Just Pru

by Anne Pfeffer

  Ellen and a young black guy with dreadlocks sat in chairs near the stage, watching intently. Other cast and crew sat cross-legged on the floor, all riveted to the scene before them. Most of them wore t-shirts like Becca’s that said It’s for the play.

  Goosebumps ran up my arms. Blake was center stage, swaying on his feet, barely able to stand. To my total embarrassment, he wore nothing more than bikini-style underpants, tight ones at that. A violently-colored tattoo scrolled across the white of his left shoulder.

  Four other guys, all dressed—or undressed— like Blake, were onstage with him. Most of them had tats as well, a parade of ink across their chests and backs. I stared. Except for the swimmers in the summer Olympics on TV, I’d never seen men so close to being naked.

  The minimalistic set included some faucet heads and a pile of towels, indicating they were in a prison shower. While two guys held Blake’s arms, one stepped forward. His elbow pulled back, hard, and BAM! His fist, covered in something metal, drove into Blake’s belly.

  Blake’s cry of agony curdled my blood. His face twisted in pain, he doubled over and fell to the floor. Then one the guys was on him, pinning him face to the ground and…. I squinted. Was he doing what I thought he was? My mouth opened and closed like a goldfish.

  As inconspicuously as I could, I stuck my fingers in my ears and lowered my eyes. I could still hear Blake struggling and crying out, while the men did … I would pretend I didn’t know what it was. La la la, I sang silently to myself.

  What was I doing here? All my life I’d heard I was a little bit crazy, but this—these people—were truly crazy. I started moving backward, trying to distance myself from the stage, looking down, fingers in my ears. La la la, I sang in my head. Still, I heard jeers, catcalls, and a keening scream of pain. I almost whimpered like a baby.

  I found a spot in the back and stayed there for what felt like a long time, until I was sure the noises had stopped for good. Trembling, I brought my hands down and opened my eyes.

  The scene had ended. The cast and crew members who had been watching, looking grim and shaken, were on their feet applauding. No enthusiastic cheering and stamping of feet—just hard applause. The same actors who, a moment before, had been brutalizing Blake, were now helping him up. He got slowly to his feet, paper-white, looking dazed, as if coming out of a trance.

  Then Ellen was on stage, her crutches falling to the ground as she reached out to cradle Blake’s face in her hands. He leaned his forehead against hers.

  For a second I thought Blake and Ellen would topple over, but the other actors formed a tight huddle around them, holding them up. The huddle swayed from side to side for several long moments.

  Like a fish on dry land, my stomach flopped this way and that. I swallowed hard, my mouth sour. I’d never seen or experienced anything so ugly, so frightening, and then so suddenly loving and supportive. Tears welled up in my eyes.

  Becca appeared beside me. “What’d you think?” Before I could answer, she continued. “I can’t believe Ellen wouldn’t write me into this scene!”

  “What?” My mind was so revved up, I hardly knew the floor from the ceiling.

  “I mean, honestly!” She pouted. “Don’t you think the prisoner’s attorney should have been present to defend his rights?”

  “In the shower?” I couldn’t quite picture it.

  Before Becca could answer, the huddle on stage parted. Blake and another actor came forward carrying Ellen in a seat they’d made with their crossed arms. She waved us all closer. “Gather round!”

  We did.

  Ellen glowed. “I love you all so much right now for your hard work to make this play incredible. That scene we just witnessed…. It was genius!” She drew a deep breath. “Give it up for Blake, Mark, Jamal, Ricardo, and Trent!”

  More cheers and applause, while the five actors, drawn and spent, waved tiredly to the audience.

  “To keep the scene raw and powerful, we will not do it again until opening night. All clothes will come off then, of course, and for future performances.”

  What was she talking about? “Their clothes are already off,” I whispered to Becca.

  “Sweetheart,” Becca said, “she means all clothes off. As in stark naked. In the buff. Birthday suits.”

  “Naked?” Again, the goldfish mouth.

  Becca giggled. “It’s a rape scene. In the shower. What do you want them to wear? Tuxedos?”

  Did Ellen expect me to be around for all this?

