaking through, they were splashing up over the railing, dousing her, numbing her like icy water. And C.B. had lied to her. They weren’t just a harmless waterfall or a tourist sight for honeymooners, they were dangerous, raging with anger and spite and resentment: How hard is it to remember six lines, you moron?…see how they like being snubbed…garbage…pervert…drunken…hate her!

  They crashed over her, washing her off the rock into the current. She grabbed for the railing, but she couldn’t find it. C.B.! she called, listening for his voice in among the others, but she couldn’t find it either. The voices were too numerous, and the current was carrying her away. She couldn’t breathe.

  C.B.! she thought, and reached out a desperate hand to him.

  And he was there. Not in her head—but really there, squatting beside her on the tile floor in a denim jacket and flannel shirt over a Star Wars T-shirt, his hand on her arm, murmuring, “It’s okay, I’m here now,” over and over.

  “You lied to me,” she said shakily. “The railing gave way. I almost went over the falls.”

  I know. I’m sorry. I had trouble convincing the usher I wasn’t trying to sneak into the play for free. And then we had to find the right bathroom.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, and I’m sorry I—”

  Shh, not out loud, he cautioned. He was afraid someone outside the bathroom would hear them.

  I’m sorry I said I never wanted to speak to you agai—

  And I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner. Do you know how many bathrooms they’ve got in this place? There’s one on every level. They must be expecting a lot of business during intermission. Which is when?

  I don’t know, she said, but he must not have heard her because he asked, “When’s intermission?” out loud.

  “After Act Two, about forty-five minutes from now,” a woman’s voice said, and Briddey realized with a shock that there was someone else in the bathroom with them.

  It’s one of the ushers, C.B. explained. So go along with whatever I say, okay?

  Okay.

  “Is she all right?” the usher was asking. “Should I see if there’s a doctor in the house?”

  No! Briddey thought.

  “No,” C.B. was saying calmly to the usher. “It’s just an anxiety attack. She gets them when she’s in crowded places.” He turned back to Briddey. “I told you you had no business coming to the theater by yourself, Lucy.”

  By myself? Briddey thought, confused. Lucy?

  “I was afraid this would happen,” he said. Now you say, “I know, Charlie. I’m sorry.”

  I don’t under—

  If Trent starts asking questions, you don’t want the usher to know your name, do you? And to tell him she found you in here in this state?

  Oh, God, Trent! We have to get out of here before—

  Exactly. So say, “I know, Charlie.”

  “I know, Charlie,” she said. “I’m sorry,” and to C.B.: I forgot all about Trent.

  Did you tell him about the voices?

  No! He’d—

  What about when the voices overtook you? Did you call to him for help?

  “Overtook,” that was the right word. They’d overtaken her, like wolves pursuing her or a mob of bloodthirsty—

  Briddey! C.B. said sharply. Did you call to him?

  Yes, but he couldn’t hear me.

  What about your phone? Did you try to call him on your phone?

  No, I took it out, she said, remembering, but then I remembered his phone was turned off. They make you turn it off when the play starts.

  Did you call anyone else? Your sisters or somebody at Commspan?

  She shook her head. The voices—

  I know, he said. And you didn’t text him or try his number, so that it’ll show a missed call?

  No.

  Good. That means we’ve got till intermission to get out of here. But we need to go no
w.

  Okay.

  Which means you need to let go of the pipe.

  Pipe? she thought. What’s he talking about? It wasn’t a pipe, it was a railing, and she couldn’t let go of it, or she’d be swept over the falls.

  No, you won’t, he said. I’ve got you. Can you come out?

  Out? she said blankly, and realized she was underneath the counter that held the sinks. She was wedged into the back corner and hanging on to the curved chrome drainage pipe with both hands. Like a cornered animal, she thought, ashamed.

  Don’t worry about it, C.B. said. The voices would have that effect on anybody. He reached under the counter and extended his hand to her. Can you come out?

  She nodded. I think so, but when it came down to it, she found she couldn’t. Her hands were frozen to the pipe.

  It’s okay, C.B. said, and crawled in after her, hitting his head on the underside of the sink. “Ow,” he said.

  “What happened?” the usher asked. “Did she hit you?”

  “No, I cracked my head, that’s all.”

  The usher didn’t sound convinced. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call 911? Or an ambulance?”

  “I’m sure,” he said. “I’ve already called her therapist. She’ll be fine once I get her home.” He extended his hand to Briddey. I won’t let you go over the falls, I promise. But we’ve gotta go, darlin’, or she’s gonna call the cops.

  And Trent will find out everything, Briddey thought, and let go of the pipe.

  There wasn’t even a nanosecond between her letting go and C.B.’s snatching her hands up in his. “I’ve got her,” he said to the usher, and to Briddey: I knew you could do it. That’s it, darlin’. Come on. Almost there.

  He backed out, pulling her slowly toward him with both hands, then using one hand to push her head down, saying, Don’t crack your head, as they emerged from under the counter. He put his arm around her waist and helped her awkwardly to her feet. “Do you think you can walk?”

  She turned to him to say yes and caught sight of herself in the mirror above the sinks. She looked terrible, her updo half fallen and her beautiful green dress wrinkled beyond recognition. Her white face stared back at her, haggard and frightened. I look completely deranged, she thought. No wonder the usher wanted to call 911.