  “Thirty-minute lunch break,” she announced. “Then Blake’s up to rehearse his soliloquy.”

  Five naked men was exactly five more than I’d ever seen—in real life anyway. How totally, completely embarrassing.

  And yet, how totally, completely fascinating.

  Chapter Nine

  From Pru’s Journal:

  My mom always said about me, “Prudence is extremely S-H-Y.”Even though I was really little and it was a long, strange word, I knew what it meant. It meant that I was scared to talk to other people. When I went to kindergarten, I told the other kids, “I can’t talk to you. I’m too ess-aitch-why.” By noon, my mom had picked me up from school, and that was the end of my formal education.

  **

  Blake hadn’t bothered to learn his lines for the soliloquy. He stood alone on the stage, ramrod straight, defiant.

  “You what?” Ellen’s knuckles went white as she gripped her crutches.

  “Trust me. It’ll be stronger if I just wing it.”

  For a long, painful moment, Ellen didn’t speak or move. “I can’t take this anymore, Blake.”

  “Like I said….”

  Ellen turned and walked off, her body listing from side to side on her crutches. She disappeared out a door marked Exit.

  “Oops!” Becca smirked. “That didn’t go over well.”

  Blake bit his lower lip and wavered, his eyes going to the exit door. But I was already halfway down the aisle. If Ellen was having a terrible day, I was the one who’d started it off that way. I owed her.

  I found her sitting on the back steps leading down to the alley, her left knee pulled up under her chin, her head cradled in her arms. The broken leg stuck out straight down the stairs in its heavy cast.

  A dinged-up car with rust spots rumbled by, its exhaust pipe an inch off the ground. Its occupants, who to me looked like extras from Ellen’s cast of criminals, ogled us and made rude noises.

  “They won’t bother us,” Ellen said, pulling a binder out of her bag. She was right. The car rolled away.

  I sat down next to her, not knowing what to say. Ellen held a binder, bookmarked to open at a spot in the middle. “What’s that?” I asked.

  She opened the binder to the bookmarked page and pointed. “This is the soliloquy Blake should have had memorized.”

  It started with stage directions. Duncan, I read, alone on stage, hunched over, in obvious pain.

  “Duncan is Blake’s character?”

  Ellen nodded.

  I scanned the lines …. Duncan talking to his dead wife…. how he longed for her, wanted to avenge her death…. his despair over their young daughter …. his desire to die, his shame…..

  “He’s been unjustly convicted to a life sentence for his wife’s murder,” Ellen said. “In prison, he’s been strip searched, terrorized, and then brutalized in the gang rape scene you saw. Now, in his soliloquy, he contemplates taking his own life.”

  “But he doesn’t?” Smells from the nearby dumpster drifted by, making me queasy.

  “He tries, but he survives.” She gestured to the binder. “After the rape, Duncan hangs himself, but guards rush in at the last minute and cut him down.”

  Her voice grew louder. “Duncan has no chance for a further appeal. He begins counseling troubled teens and makes a difference in their lives. He knows his daughter is cared for by loving family.”

  “He realizes,” Ellen touched my arm to emphasize her point, “how much good he can do in prison. At the end he’s still
there, helping young people and trying to bring reform to the justice system. He’s at peace.” She gave me a radiant smile.

  “It sounds a little… depressing,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t hurt Ellen’s feelings.

  Her eyes lit up. “But you see? It’s about how the human spirit can overcome and prevail under the blackest of circumstances. It shows you can do absolutely anything, if you want to.”

  Maybe Ellen could do absolutely anything. I would believe that in a minute. But little old me? I just hoped to survive the fourteen chocolates I’d had for lunch.

  Ellen’s head dropped forward. “But you know what’s ironic, Pru? I don’t know what to do about Blake. He’s out of control, and I can’t reach him. I’m scared to death he’s going to take down the whole show.”

  “Does he have a replacement?”

  “His understudy, Trent, is excellent. But, Blake! When his mind’s in the right place, he can’t be touched. He’s in a league of his own.” Ellen stared moodily at a rat that had scurried out from behind the dumpster. It saw us and retreated. At the same moment, the door behind us opened.

  “Ellen?” It was Blake. His hair was tousled, his eyes wide with anxiety. He hung his head like a little boy who knows he’s in trouble. “Are you still mad at me?”

  He was adorable. My heart melted.

  Ellen lips tightened into a thin line. “Oh no you don’t, Blake! Don’t even try it! You learn that soliloquy, as written, in the next hour, or I’m going to ask Trent to step in as Duncan … permanently!”

  She struggled to stand, using a crutch to help her. I jumped up and grabbed her arm to steady her.

  “But, Ellen…” Blake sounded heartbroken, which just seemed to make Ellen madder.

  “You heard me!” She yanked the door handle away from him.

  In an instant, Blake’s voice turned petulant. “Who’s gonna run lines with me?”

  “Pru will.” Ellen maneuvered herself into the doorway. “Oh and by the way, you’re locked out for the next hour!” The door knob clicked as it closed.

  We sat there in silence. The dumpster rat reappeared, this time with a mean-looking friend. I’d always thoughts rats were small, but these things were as big as toaster ovens. The two animals sat back on their haunches, staring at us with glittering red eyes.

  “Shit!” Blake drew back in horror.

  “They’re just rats,” I said. To me they were no different than the opossums we had in Clayton.

  “Yeah well, that one’s about to go straight for my testicles,” he said, pointing.

  “Go on now! Get outta here!” I stamped my feet on the concrete stairs and watched the rats vanish.

  Beside me, Blake exhaled in something like relief. “Damn. I hate those fucking things.”

  I studied my hands. I couldn’t believe I was alone, locked out on the back step, with a guy who could have won a “Sexiest Man Alive” title without breaking a sweat.

  But he was scared of rats. I almost laughed.

  “So I have the speech here.” I pointed to the binder.

  Blake groaned. He opened the binder to the marked spot, sat for a few minutes studying the pages, then threw them down.

  “Forget it.” Blake reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “She can fire me if she wants. I’m not giving that speech.”

  “Why not?” I said, remembering what he looked like in his underwear.

  “Because that’s not who Duncan is. He’s a fighter, not a quitter.” Blake held out the pack to me.

  “No, thanks.” I pulled back, as if it even touching a pack of cigarettes was dangerous. “Don’t you think a person should have the right to decide if he wants to live or not?”

  Blake shook his head. “Committing suicide is a form of quitting. If Duncan wants to run out on life, then he’s an asshole.”

  No matter what, I would defend Ellen. “Well, running out on Ellen is quitting, too. And what Duncan does is Ellen’s call. It’s her play.”

  “But I have to get up there and give the audience the truth about Duncan. The fact is, he would never kill himself. He isn’t that selfish.” Blake lit his cigarette and drew in a breath.

  I might not have known much about life and people, but I did know what it was like to hit rock bottom. Probably better than Blake did. Anger slowly seeped out from a hard, black corner of my heart.

  “A person who wants to die is suffering—horribly,” I said. “Maybe Duncan can’t bear his suffering any longer. Maybe he’s not strong enough.”

  Blake’s voice was raw. “He has to be. He has a five-year-old daughter to think of.”

  What did Blake know about it anyway? “You honestly believe Duncan is selfish for wanting to die?”

  “Yes! How can even think of leaving his kid? He obviously doesn’t love her very much.” Blake’s voice and eyes reflected a pain very close to the surface, a pain that was intense and personal.

  I stood up, then remembered I was locked out of the building. The only way off this back step was down the stairs and into the alley. I sat back down. “I think he does love his daughter, but feels he has nothing to offer her. He believes she’s better off without him.”

  Blake considered my words. Slowly, different expressions crossed his face—hope, confusion. “You really think so?”

  “I do.”

  The boom of a bass reverberated in the alley. The rusty car with its scary passengers once more cruised by with excruciating slowness. A tattooed arm hung out of one window. I felt Blake getting tense beside me.

  “They won’t bother us,” I said. The car moved on.

  Shaking his head in admiration, Blake balanced his cigarette on the top step. “You’re kind of a bad-ass, aren’t you? Smart, too.” He picked up the binder and opened it to the soliloquy scene.

  Together we looked at the lines.

  Forgive me, Julia, Blake read. I'm no longer the man you married. He scanned onward. Sophie’s happy with her aunt and uncle. She has forgotten me, which is as it should be.

  "See?" I said. "He's wrong of course. But in his mind he can justify his desire to die."

  "My God, Pru, you’re fucking brilliant!" Blake’s smile was pure joy. With one swift move, he grabbed my shoulders with both hands, pulled me forward and kissed me on the cheek.

  His hands held me tightly; his stubbly cheek scratched my face; he smelled of cigarettes and spicy cologne. It took my breath away.

  As fast it had started, it was over. Blake picked up the binder, which had fallen to the ground. "C’mon, we’ve got to hurry. Let's get this thing memorized!”

  “Okay.” But my mind was not on Ellen’s script. All I could think of was the experiences of the last few days: a strong man carrying me down a ladder, Blake kissing my cheek. Sharing chocolates with Adam. Not all men were scary. Some seemed kind of nice, if you got to know them. They had big hands and hard bodies. They were exciting and sexy. I suddenly wanted to hold a man’s hand, kiss him on the lips. Maybe I’d want to do other stuff, too, although thinking about it made me feel shy.

  Julia, Blake said, his voice going raw with emotion. You are gone, taken from me, and yet I see you everywhere.

  I shivered.

  For the first time, I understood what all the songs and poems were about.

  Chapter Ten

  From Pru’s Journal:

  Dr. Abbot told me once, “If an angry dog attacks you, you’ll feel fear, which is healthy and normal. But if you are lying safe in bed terrified of drowning on an ocean cruise, that’s quite a different thing. That, Pru, is called anxiety.”

  **

  “Today’s Chili Wednesday,” Ellen said as we drove to the theater the next morning. Her short black hair curved in under her chin. She wore a gray It’s for the play t-shirt, black pants, and a different pair of glasses—turquoise with rhinestones.

  I didn’t answer, as I was busy slamming on the brakes to avoid a jaywalker half a block away. Behind us, frustrated drivers laid into their horns. Sweat r
olled down my back. I reached out to touch my Hefty bag, just to reassure myself that it was there.

  “We have a pot luck chili dinner every Wednesday evening for a bunch of the people in the building. It’s very informal. I didn’t think I’d be able to go tonight, but given the smash success of yesterday’s rehearsals, I think I can skip out by seven.”

  Yesterday, Blake had delivered his soliloquy with little prompting and so movingly that the listening cast and crew were brought to tears.

  “That was perfect!” Ellen had said to me, shocked by Blake’s turnaround. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. We just talked.”

  “Well, whatever you did, it worked!” Ellen had sighed in relief to have one problem solved, at least for the moment.

  “It’s Adam’s turn to make the chili,” Ellen was saying now. “But he’ll cook it at our place, since that’s where the dinner is.”

  Our place. Ellen said it so naturally. I had to keep finding ways to be useful, so she would let me stay.

  “I want to be there tonight, in case someone has updates on the building and the fire investigation,” Ellen said. “I’ve heard the worst damaged units won’t be livable for a long time. Six months at least.”

  “Which are those?” It had to be the ones along my hallway, on the west side of the courtyard.

  “Well, yours and the Potemkins, for sure, and probably half a dozen others. The Potemkins aren’t coming back, regardless.” Ellen smiled. “They’re very happily settled in with their daughter.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I called Bernice yesterday. Just to make sure they were okay.”

  I was silent, reflecting on the amazingness that was Ellen. She always seemed to make time for everyone and everything.

  “They remind me of my grandparents.” Wistfulness traced its way through Ellen’s voice.

  So my apartment would not be available to me any time soon. It hardly mattered. I didn’t have the money to go back there anyway.

  My choices were to either stay with Ellen, or scurry home to Mom and Dad. Think fast, folks. What would you rather have: chocolate cake or fish oil? A hot date or a root canal? It didn’t call for a lot of soul-searching.